Downgrading My New Year's Resolution

In 2016, my resolution was to 'be brave.'

And, I was.

And, it was terrible.

Not all terrible. I mean, being brave allowed me to take risks and to grow. There was a lot of growth. But it felt a lot like standing on the edge of a cliff with a parachute I wasn't sure I should trust. And growth is painful. It's stretchy, scary, stabby pain. It's questioning what I knew about myself and my relationships and my perspective on the world and then fixing it when I found that what I knew was bogus. That's rul hard.

I went through a lot of therapy to figure out why I was anxious, worried, and sad all the time. It took brave to dig out some of the stuff I found. I learned I was stifling, doubting, and sabotaging myself.  I came out with confidence and a voice. I used that voice to express my needs, to stand up for myself in my relationships. (#terrifying) I wrote with that voice and submitted my writing for judgement. I got rejected a lot. (#sucks) I got accepted a little. (#sucksless) Every single time I put something out there to be read, I had to put my brave in front of my doubt. There is still so much doubt.

I worked really hard to stop performing in social interactions and to let myself off the hook for gatherings that make me uncomfortable. I had to re-establish my ability to be alone and still. My goal now is to be authentically, patiently, quietly(-ish) myself and more discerning about how I spend my energy. Not all that quiet...I also started performing on stage again. I took the added freedom we had with Robb not working full-time and I performed in a play in a community theater, which was retrieving an ancient version of myself that lived for theater. It was scary. I mean, really, really scary, but I showed myself that I can do it...well, even. So this year, I learned that I'm most at ease by myself...in the spotlight (#jazzhands) but I also acknowledge that I need support. I invested more in friendships, and that has proven very, very worth the risk (#bffbracelets). I used my brave to embrace my power as a woman and I'm learning from women who are fighting for equal rights and access. I renewed my commitment to stand for all human rights and treat the world as one big community that needs care.

Also, this year, just after the words "I'm gonna be brave this year" escaped from my mouth in a cartoon word bubble, Robb lost his job. So, we did the most logical thing, and took my one income, and our family of 4, and started an ice cream business. He got more time home with the kids and found his way around being a part-time business owner and part-time stay-at-home dad. There are not really instructions for either, so it's been a long learning process, but he's done well. It's been exciting, and stressful. There has been more financial uncertainty this year than we are used to, or that I am comfortable with, which meant a lot of late night (fights) conversations about faith and trust and risk and potential. We've had to confront all the gulfs and walls we'd dug and built between us. It took us both being brave. We're still working on it, but I'm proud of our progress. And, actually, the business is going really well...and even on the bad days there is DARK CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM.

So, this year, my resolution was to be brave. I was. I'm glad I was, but it was hard, and I am tired. I don't think I'm going to stop being brave, but I do want to make a less ambitious goal for next year.

So, in 2017 my resolution is to drink more water.

...so, if there's a drought, it's my fault.

Henry and Anna’s weekend at The M&E B&B

We're joined by guest blogger, Erica, who is my little sister and auntie to the mayhem. She and her husband recently traded in a weekend of their usual kid-free fun and relaxation for several days with our kids. By the time we got to them all on Sunday, everyone was sort of...crispy, but happy. Please enjoy! 

So. My husband, Mike (aka Uncle Mike, Muncle, Mr. Mike, and lately sometimes Mikey) and I (Auntie E) hosted two (relatively well trained) monsters at our (very un-monster proofed) house recently. 

We will have you know- they are both alive, so we consider the whole thing a success.

But Mike may or may not still be sleeping.

Mike and I are really just only barely adults ourselves. So in preparation for the weekend, we did things like put a queen mattress inside a tent in the guest room, and fill it with blankets and pillows for the coolest sleep-fort EVER. On the list of things we did not do: buy food for the children. 

We picked them up on Friday night from their usual keepers and The Big One fell asleep on the way home. Uncle Mike carried him up to bed. When I asked him what the look on his face was, he said “He has been farting on me the whole way up here.” Henry didn't stay asleep, of course, and woke up giggling, so we read The Stinky Cheese Man. For the first time. Of one thousand.

Three minutes later, they were both crying. The kids are such aggressive huggers that they wind up, and go full-throttle head-to head. They do not hold back. It’s like WWE in the tent-bedroom. The tears were quick, everyone’s pupils were symmetric, I figured we were good. So we read the Stinky Cheese Man again.

On Saturday morning, The Big One woke us up at some ungodly hour, and I made him play by himself for a little while to let us sleep more. He had plenty of bad guys to fight off so it worked out fine. I think Henry likes us and stuff, but mostly when he comes to our house he is excited because his toy stash here includes a couple swords, some nunchucks, and a nerf gun. So there were maaayyybe 25 minutes out of the whole weekend where he did not have a weapon glued to his hand. (I will repeat, everyone is alive and well).

After the rest of us peeled ourselves out of bed, we had breakfast, got ready and then literally bribed the kids out the door with Oreos. We went to a Santa parade, where The Little One almost choked out a dog and tried to eat more than one sucker straight out of another child’s hand. I don’t even think she tried to take the suckers first, I think she just let them hold it for her. Their parents seemed extremely relieved when my answer was “No” to their questions, “Does she have a dog at home?” and “Do you have kids of your own?”

At some point during the day, Henry asked when Mike and I were going to have kids. He followed up with "you probably already had a boy but he was a mean boy and he took all the pictures off your walls so you… got rid of him.” 

WHAT.

The hardest thing for us to manage while the kids were here was the vegan food thing. Mike and I, quite literally, eat meat with each and every meal, and most of our snacks are made of at least one form of cheese. [Facts: Whenever we go visit them for the weekend, we stop at a drive-through when we get into town and eat our last meat-y meal. When I lived with Sarah and Robb, I had beef jerky stashed in at least 4 places at all times. Mike has been wanting to feed the kids their first taste of bacon since the day he was accepted into our family.] So, with how you can imagine our fridge is stocked, and having not grocery-shopped beforehand like real grown-ups would have done, we clearly were not terribly prepared to feed them appropriately.

We made it work though. They ate-- mostly cookies-- but they ate. 

Christmas cookie decorating went a lot like blueberry picking. Most of them were gone long before we were done, and everyone’s tongue was blue. While we were decorating cookies, The Little One said "this cookie is for mom!” and then promptly licked and sneezed on it.

Hope you liked your cookie, Sarah.

Other than the food thing, we are also completely oblivious and off the hook regarding their toilet habits when Sarah and Robb (or my parents) are around. Anna is in the midst of potty-training. She did not do great at our house. Part of it may have been that we don’t have a kid seat for the toilet so she would dangle her poor little tush over the giant seat, and try not to fall in. Part of it may have been that she knows we’re suckers and she can do whatever she wants at our house with next to no consequences. So because of this, we used mostly pull-ups over the weekend. At one point, as she was standing, in a pull-up, she said "I'm a big girl and don't need diapers," followed directly by "I peed." Later when I tried to get her to pee in the toilet, she said through tears, "but there's no poop in my bladder!!" Kid, I know you don’t understand what you’re saying right now, but that is very, very good news!

She did “poop in the potty” though (twice she balanced atop the toilet without falling in!), and when she does that, she gets to wear her Disney Princess (Merida) dress for the day. We didn’t have a good argument for why she couldn’t wear it two days in a row, so she wore her Mirena dress the entire time she was here. Mirena? That’s not the word I was looking for. That must just be what’s been on my mind lately. Totally unrelated. I mean. Asking for a friend. What?

Anyway.

The Little One had a melt down at some point. I was never very clear on what it was about. The Big One was playing with weapons. 



Despite our lack of food, tiny butt toilet seats, and discipline, we really had a lot of fun. These kids are ridiculously hilarious, clever, fun, and just all-around amazing. 

   

But they’re also pretty gross. 

I heard Mike saying (at least once) "There's just...there's pee and poop everywhere. The amount of Febreze it would take… Oh! And back to that list of things failed to do over the weekend: Bathe the children. I’ll blame that one on the lack of bath toys. 

As we were packing everyone up to return them to their rightful owners, The Little One bolted out from my arms and I ran my ass off trying to catch her because it looked like she was going straight for the road. But, instead, she ran to the neighbors’ house, and tried to break in. Twice. As my dad would say “She’s either going to be a CEO or a serial killer.” Only time will tell.

Then we filled them with sugar and gave them back to their parents. 

  

Too Good to Be (Exclusively) True

Today I feel like an imposter. 

I made digital AND paper Christmas cards (because I cannot leave it alone and just do anything simply- for the love of God) highlighting all the things we’ve done this year and showing off the kids in their cuteness. As one does. Several people responded with things like “you all look so happy!” and “you seem to be juggling everything really well!”

It’s true that we are, and it’s also true that we aren’t. Notice, I highlighted the things I damn well wanted to and strung them together to make it look like this fabulous movie of my fabulous life. Ugh. In my heavily edited version of our lives, we look like we’re killing it. Sometimes the internet lies. 

What makes the card are the precious moments when the kids are being pleasant and do not have poop in their hands (in their hands!!! the horror! it happened last week! someone save me!) or their teeth on each other (it fucking happened again today! and now i’m drinking before 3pm!). What makes the cards are pics of Robb and I getting along, looking care-free on vacation, not neglecting and resenting each other in our own house every day. What makes the card is “Exciting! Robb’s new business venture! Yay! It’s going great!” not “How the fuck are we going to keep this up? Is this the right thing to do? I feel like I’m drowning. Are you drowning, too, or am I drowning alone?” 

I think it’s important to be clear here, because I’ve been accused of having it all together before. I work like a dog to try to cover it all, but some goes uncovered. There is a lot of yelling and confusion and messes and fear and apologies and lessons and pain…and healing, too. We’re trying. We’re wounding each other, but we’re trying to also be the healers. We’re TRYING to be graceful. We’re trying. 

It doesn’t help that the kids look like pink cherubs from fancy ceilings in Europe. You’d never know by them that Henry clings and pouts with the best of them or that Anna is an assassin. You just can’t tell by the film. It covers up so much. 

Let me just say, honestly and faithfully, as I should have in that lovely little card: parenting is fucking hard. No one is doing it great. We’re all trying and failing, trying and squeaking by, trying and occasionally having a blast. It’s disgusting and worrisome and chaotic and threatening and uncertain and guilt-inducing…and then, like, heart- sploding goodness now and then (quick! take a pic! for the love of God!). 

Not just parenting is hard, but marriage is fucking hard, too. Oh, Lord, your spouse is an extension of your own self but also a stranger. Marriage is so ridiculously demanding and weird and harsh and frightening and so, so much stretching to the point where you’re sure you’ll break, but then somehow a hand reaches out and supports the weak area and you go on.  It’s so hard. 

Personing is hard also. Just getting up and attempting to be brave and kind and accurate and on time and decent. It’s hard. 

So. There you go.  This is what my Christmas card should have said: 

“2016 was hard. 2017 will be hard too. But we’re trying. You, too? Excellent. Call me and we’ll hold each other and drink wine.”

Busy, but...yeah.

How was your weekend?/Busy, but... we got to see a lot of family!

How was the holiday?/Busy, but...we did all the fun things available! Elves! Tree! Elves!

How has your week been?/Busy, but...I got so much done and no one died.

How has this month been?/Busy, but we've almost dug ourselves out of the hole. It's cold down here.

How have the past few years been?/Busy but since I forgot my own name I get to make up a new one! It's Warrior Vanessa the Mega Monster Flame Thrower!

What?/Nothing. Never mind.

How was your day?/Busy, but...fine.

The Monday after Thanksgiving someone at work asked me how my holiday weekend was. I'd just been off for an extended time, I felt burdened to answer, "great!" But in reality, it was...flying across the country and back in 24 hours, landing at a new destination where my family had already arrived, spending a high intensity day with family cooking and eating before throwing a surprise party for other family the next day, then coming home to host another gathering, then going back to work. That's how it was. But I couldn't say all that in the 2 second hallway exchange, so I got out, "It was busy, but...yeah." I couldn't just finish with my usual "fine" because it wasn't really fine, it left me panting. And I'm trying to be more honest.

I have a friend in the "circle of trust" who was listing all the obligations she had this weekend when I casually asked how things looked for her and she finished it with, "I'm feeling so much anxiety and depression about trying to fit this all in. I just want rest."

Busy, but...yeah.

We're trained to feel valuable according to how busy and productive we are. The more we accomplish, the more we must be amazing. Some of this is a good thing, it's drive. Some of it is enormously over-rated and  unnecessary hustle. If we never say no to anything and continue to add to our tasks without relieving some others, we can't possibly accomplish it all well and we fail. Then we feel compelled to apologize as we strain and suffer under the weight of what we have to do. Our busy lives are making us sick. Stack, list, strain, fail, guilt, repeat.

How do we stop? How do we sit down? If that's like leaning back, I'm leery. If it's like monk meditation, I'm interested. Mostly because I envision there would be a robe and a haircut involved. When we have bills to pay and goals to achieve and kids to keep, how do we rest?

Perfectly timed, my super hero sister (powers include busting through walls, healing people with her brain laser, cake building and making me laugh all the time) and super hero brother-in-law (powers include putting the walls back together that my sister busts, calmly handling any obstacle in his way, and X-ray vision hidden by Clark Kent glasses) took the kids this weekend so we could just be home alone together and hide in our cave and let it all fall off.

We're lucky to have that help. In addition to asking for assistance in caring for the current responsibilities I have, I'm also trying so hard to say no to new ones. I'm encouraging my people to do the same. It's ok not to tackle everything, all the time. Much of it can wait or not happen at all. It's shocking how many things on the to-do list can be demoted to a maybe-do or meh-do or don't.

Remember the K.I.S.S method from learning to write in school? I think it stood for Keep It Sensational, Sister. Right? That's right, in't it?

Anyway. Simplify. Pare down. Chill out. Say no.

I'm trying. If you have any methods you're using to reduce your load, please share. Unless it's something like "abandon your family and move to the woods alone, living an isolated and naked existence growing root vegetables and wearing nothing but a rudimentary leaf-sewn loin cloth and an almighty epic long beard."

Hahaha. It's not a very productive fantasy that I've definitely never, ever had today ever.

I can't do that. Right?

Right?

One is Not Always the Loneliest Number

I read a fantastic book over Thanksgiving weekend called Love Warrior, written by Glennon Doyle Melton. It had me up until 2am, eyes wide open, sobbing. It left me bruised, and resolute. She's long been an influential author/leader for me. Her writing has helped me validate my own voice and path. She bravely offers unparalleled honesty, humor, naked vulnerability, insistence on her own power, and ambitious sisterhood community building. She shares the fights she has with herself in all their scary truths. She writes very clearly about being a woman and having to re-define what that means in her terms, not society's. She also has a faith in God that I can relate to in its messy questions and reassuring confidences, both.

The book is her realization that most of her life she hid herself behind a facade that was designed to be pleasing to others and is her quest to go behind the facade and bring the inside her out to the light of day. She created a "representative" to go out into the world and cover for the real person she was afraid to let talk. She was afraid of her need to be seen and understood, and afraid of asking anything of anyone, so instead she sent her representative to do it for her. The representative was bold and "fun" and kept her inside scared little voice quiet and punished through bulimia, alcohol, drugs, and sex. The rep was "fun," "game," funny and no work for anyone, while her inside self was just human; vulnerable, embarrassing, sad, anxious, timid, tender, and longing for attachment and genuine connection. She was afraid to be just human, and thought she couldn't share that with people, that she had to share something easier, this made up rep. She also gave her body to other bodies because she was detached from her own, and resented her body's perceived imperfections and requirements.

I don't want to tell the whole story, because I think you should read it. Everyone can relate to it, absolutely. Hiding ourselves out of fear, sending an inauthentic version of ourselves forward to cover for the scared little guy left behind..we all do that, don't we? This particular book is also about her marriage, how she and her husband were two people who met as intoxicated representatives of their actual selves and built a life and family together but never really knew each other. He cheated, she got ill, they separated. Across this span, she learns to write and express herself and require that she is heard and understood. She finds God through Mary, and learns that women are warriors. She becomes healthy and marries all the parts of who she is, even as her marriage to her husband is combusting. She finds strength in sharing the splintered parts of herself, and holiness. And her husband becomes his own hero, as well. They both learn to stop sending their representatives and to actually live with their inside selves out.

It resonated loudly with me, as I ache to be brave enough to pack away my representative and share my inside self with people. I'm so much closer than I've ever been, but I still slip in and out of it. Writing, therapy, and some new close friendships have helped me. In my case, I am not hiding behind substances, but definitely lean on being the silly clown, the servant, the polite peace maker, the low maintenance one who listens but does not share.

Since I was reading this over the holiday weekend and everyone I knew was scattered across the country with their families, it got me thinking about what we expect from our family relationships. Who gets to see our real inside selves? Our romantic partners? Our friends? Our families?

Holidays are hard. Everyone says that. We miss the people who are gone, we worry about money, we stress over the added activities and traveling and chores, and the pressure to be excited about all of it.

And, we feel lonely.

We're lonely, wishing for a connection sturdy enough to reveal our inside selves and to not have to wear our representative.  For a lot of people, being WITH family is just as lonely as being without. A lot of people dread going home. It's an obligation, an expectation, an energy sucker. I heard SO many people this year, preparing the week before Thanksgiving with their tactics for 'surviving' time with their families. I think it's because we know with family, we have to send the representative they expect, and it's exhausting to wear that costume. (And also because we were afraid everyone in our family would be "Drunk Uncle" this year).

I'm afraid that lot of people feel lonely in their family relationships. We revert to old roles and tendencies and feel like we're cheating on our inside selves we've so carefully cultivated because we can't trust it with our families. Our struggle to identify and empower our inner selves may not be noticed by family because it doesn't fit the mold they have for us, or may even be perceived as a threat. We may not feel like we can trust that they'll treat our vulnerable selves with tenderness. There might be too much distance or old hurt. Is the fusion that holds us to our family made of just ancient anemic cords? Is that enough, or should it be of real, blood-carrying, thriving vessels that will help us both grow stronger, better, together?

It's a lot to ask. BUT this book affirmed that, for me, I want to push my inside self out and ask that the people who love me, love her.. I'm tired of sending a representative who feels safe but lacks substance. I want real, hard, deep relationships.

I think...but I could be wrong...but I think that it's OK to insist that your people only get the real, inside you. Maybe we can try to reveal more of our inner selves to our families this year and ask them to do the same for us? If they can't or don't want to, and this is the hardest part, we may have to stop trying so hard with them or let them go.

Again, still trying to figure this out, but I think as adults  we are allowed to decide who to give our time to...those who strengthen and build us and remind us of who we are trying to be, not those who suck our energy or doubt or demoralized us. There are certain requirements in family relationships, but if we are not being fed by them, we can limit them. I know a lot of people who have had to create their own, new families, composed of friends and adopted family, who do make them feel safe and good and valuable. This never happens easily or without drama, but you have to protect that inside you. She matters.

Eesh. Scary.

Sorry if I just fucked up Christmas.

Can You Get Jordan Almonds Anytime, or Do You Have to Be Wearing Nylons, Attending a Baby/Wedding Related Function to Qualify for Them?

I’m going to tell you is what it’s like to go to a wedding or baby shower, in case you’ve never had the pleasure. 

Just think of it as beautiful, nice-smelling social anxiety buffet. Traditionally, it features all female guests of bride/mother-to-be. Even if there is a dude involved in this upcoming major life event, he does not have to come. If he is responsible for any of these pre-wedding/baby events, it’s basically beer drinking. So, since these “parties” are mostly women who barely know each other and span all ages and demographics and arenas of the featured female’s life, they’re crazy awkward. Showers are my very least favorite female-related ritual that does not have to do with menses moon dances. (We can’t talk about those. There’s a code.) 

You will see that, while the practice of throwing showers is nice because newlyweds/new parents get a bunch of stuff to outfit their sex pads/nurseries, and while I personally had delightful showers that I am grateful for, showers are generally very terrible and should be abolished. 

It starts when you arrive at the party at 2pm, old lady witching hour. You sit in your car in the driveway for a good 9 minutes, sports psychology-ing yourself to walk inside. ("You can do this! Bitch, get yourself inside, it's what we've been training for! You were made for this! Don't let your teammate down! She is counting on you! Afterwards, yes you can stop for Wendy's on the way home. Stop asking. Sure, yes to the french fries dipped in frosty. Will you please just go inside now.") When you do walk in, the smell of lipstick meets you in the doorway. It’s stretched across all the polite, close-mouthed smiling lips as far as the eye can see. There is small bad food in fancy bowls and coffee, if you’re lucky, and booze-less punch, if you’re not. 

You shuffle in, doubting your cardigan/skirt uniform choice, and put your gift on the big heap of gifts that look exactly the same as yours, like in “Christmas Vacation.” You’re a little sheepish because you know the female person of honor is going to open the gifts they already know they’re getting…because they picked them out…and told you to get them…and watched them come off their online registries, one-by-one. But what YOU as a guest did, see, what YOUR job was, is you paid for the thing and you wrapped it in shiny colored paper and put bows all over it and placed it on the pile. Good on you! 

Next you sit in a folding chair and wait uncomfortably until the bride/pregnant person acts adequately startled opening the gift that they know you know they know they’re getting. 

The gifts are fancy and useless, mostly. We bring baby clothes to baby showers because they’re so cute we might actually explode, leaving whimpering debris everywhere. No one brings plans for how to make the baby a conscientious, functional member of society, or a how-to manual on regaining the pelvic floor of the mom-to-be after she’s dusted it in childbirth. I guess, we’ll worry about that later, but for now, TINY SOCKS BY THE THOUSANDS. For wedding showers, newlyweds don’t NEED a houseful of beautiful museum pieces, but it sure helps get through the weird, harsh parts of early marriage that they can walk pensively through their houses, touching fancy framed wedding pictures and decorative fruit bowls, doesn’t it? 

As you sit up straight in the cardigan you now regret ever having purchased, making the smallest small talk you can make with the stranger next to you, she will tell you her birth story. Oh, yes, she will. Whether this is a wedding or baby shower. And certainly whether or NOT you asked. You were aiming for, like, tepid approval of the inevitable weather changes or maybe some local town gossip, but instead you get all her vaginal gore. 

Baby showers are a bunch of women sitting around, staring at the baby ship, the S.S. Mama, just willing for it to dock. There is much discussion of the ship’s parts and when it might land and how uncomfortable it will be to unload. Then, all the current or former uterus owners in the room will feel compelled to share their own cargo unloading stories. Of course, the longer and more gruesome the better. Birth stories are like fishing tales, they get wilder with each telling. By the time an 85 year-old woman is sharing about the birth of her child who is now herself an AARP member, it was a 9 day labor with a 14 lb kid and the only analgesia was whiskey for the doctor. (Who was also the town mayor and vet). At wedding showers, people might share some tales of their own weddings, but typically only the people who have been married in the past 3 years. Everyone else has already divorced/killed their spouse and don’t want to relive it. But that won’t be you, hahaha, because for you everything will be great. 

If you find that you’re having trouble keeping down your finger sandwiches, it’s because everything is really, really pretty, and too much pretty induces nausea in most adult mammals. Showers reinforce women’s need to perpetually pretty-up everything. There are fucking. Bows. Everywhere. Everyone babbles about patterns and textures and style. Do you know what parents of a newborn need most to survive infancy? Not style. They need to NOT worry about fabrics because those fabrics are about to be shat on and it’s best not to be too attached to them. Do you know what newlyweds do not need? Fancy dishes. Do you know why? Because the first year of marriage is a lot of work and those lovely 16-piece china sets will make great throwing disks when they really want to take each others’ heads off.  

You sit there stewing about how women aren’t ruling the world because they’re too busy decorating themselves, babies and houses. You’re THINKING, “eww, gross, stop it” but you’re SAYING, “what a lovely diaper cover. I wonder if they have it in the paisley.”

There might be games, and they are pretty sad, usually. Some of them involve diapers and pudding. I shit you not. (Get it?) Or possibly folding or hanging tiny clothing or making wedding dresses out of crepe paper. It's all very 1950's Barbie's Dream House. Most often one game will involve saying/writing down some advice for the lady in the hot seat. The advice everyone gives is abominable. It’s all shallow platitudes because no one wants to scare her off from the huge, scary thing she's about to do. Parents of newborns need to be told that they’re going to fuck things up, a lot, because it’s impossibly hard to build a person, but we all fuck it up and yet still most of us make it out alive. They need baby sitters, they need nipple cream, they need Maxi pads, they need help. They don’t need to be told to “sleep now, who knows the next time you’ll get to sleep through the night!” Newlyweds need the same advice- “you’re going to fuck things up, a lot, because it’s impossibly hard to be/support another person, but we all fuck it up and yet still most of us make it out alive.” Don't tell them not to go to bed mad. Going to bed mad is a better alternative than going to bed dead through murder/suicide.

It's possible I'm cynical. 

My idea of a perfect shower- either baby or wedding- is at a bar or an arcade with lots of skee ball. With girls AND boys. The boys don’t get to NOT care about the baby or home maintenance and the girls don’t have to care too much. Everyone laughs at how insane the whole circus is and nothing is wrapped. There are no bows. There is a ridonc amount of chocolate and warm bread. If you have to give advice, it must start with a story about this one time that you really screwed up badly as a parent/spouse and how you recovered from it. Keep it brief, honest, and in good humor. Each guest should swear a commitment to be the woman/couple's village who will help them survive the hard stuff. Each person should give them a voucher that commits them to saving them when they need saving. 

You can still give little nets full of Jordan Almonds as a shower gift. That shit is delicious. 

I Think It's Probably Time to Get Out of Bed and Start Using the Words Again

It's been hard to write lately. I'm not alone in this. My creative friends are all clogged up, too. My sketch comedy writing class is full of forlorn people trying hard to make jokes, but subconsciously creating nothing but sketches about newscasters announcing the end of the world. My loves trying to do the National November Writing Month challenge of finishing a 50,000 word manuscript in a single month have all written about 11 words toward their goal.

Last night at a restaurant I overheard a woman telling her companion, "I heard that people who voted for Clinton are calling suicide hotlines at such a rate, the hotlines are having to put people on hold!" (A quick Google search proved that rates were up, at least temporarily, a spike like after September 11, but it sounds like no one asked the callers' political persuasions. Frequent phrases used in a similar texting help-line were "scared" and "LGBTQ."). This lady retelling the story and the elderly gentleman she was with (she was about 40, he was about 90, I couldn't get a read on the relationship but I'm choosing to assume it was not nefarious because I'M TRYING TO BE POSITIVE) both couldn't believe that Democrats would be so bummed out about their person not winning an election that they were contemplating suicide.

It's not that. It's not that "our girl" lost. Seriously. You have to be tone deaf to think this national depression is about Republicans and Democrats. I mean, I'm speaking for myself because mine is the only head that I'm in, but the reason I'm feeling stifled and afraid and so, so ashamed is not because my candidate lost. She was barely my candidate. I really hate politics. I think of it as powerful people enhancing power and playing chess with less powerful people. And it's really, really not because a Republican won. I don't care. I normally don't assume anything of anyone if I know they vote one way or another. I know a lot of people who vote Republican or Democrat for one reason or other and just have to, no matter the candidate du jour. I don't care how you vote. Usually.

The reason I'm feeling so despondent right now is because this election was different. It felt like we were holding our breath waiting to see if humanity was actually good or bad. We ascribed a lot of moral value to where we placed our votes this time because the Republican nominee, now president-elect, articulated messages of hate and was so clear that he stood AGAINST so many Americans. The general sense was that your vote demonstrated that you were either on Team Everybody Matters (not voting for Trump) or Team Only a Few Matter, We'll Eliminate the Rest (Team Trump).

I get that that is a gross oversimplification and potential rhetoric, fishing for emotional response. There is much complexity and grayness in choosing a candidate or 'side.' I also don't begin to assume that if another candidate had won from a different team, everything in America would now be groovy for everyone come January...BUT it's very hard not to see a scary future with the person who won in charge.

Making America great again, in how Team Trump defined it, means going back to only the elite privileged few having voices/votes/lives that count. Regarding his plans to start identifying Muslims in some sort of a registry, it's hard not to wonder what the average German was thinking in the late 1930's as the extremists started blaming one group of their population on all their problems. What could they have done (could we do) to stop it? Were they sitting there saying, "it can't be THAT bad" right up until the camps were built? Members of Team Trump have already favorably recollected when America did that to the Japanese during WWII. So...?

There's been progress in identifying the systemic racism still faced by African Americans. Lack of representation and support has been called out. We're woke, right?! There it is! In the job force, police force, justice and educational systems, news and entertainment, housing market, electoral system...the list never stops. So we can fix it right?? Or are we just doubling down now that bigots feel empowered by their government? More empowered. Holy hell.

What about the LGBTQ community? Over the past decade there's been genuine hope and new freedoms FINALLY available to them that may all be retracted now. They may be in even MORE danger and more omitted from society.

I've talked about what it feels like to be a woman right now with the stated views of the new leaders about women and our rights. It's disheartening and very scary.

So. What next? I'm trying to go back to not caring about politics. Stop being franchised, it's not good for me, go back to being disfranchised where I belong. I never trusted the people in charge and knew that they did not have mine, the average bear, or certainly the underdogs' best interests in mind. (The animals are all screwed, too, apparently). I've been groomed since a young age with suspicion of the powerful elite, starting with the multitude of anti-establishment novels we read in high school. Be weary of power, be vigilant to protect those cast aside. So that's what we'll do, I guess.

Don't expect the 'man' (this orange man, or any man) to take care of us. Expect him to feed his ego and his followers, no matter the consequences to everyone else. Speak up when you see people being harassed, threatened, hurt. Lose all the political labels, if possible, because they're just making this murky and trying to keep it highbrow instead of the playground dirt ball that it is.

Fight to protect those who need it. Get out from underneath the comforter on your bed where you've been hiding the past few weeks. (She says, while writing under her comforter, propped up in bed). Be like a hawk looking for people who need your support. Remember we're all trying to human together, we're more alike than different, and even though humanity has proved AGAIN to be kind of a shitty monster, we have to try to protect the good stuff in each other.

I'm for people. I'm going to use whatever voice I have left to speak for them, and if necessary I'll put my body in the way to protect them, too. Don't give up. We need each other. I need you. You don't know what kind of hero you might be for someone, but you have to be here to hero. I get feeling desperate and alone and jaded, but don't do it alone and don't do it forever. There's good work to be done. Out of bed.

That's all I know so far. Have you come up with anything better?

This is Why the Women Are Crying Today.

I had a good friend tell me, about my reaction to Trump being elected president, "It bothers me how upset and frightened you are."

It bothers me, too. I'm trying not to be melodramatic and I'm saying all the vaguely comforting things about checks and balances and branches of government and such. Really, though, it feels like there is an enormous bully army built with the intent of fighting inclusion, other-ing the underdog, and keeping women and minorities in our place. The powerful will gain more power, the weak will be cast off. Like it was, like it always has been, like apparently now, it always will be.

This morning I woke up furious and my plan was to a) find a computer person who could create a secure, hack-free social network we could set up to start rescuing our Muslim neighbors when the government comes for them and b) because I assume crimes against women will go up and I cannot presume they will actually be considered crimes and/or be effectively punished, we need to build an army of vigilantes who can take care of it.

The evolution of the thought actually went, "well, so under this administration, women are just sex playthings and baby makers, so there goes access to affordable birth control and abortion services, so I guess there goes women ever having sex with men again....oh, wait, women don't have a say in it, men can take what's not theirs with impunity as this man in charge of this army has admitted he does....so since we already know that neither police nor judges will support women who have been sexually assaulted, I guess at least they've still left us a bunch of guns, so we can take care of it ourselves....ok, we can work with that."

This morning I was going to shave my head and start doing push-ups and lead the revolution. That was all this morning.

Since then, I just feel silenced.

I'm afraid. I'm disappointed. I'm disillusioned. 

My worries cover the LGBT folks, people with disabilities, immigrants, minorities, the economy, peace...I'm worried this leadership might spread a broad hurt, but today I'm most thinking about women.

Probably because I am a women and I took a baby women with me to proudly vote yesterday.

In my reflections on the significance of the results, I've concluded today that I was misguided in teaching my daughter to expect her voice to matter, to assume she alone has authority over herself. It's untrue. She's just a girl. I'm just a girl. We will continue to be owned, marginalized, thrown away, kept ineffective, quiet, docile. Our only value is our prettiness and appeal to men. So instead of shaving my head, I should color it a more enticing color of yellow. Instead of helping Anna become the nihilistic ninja she naturally wants to be, I'm going to slow her down with dresses and heels and tell her it's time to be quiet.

I'm afraid.

It feels like the Men's Rights' Association president has just expanded his territory. On my run tonight, I had dark, scary thoughts like, "maybe I should just start carrying lube with me, so when I inevitably get attacked because I dared to jog by some entitled man with my vagina, I won't get as much tissue damage. Very practical."

I'm disappointed. 

This isn't even about Hillary Clinton for me. She has some admirable qualities and I gather she'd make a good leader, but I'm not a party person, I just wanted someone who might advance, instead of impede, women's progress. And I know a lot of people don't think she's a good feminist because her husband cheated on her and she stayed with him, keeping her family intact and continuing on their mutual rise to power, but internationally she's already been good for women in her previous roles, it would have been cool to see what could have happened here.

Plus, yeah, it was emotional to see a female Ghostbusters this summer, it would have been bitchin' to see a female president. 

I'm disillusioned.

The past few years have been so promising. We've seen women in civic and corporate leadership and making huge steps in science and business and entertainment. There was a feeling that women not only could do the same things as men, but could excel with the same opportunities and deserved the same reimbursement, respect, and chance for growth, and might actually get it.

And maybe (here's the most shiniest hope nugget I had), maybe some of the qualities traditionally feminine; empathy, caring, skilled listening, ability to discern, reflect, and discuss emotions, weren't actually flaws, but maybe were actually superior qualities that made good leaders?!

But nope. Wrong. That's crazy talk. All we can continue to expect is decisions made based on ego/pride and reactions instead of reflection.

I know, I know. Be still and quiet, keep the mushy stuff home where it belongs.

We'll be mocked and harassed, threatened and intimidated for trying to use our voices. Still. Some more. We had the tiniest sliver of hope that it might be different, that there might be someone fighting our causes with us, but no. The mob chose the person who shows nothing but disdain for women.

It's not just grand scale intimidation and dismissal women face. Many men are just as irate about this result and feeling just as disenfranchised, but in the last week I've been shut down multiple times by the men who love me, when discussing sex inequality. I'm "too into this gender stuff" and  I'm "being too sensitive." My desire to promote and protect women is critical of men and unbecoming to discuss.

I'm sure they're right. I know it's childish to get passionate and have hope and stuff, I get that.

I will make every effort to be silent and keep everyone comfortable.

So, I'm put back in my place. Behind and under angry men. They will lead us and decide what is right for our education, bodies, families, careers, futures. They will lead us but they will never really see us because we are mostly just pretty bobbles. We had gotten too big for our britches. Now we know.

So, I guess that's a lot of words for silence. Now go ahead and tell me all the ways that I'm dumb and wrong. I've sort of beat you to it.

This is why women are crying today. We feel like we have to give up, when very recently we expected to rise.

The Saddest Sad Bastard of All (Ode to Beverly D'Angelo)

Fourteen years into marriage is like two 7 year itches combined into one wool sweater ant party. Even the extra strength balms (wine, frosting) don't offer much relief. At this stage of life, the stress is real and the responsibilities are not sexy. We used to be so into each other and look for excuses to get inside one another. Now, any person-in-person action is strictly for prostate health. 

Recently, my barely sexually-maintained husband of 14 years told me about a dream that he had. Him sharing this dream with me is still one of the greatest moments of my life, so now I will do you the courtesy of sharing it with you. (You're welcome). Since hearing it, I have affectionately been calling him, "The Saddest Sad Bastard Of All."

Apparently he'd been hoping to have some sex when he came to bed that night, and I was, uninterested, as usual, and instead had homelessness or the plight of the sea turtles or something awful on my mind. So we talked tragedy until we fell asleep. Still somehow, with the fortitude of a horny army, he must have fallen asleep with sex on the brain and had a sex dream. 

It wasn't just any sex dream. It was a sex dream about Beverly D'Angelo, in her prime. He kept saying "in her prime" as if knowing that it was the bodysuit and big hair-wearing Beverly D'Angelo from the 1980's would somehow explain everything. 

He didn't know why he had dreamed about Beverly D'Angelo, in her prime. We hadn't seen anything out of the National Lampoon vault in ages. I mean, obviously, anyone who grew up in the '80s watching 'Christmas Vacation' and who has seen the deleted scenes from 'High Fidelity,' has a healthy appreciation for Ms. D'Angelo (in all her eras), but we don't have a poster of her above our marital bed or anything. 

Yet. 

He went on to say that the worst (read: best) part of his dream was that he could tell Beverly D'Angelo, in her prime, wasn't really into it. She wasn't entirely comfortable in the position they were in and she kept trying to change it up and it just...didn't go well. 

So, he woke up, unsatisfied, having unsatisfied Beverly D'Angelo, in her prime. 

After I stopped pointing and laughing at him, I started to reflect. Why would he be having dreams about bad sex with '80s icons? Clearly this was due to our current infrequent and unenthusiastic sex life. There's not a lot of intercourse happening fourteen years into marriage. When there is a miraculous hour when the children people are asleep in their assigned beds and the adult people are awake in ours, then the pressure of being expected to have intercourse is just too great for me. I find myself stalling by checking the news and Facebook on my phone, and before I know it, I'm mired in the world's pain and angry about the treatment of women, saddened by inequality, and disgusted by whatever it is they put into chicken nuggets. My poor husband just wants to get a little nookie, and I'm crying, yelling, and wiring money around the world.

I remember back to when we used to be so hot. Now we're so, so old and tired. Where we used to have room for spontaneity and endless time together, now there are big bills to worry about, maniacal children to prevent from maiming themselves, endless meals to make, and Louis CK shows to watch. These all trump reserving time and energy for intercourse. We used to want each other NOW. Now a million other things NEED us NOW, and I kind of just want to be left alone.

Where did we lose our sense of urgency for one another? I don't think it happened all at once. I think it was the slow, pernicious, draining of life force that is adulthood and parenthood. There was a time when we bragged like real assholes about how strong and dynamic our marriage was. Even at the 7-year mark, when we were supposed to have the famous itch, we really didn't. We had no children at that point, and hadn't tried to procure any. We were living across the country from our families and were sexy and adventurous, alone against the world like pirate queen and king. (Actually, that sounds more exotic than it was. We mostly exercised and went on weekend trips with our friends, piling 6 high into $40 hotel rooms and drinking local beer that wasn't "craft" yet.) 

The next 7 years, adulthood fell hard on us. We moved home, bought a house, got more education and big kid jobs, and then struggled to have two kids. So now, we have two marvelous children, a mortgage, careers and a fledgling business that allows us the thrill of trying to avoid bankruptcy.

Kids pulled our focus off of each other completely. They say that they will, and "they" are right. Children are fierce competition for the romantic marital relationship. They require all our time and energy, affection, and selflessness. All that love and energy that was once directed toward each other is now taken up by the kids. Intimacy through conversation has suffered, too. Now, instead of having soul-enhancing, deep discussions, we only find time to talk life logistics. We're always running out of toilet paper, but somehow have 14 mustards in the fridge. Things like that. There's little poetry in it. 

  

Also, if romance requires any thread of mystery, having children burned that to the ground. My husband knew exactly what pregnancy and delivery did to all the inside and outside parts of my body because I articulated them to him or he saw them first-person. I didn't hold anything back from him because I figured that if my body was on loan for our family's child production, he sure enough was going to witness the graphic demolition of it. 

Somehow, despite all that and my compulsive insistence that he regularly check my IUD string like my gynecologist, he STILL wants to have intercourse with me. And Beverly D'Angelo, in her prime. But mostly me. 

This is why he's the Saddest Sad Bastard of All. The pressures of life haven't completely crushed his libido as they have mine. For me, having kids took over everything. I was their comfort, their food, their Elvis, their everything. It was intoxicating, but it was also exhausting. That level of need from the kids, as well as a full time job, left very little time to tend to my own mental or physical health or creative pursuits, and really no energy remained to focus on intimacy. 

It's taken me several years to realize that I need to put some of me back together again. I am still goofy for my kids, but I think I have finally learned that I truly can't give them more than I have. I need to keep some back for me, and maybe for my husband, too. Besides, even if I do try to give my kids everything I have, they will just take it and spill nachos all over it. They will take it and STILL complain. I'm still learning this lesson.

So, while the details of the dream were endlessly amusing to me, I was not at all surprised that The Saddest Sad Bastard of All is having dreams about being sexually unfulfilled. It probably reveals insecurities he's having about our sex life. My lack of interest in sex may be hurting his feelings. That's not great. I want him to be confident and safe and feel wanted. 

In an effort to give him something back for sharing that wonderful, terrible dream with me, I've been making an effort to be nice to him, to engage in real conversation, and to show him some affection. Maybe I'll even stop bossing him around while I'm oil-pulling so he doesn't have to see me drool coconut oil out the side of my mouth. I'll commit to putting away my phone at night so that the miseries of the world won't join us in bed. I'll work on the hard task of diverting some of my energy from the kids back to him, to me, to us. 

I'm making a genuine attempt to have more interest in sex and to 'throw him a bone' more often. Maybe he doesn't have to be 'The Saddest Sad Bastard of All' anymore. 

Of course, now I might have to start calling him "Sparky" instead.

I'm Turning 36 y/o This Week, Here's What I Know About Person-ing

I'm 36 years old now, and here's what I know about being a person/dealing with people.

1. Everyone is crippling insecure and tripping on ego. Some fake it better than others, but I talk to successful, driven, powerful people who admit that they're just all the time afraid of being 'found out.' We all have that insecure kid in us who is too ugly, fat, dumb, or scared. Who is afraid they're not worthy of friends or jobs or compliments or love. Anger, bullying, shitty behavior usually is rooted in wounded pride, fear and insecurity.

2. Everyone is self-focused and weird and boring. Thanks to social media, we now get insight into the inner workings of all our acquaintances and even celebrities, and wow what giant disappointments we are! I guess. Or, what a giant relief it is to know that everyone is equally simple. We're all just obsessed with the monotonous minutia of our own lives. That's how it goes. Glamorous moments are brief and mostly fabricated- basically we're all just wearing sweaters, sitting on our couches thinking about what to eat.

3. There has always been pain and poverty and inequality and there always will be. There will always be death too early and injury and loss and loneliness. Some people are born into unfair, impossible, violent, scary, uncomfortable lives. Some people were never told they were amazing or lovable or given what they needed to grow and thrive. Some people have terrible, shattering things happen to them and have to figure out how to limp through. It's hard to person in the best of circumstances, but sometimes it's near impossible.  We're all obsessed with our own stuff (see #2) but those of us who did land in solid families who were able to house, feed, educate and love us have to try to help those who weren't. When the chips are down, we have to ask for help and we have to give it freely and happily because I think making life a little less impossible for one another is kind of our chief planet purpose.

4. People are way more alike than we are different. Breaking up into groups is as harmful as it is natural. We're afraid of things not like us, so it helps to find the ways that we're the same, so we're all "us." The more we can stay away from "teams," the more we are united as one and trying to help instead of hurt each other. I know I'm a hippie and my advice to "bearhug the world" might sound trite, but you know, it's my birthday. Shut up and try it.

5. If you can find the humor in it, you can survive it, even if the only thing left intact is your wit. It's something. Comedy is a universal language. It's a gift we can freely share and a balm that does heal.



That's it. Just those 5 things. That's all I've learned, but they took some work.

Communication is the Key to...Stop Giving Me Advice...I Wasn't Giving You Advice...Oh. It Sounded Like You Were Giving Me Advice.

Do you ever feel like you're talking to yourself? Not in the good way, where you share a private joke with yourself that all the other jerks aren't classy, funny, or pretty enough to understand. I mean, in the way that you have repeated yourself over and over again and no one in your family seems to hear you? Makes you feel invisible?

Yes, well. Me, either.

We've been talking a lot about communication lately in our house. Teaching the kids (again! still!) that they need to acknowledge us when we word in their direction with an Ok/Got it/Will do/Ahoy, Matey, whatever. Something to let me know I'm not actually living in a solitary white room in my head yet. It's a matter of respect, obviously, and courtesy, and sometimes safety.

There are times, also, that they're hearing me but just not receiving my message as I sent it. I ask them a question and they don't answer it at all how I would expect them to. As if I asked one thing and they heard a whole other thing.

It's incredibly maddening, but it may also be what's actually happening. It's possible we don't speak the same language and I'm not properly translating my questions to their language. If I'm patient and I go down to them and clarify what I said, or they explain what they understood me to say, we can usually find common ground and move forward.

This parenting insight brought to you by a fight the adults in the house had recently where we (again! still!) discovered that WE don't always speak the same language. Sometimes we really, truly aren't trying to slowly kill each other, we just communicate differently and so are kind of sliding right past each other with our intent/meaning. It's miscommunication but it feels like fighting. Or it starts as miscommunication but it doesn't get named as such, so it ends as fighting. So if WE grown people who have been trying to talk to each other for some 20 years still can't get it straight, how can we expect these short newbies to always be getting it?

Another lesson in grace and patience, I guess. In case you're unfamiliar, the definition of "grace" is admitting you are stubborn and dumb and the definition of "patience" is waiting for that to stop.

October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

A lot of my friends are "celebrating" by remembering and reaching out with and for support. I love that they're talking about it. That kind of intimate loss leaves a dark stain on our hearts, and it's really good to show it to others. It's not unusual, and it's nothing to be ashamed of, and we learn that by making a community.

I think I've talked about the grizzly math of being a woman before. In obstetrics, we refer to women's pregnancy/delivery history as "G's" and "P's" or their 'gravidity' (# of pregnancies she's had, regardless of outcome) and parity (# of pregnancies that she carried to a viable term and delivered).

Your Gs and Ps can say a lot about what you've endured. I've known a G8P1 who had had so much death inside of her, so much blood, so much hope swallowed up by grief, before she finally got her daughter to survive pregnancy. I've known a G2P0 who had two traumatic, terrifying pregnancies in fallopian tubes instead of the uterus, and with her pregnancies, she lost those tubes, and almost her life, from sudden massive blood loss. I've known a G8P4 who has four, healthy, amazing children, who are probably hanging off of her right now in happy chaos, but she also carries around her neck those 4 losses, like a heavy locket she can't remove.

I've known G1's who have G'd all the way up to nearly full-term and then too early, too small, deliver a baby who could not survive. I've known a G1P1 who lost her tiny infants to SIDS. This baby she had been hoping and planning for, and whom she'd just met and fallen in love with. A would-be life. I've known women who have lost one or more of the twins/triplets in a pregnancy and have to forge on with optimism for the potential baby who remains alive inside. And I've known G0's, with years of failed attempts, and each failed month seeming like a tiny death. I've known those who have had adoptions fall through and felt the pain of that loss like something was stolen out of their bodies.

I want to quickly point out that all these women I know not only survived these horrible traumas, but are fucking killing it today. You'd think that having death inside of you or pain that severe might leave a person empty, bitter, unbalanced, or non-functional. You'd be wrong, because we're talking about women. Women can somehow both handle all the weirdness and wildness of life inside them, but can survive the death of someone so intimate and precious. I don't know how. It must be evolution or something, because we've been losing our babies since the beginning of time and somehow are still able to run businesses and families and go on to love the snot out of our other children.

It helps to lean on each other.  We've coined membership in this club, "the crappiest sisterhood of all." I hope anyone reading this who's not already a member, never has to join. But if you do, we're here. We'll help you walk when you think you can't. We'll help you figure out how to put your shoes on and hug your dog and your spouse and your other kids and we'll hold your hand until you feel steady on your own feet. And you will, someday.

I'm a G4P2, with 2 early miscarriages and 2 live, full-term (thank you, Jesus) deliveries. I had 2 babies who survived pregnancy, and I had two tiny deaths inside me. I'll never forget my 4 pregnancies. I'll never forget crying in my driveway after the OB appointment that confirmed that i was officially empty. I'll never forget being certain that I would never have a pregnancy that ended in a baby. I'll never forget picking apart everything I'd done during those ill-fated pregnancies trying to find the blame that was surely mine. I'll never forget being terrified every day during my two successful pregnancies, that it so easily could slip out of my fingers. Of course, I'll never forget when my two wonderfuls were born and that when they were out and healthy, I realized finally someone else was on the hook for helping to keep them alive. If you want to read my experiences with the losses and fertility efforts, go back to my posts in 2009 and 2010. My first successful pregnancy ended in birth in June, 2011.

If you're grieving, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have this ache, this emptiness. You're definitely not alone. If you're brave enough to talk about, and I encourage it, you'll find shared experiences, other members in the 'crappiest sisterhood of all.' Suffering like this leaves a stain, a mark, and you can usually find it in their eyes.

You will survive it, one way or another. These beautiful G's I was talking about earlier have all gone on to biologically conceive and/or adopt amazing families, and they are stronger, bigger, bolder women for their time dragged through hell.

All my love.