Pokemon: The Nightmare

So, they are these little dragon demon things that get injured a lot, and some of them can't breathe right and get migraines frequently? Maybe UTI's, too? And there are human keepers who have to, like, take them to the vet all the time? And each dragon demon thing has a certain number of assigned points, see, and they battle each other, and whichever one has more points is preordained to win over the one with fewer points (it might be a metaphor on society) and then, I guess, the one with the more points gets to keep the points of the one it beat, too? Real kick in the dragon demon pants, if you ask me. Then after they battle the human keepers talk in really high-pitched, breathy voices for a while, and it starts all over again.

If you can't keep up when you're attempting to play, don't worry, whichever child is closest will tell you you're wrong.

It's impossible to predict which dragon demon things are more powerful based on how they look.  Some have 4 arms and some are just a wad of chewed bubble gum. You'd think the 4-armed one would be a more powerful adversary, but you'd be wrong. You just have to wait for your kid to laugh at the one you chose and say, THIS SHOULD BE REALLY EASY every time you go into battle with him and the, apparently, way more powerful one that he chose.

They have ridiculous names like Sneezy and Emphysema and Blartbat and Kermudgeonator, but if you laugh or accuse your kid of making them up, you're wrong.

What else? Let's see. There are trading cards and posters and movies and TV shows and any merchandise you can think of.

Oh, they travel in balls, or something? They make a lot of noise and they are very brightly colored.

Nothing makes sense anymore and you just want to wear a big sweater and sit in a comfortable chair and feel safe again.

But you can't.

And you're wrong.

My Son's Father Threw Him a Birthday Party, and I was On the Guest List

How's that title for clickbait? Eh? That's the first time I've tried it. How did it go?

I read essays ALL.THE. TIME. that use gimmicks to get me to read them because I am a sucker and the gimmicks are working. They promote the material like something scandalous has happened or they've invented a new way to human, and really, it's pretty basic, simple stuff. I always feel ripped off by the end of them. Case in point, I recently read an article where someone tried to posit that her travel companion is her "away from home wife" and they're doing a polygamy kind of thing. But the more I read and understood, she was describing a non-romantic, non-sexual person she spends time with...someone we historically would have referred to as a "friend." But now we fancy, so it has to be her "away from home wife." K. You win. You got your dumb thoughts published nationally. Brava.

(Geez. Snark, much?) Anywho.

Here's what actually happened: Robb planned and executed Henry's entire sixth birthday party, from invitations through booking and paying for the event and receiving the RSVPs and forcing him to write thank-you notes. All of it. And I did NOTHING. And it was as great as it sounds! I showed up and watched the kids bounce around across the warehouse of trampolines and it was so fun and relaxing and I DID NOTHING. Robb built the cake. He made these great little goody bags.  He dealt with the kids' parents (scary). I hate socializing with people I only have my kid in common with. It freaks me the fuck out. He handles it like a social ninja. I just lurked in the back, laughing with Henry and his awesome friends. AND DOING NOTHING.

I told him recently that I feel like over the last year, he stopped being lazy so I could start being lazy. That's a gross exaggeration of what he didn't do and what I did in our previous arrangement, but really, since he stopped working full-time, he's done a bazillion times more work on the family/house/life stuff, and somehow over this year I've relinquished control and just sort of learned to DO NOTHING. I mean, there's a balance we're striking. His business is going well and he's working part-time now, and I can't reasonably be a bullshit of a spouse all the time, but I'ma read in the hammock sometimes now and not feel a lick of guilt. That's new. I'ma be grateful he planned a birthday party without me and not fuss over every potentially neglected detail. We're good. It's all good enough. It's all really good.

(It does occur to me, as a quick side note, that while I'm floored by his willingness and ability to plan and execute a social event like this, moms (and me, previously) do it all the time and I'm not sure that the dads always recognize enough what it took or are properly grateful. Let it be said and heard.)

Anyway. Thanks for the invite, dude. Great party. Invite me next year, too.

Dear Henry.

You're 6 years old now. I think it's time you learn the proper way to be a man.  I'm a woman, not a man, but I feel I'm equipped to teach you anyway, because they're pretty much the same.

You'll already know some of these things, because we've been talking about them since forever, so you can skip those parts. Just kidding. Read every word. I'm your mom. My words matter.

1. Take your shoes off. Go on barefooted adventures. Get filthy. Just be courteous and wash your hands before you touch anyone else with them. Climb trees. You'll fall sometimes. Climb them anyway. We have plenty of Bandaids.

2. Be a hero by showing kindness to all critters, at all times. It's the right thing to do. All the critters won't always be nice to you, but you show them kindness anyway. Remember that often people hurt others if they themselves have been hurt, so, show kindness and see what happens.

3. Be gentle. Be loving. Be honest. Be brave. All those things make you "honorable." If you're honorable, you are doing right for yourself and the world.

4. Make the next right choice. One at a time. That's all you can do.

5. Be weird. The secret is, we're all weird in our heads. Try not to let other people make you feel bad for your weirdness, or the ways that you are "different." They're just afraid that their own weirdness will be spotted. Help them celebrate their weirdness and be bold and celebrate yours.

6. The most important things you do in your life are going to take FOREVER to accomplish, and will be a TON of work. You'll probably be afraid and embarrassed and annoyed in the process. Possibly hungry and tired and worn out, too. There's no way to cheat the system, you just have to put in the time and work and hurt and sacrifice. It's a drag. Do it anyway.

7. You're going to keep learning until you're an extremely old man. Be on the lookout for new experiences and new information. Get used to not knowing everything. Sometimes our brains tell us we are important and complete and we resent finding out there are things we don't know. The wisest among us turn that part of themselves off and just say, "tell me more." There is so much to learn. Do it.

8. Read. People have been putting all kinds of ideas and information and stories in books since the beginning of people. You can always go on an adventure and grow yourself, if you have a book.

9. Take care of your teeth. And your body. Be wise and reasonable about your hygiene and fitness. You want to be able to run and climb trees into old age. But keep perspective. Your body is the way you get around the world, but your heart for love and your brain for learning and your mouth for telling jokes and stories are way more important than any other part of your body.

10. Be mindful of who is telling you who you are and what they are trying to sell you. Remember how you're supposed to be kind and weird and honest and brave? Those are hard things to be, so people will try to sell you other things that seem easier, more attainable. They'll try to tell you to be more fun, more relaxed, more muscular, thin, attractive, more or less hairy, whatever else is "new" and "in style." You should stand back and assess them before you decide if you want to take them on as your goals for you.

11. There are going to be hard days. Take care of your heart. When it gets really hard to be you, and you're feeling doubtful and scared and uncertain and alone, which will happen sometimes, you might find recommendations to step away from yourself and your goals, using things to dull the hard feelings. It's not going to work. Not for long. You have to come back to being you eventually. You just have to do the hard things. We'll help you. Find others who will also help you take good care of your heart.

12. You get to make the rules for you. We'll help you, because we love you and its happily our job as your parents, but you decide who you are and where you're going. Just do it one day at a time, one decision at a time. You can do it.

13. I think, if you follow these rules, you'll be OK in friendship, romance, school, work, art, sports, tree climbing, and travel. I'm sure I've forgotten some things. You can remind me when you come across them. Oh, keep eating your boogers. Studies have shown it's good for your immune system. You're going to have one hell of an immune system.

I love you,

Mom

I Want to Grow Old Together...Like, Today.

They do not stop me from falling down the hole on my bad days, these new insights. They don't entirely chase out the loneliness and embarrassment and doubt and FOMO and fear of everything else, but they do at least offer me some perspective on it.

Here's what I've decided about life and living. Are you ready? It's actually not about cake, so this is kind of a big step for me.

I think that over the course of a lifetime, we learn about our ego and how to control it. We learn that we're small, but just as small as everyone else. We're big, but just as big as everyone else. And we're temporary, just as everyone else is temporary. It does't matter if you owned a company or squatted in the basement of the building, you're just as much and just as little as the next person. And every generation figures that out, eventually, but I think not until old age. You realize, in time, that competing for the *most* of anything was an impossible, frustrating, soul-stealing (or, stifling, anyway) mission. You can just be. Who you are. Not on a pedestal, not under one. Not in front of a camera, not in the mirror, not trying to find a better version of you in a magazine or on TV. Just quietly, genuinely, you. You felt like you were "trying to prove" something your whole life, but eventually you're able to stand back and assess it and realize you never really new what "it" was you were proving, or "to whom."

We humans make these really goofy rules to live by and then assume everyone will follow them. Competing to win at the rules is how we keep things organized, I think.  If you really examine these rules- from caring about what clothes look like or what our bodies look like, or how stylish/fresh a piece of art is, all the way up to the caste systems we've designed to assign value to sex, gender, sexual orientation, race, culture...it's all made up.  It doesn't improve our survival or contentment, and most of it is unnecessary, so, can we opt out?

I think in old age, you realize you can, and you start to. What if we can do that sooner? What if our eyes are opened earlier in life? Cuz if a generation just becomes wise and woke right before they're folding into the ground, doesn't the next generation just rise and do the same thing over again, over and over into eternity like little neurotic nesting dolls? Is there anyway around this?

For me, the idea of God helps. A huge, eternal spirit who made me exactly as I am and doesn't regret it, loves me for me, is there, has always been, will always be. That's encouraging and helps me see myself as a speck in a speck storm on a timeless scale. If something happens that makes me feel badly about myself, in theiry, I don't have to choose to be mortified by it, because there is a big picture, and I am a cherished small part of it.

I'm trying really, really hard to examine the doubts and criticisms, as I experience them, and see if I agree with them before applying them to myself or refusing them. I'm reading the wonderful, "Things No One Will Tell Fat Girls," by Jes Baker, and it basically concludes that if we could shrug off the pressure on physical appearance, and the pursuit of some contrived beauty standard, we would be a more peaceful, fulfilled, successful, kind, interesting, giving, whole people. It would improve the planet.

So, the things that crush us, that make us worry, are maybe actually largely ignorable. Especially, if we can get control of our egos, the itty bitty ups and downs of our self-esteem bouncing around inside us, maybe we could be so much more. We don't actually have to care about clothes, or house size or décor, or the number on the scale. We are more than any of those things.  They are just the arbitrary proof we've settled on that we matter, or how we measure how well we square up against each other.

Let's let that go. We don't have to own it, have it own us. Let's be wise old birds, but youngish.

I'M TRYING. Like I said, this 'ah-hah!' doesn't necessarily chase away my blehs, but I do feel like it's helping my strength and courage.

Our Neighborhood Urgent Care Specializes in Childhood Woo-Woo Problems.

And so, after we'd played happily all night at the park adjacent to the baseball diamond where Henry was having T-ball practice, we got home and out of nowhere, Anna started screaming about her lady bits. 'MY VULVA HURTS. IT BUUUUUURNS.'  My kids know proper terminology because I just can't with the "front bottom" or whatever people tell their kids to call their parts.

I did a cursory evaluation and saw no visible problems, and so plunked her in the bathtub, because that's the cure to everything, but it just made it worse. I then applied topical anti fungal cream (diaper rash stuff), because that's the cure to everything else, but that didn't help, either. I bribed her with a snack and gave her some Tylenol and assumed all would be fine, but it wasn't.

She couldn't sit for the pain. She couldn't walk for the pain. She wasn't being dramatic and irate about it, as she is with most things that bother her, she was being pitiful about it. That worried me.

I racked my brain for what might be happening. I asked her multiple times, in multiple ways, if she had put something in her vagina (and if she had been hurt or touched, etc- thank God, no). I didn't love the idea of introducing her to the fact that she has a tiny pocket inside her in which she might put things she doesn't want us to find, but her confusion that there was "an inside" seemed authentic. I counted Barbie shoes anyway. We weren't missing any. Henry, helpfully, suggested it might be a wood chip from the playground, or a pineapple. I think he meant pinecone. We'll never know.

I wondered if she'd been exposed to something like poison ivy when I helped her squat in the bushes to pee outside the park (BECAUSE THERE ARE NO PUBLIC TOILETS AT T-BALL FOR 5 YEAR-OLDS) and if I had just caused my baby girl child's nethers to light on fire from a poisonous plant because I was too dumb to pay attention at the wilderness lecture at camp.

I waffled. I looked again, with a flashlight. I asked her to jump up and down to see if anything fell out. I'm a medical professional, after all.

She became more upset, and more specific that the pain was higher up, like bladder region. Her exam didn't act like appendicitis, but I thought maybe it was a urinary tract infection. It seemed like a really severe, sudden onset, with no preceding symptoms, but I don't do pediatrics. I imagine that tiny girl children's bodies work a little bit differently than adult women's bodies.

So, I took her to the urgent care. When we got there, there were, maybe half a dozen other people in the waiting room...so there was a decent crowd to hear Henry proudly announce to the receptionist, MY SISTER'S VAGINA HURTS HER BAD. A few minutes later, Anna was curled up in my lap, picking her nose, as one does in one's mother's arms, and I asked her about her bogie (Harry Potter talk for 'booger') hunting and Henry was mortified that I used that word out loud. If he only knew how people freak the fuck out over the world 'vagina.' I guess he'll learn. But, really, would it have been any less awkward if he had marched up to the desk shouting that his sister's "meow meow" or "tootsie" was hurting her? I think not.

Testing isn't complete, but it's looking like a UTI, and we'll hit it with some antibiotics. Hopefully she reacts quickly and feels 1,000x better tomorrow, because it was pretty miserable. This is the first of its kind, and I'm again feeling blessed for how healthy the kids are, and have been. Henry reminded me, in a loud whisper, so the nice PA could definitely, totally, not hear him, because geez, how embarrassing, that the last time we were there it was because he had what we thought might be a spider bite on his scrotum.

There, now this blog post contains embarrassing details about both my children's underwear areas, so they can both equally resent me.

I Don't Want to Be Your Mom, Dude/Good, I Don't Want You to Be My Mom,But You Could Be My Mamacita/ Too Soon.

The other day I was being a fancy lady and getting my nails done before vacation. The manicurist was several flavors of bonkers, which I usually love in a person, but she kind of lost me during a really long, drawn out story about her dog's false pregnancy. Anyway. Robb came to pick up a kid from me and the manicurist said something about what an involved dad he is and how I'm so lucky he helps.

It took 3 days and all the acetone she had to get the gel nail polish off my forehead when my head hit her nail table over and over and over.

Stop telling me I should be falling all over myself for a husband who does half the work. That's how it is supposed to fucking work. You have no idea how many people (mostly older women) have told me he's a miracle for doing laundry, cooking, managing the kids.

Screw them all. He's a good person, spouse and parent. I am fortunate to have him, but because he's him, not because he does the work that needs to be done. And instead of doing this life with his family, he's expected to be doing...what? Drinking with buddies, playing video games, sport balling, hunting, other recreational non-essential life things?

If me, the woman, the mom, didn't automagically do housework and childcare work and management of our social calendar and budget and all the other things, I'd be seen as inadequate, and depending how uninvolved I was in it, possibly negligent or even mentally unbalanced.

It makes me rage-y.

So, we're over a year into Robb starting his small business and working part time. I'm still working full-time in my same job. The kids go to school/daycare full-time. One of the countless painful things we've had to dissect our way through this year is how we distribute home/child/budget responsibilities. What are each of our priorities and when is it reasonable to expect tasks to be completed? What are our ingrained expectations of which partner does what and why are we living by them?

Ugh. Horrible. It's so boring and unromantic, fighting about the dumb toilet. I mean, the toilet isn't especially dumb, it's a normal, mid-range model, I think. It does its duty well. (Duty). But the topic is a dumb one for a fight. I want to talk about juicy, big, interesting things with this person whose brain I chose above all the other brains, but here we are fighting about toilets and kitchen sponges.

I also don't want to be the one to always clean the toilet, so we have to fight it out. Really, though, if a sitcom wanted to ever portray a real couple fighting about the real things couples fight about, it would be the dumb toilet and the dumb dishes in the dumb sink.

There's been some looped 'stop bossing me around/stop making me boss you around' stuff, but it's getting better. We divvy up responsibilities way more equitably than we ever did, and it feels less to both of us like I'm delegating to him and more like we both get it and are sharing the burdens, and are on the same side.

I like it. I had no idea how much I hated doing all the things that fell on my list until I stopped having to do them and had a partner I could trust to do them for us. Having a little extra time in one of our schedules has been beautiful, even though it means a lotta less money. And this transition have forced some much needed reflections and conversation.

So, when the crazy nail lady or the other old ladies I know crow about how helpful my husband is when he takes care of his own damn kids, like he's a dog who learned a trick, I'm going to tell them, Don Draper is dead, sorry to be the one to tell you. (If you miss Jon Hamm, just watch "30 Rock" on repeat, like I do at all times).

Real Life Events of Toddlers as Portrayed by Their Parents, Not to Scale: The Nap Time

We adults were hiding in our bedroom and bitching about the antics of the 3 year-old person,  planning our next phase of battle, when Robb started demonstrating what it's like putting her down for a nap.

This giant bearded man flopping around made me laugh so hard, I had to hide the bedside lube and film him to share it with all of you.

Please to enjoy. 

Happy Isn't It. Find a Different Goal.

I have this theory that happiness is a very bad goal for us.

Maybe we're here on the planet for however many decades we make it, to learn something and to survive it, but not to necessarily be happy. And, actually, that we've decided that happiness is the proof that we're properly personing, might be the cruelest obstacle we face.

It's really hard to live, no matter who you are, or how you live. Even if you have all the trappings of happiness- all the resources, success, and love in the world, it doesn't necessarily mean you'll be happy as often as you think you should be. And just because you don't have those things, it doesn't necessarily mean you won't be.

Look at the glimpse into wealthy celebrity lives that we get through entertainment news and their own personal social media accounts; there's a lot of unhappy. They're beautiful and wealthy and popular...and discontented. They don't feel not alone, just because they have all the shiny things of life. They're escaping into the things we all do- substances and shopping and self-obsession and relationships, etc.

Then there are those people who seem to lack all those things, even their very health, and seem, at least from the outside, very happy. I'm thinking of the cheerful person with the chemo baldness or the marathon runner with one leg, helping another runner cross the finish line.

I mean...WHAT? Have they unlocked a secret code? Is it struggle, sacrifice, living simply that buys happiness, if money and California sun can't do it?

Or is happiness elusive and fleeting and not a guarantee for anyone?

I'm thinking we drop the goal of happiness and seek other goals like personal growth, truth, and kindness. Maybe finding and maintaining perspective or working our way through our loneliness, and assisting others through theirs, is what we should aim for. Perhaps seeking more moments of human connection, finding safety and security in our own heads, living honestly and boldly, are more realistic and honorable goals than 'happiness.'

Also, it's very uncomfortable to be fighting with 9/10 of my emotions all the time. I'd estimate that "happy" is about one tenth of the feelings I have on a given day. I don't want to reject all the other emotions. It feels wrong, and it doesn't work. I want to better understand them, to express them, to evaluate and paint with them. They're all me, and they're all OK.

It may seem like a funny time for me to decry happiness since we just got back from Disney World, the Happiest Place on Earth.

Incidentally, I was very happy while I was there, but only because I was peaceful. From the last time I went, 2 years ago (#spoiled) to this time, I have found a more calm, safe place in myself, and this trip was infinitely more pleasurable as a result. Where last time, I had much anxiety over managing the kids and the grown-ups and making sure everyone was HAPPY the whole time, this time I just took care of my own little corner of it and let people have their own time. We went slower and if any of us, kids or adults, needed a moment to have a feeling that wasn't HAPPY, we let them have it. It was grand.

Consequently, in this peace, and not on a mad dash for happiness, I had better, more intimate conversations with my family members, and genuinely stress-free (maybe not that. Maybe stress-less) time with my kids.

It was magical.

So, I hope you have a...day and that life brings you all the...stuff.

;)

Why Would I kidnap THIS kid?! I Already Have One of Those.

when the orange county sheriff's officer asked me, "how's it going, sir?" i wasn't the least bit surprised. 

i had just dragged my shrieking daughter across all of EPCOT, while she begged for her mother. 

the shrieking began some ten minutes earlier when she realized that the trip back to the hotel did not include mommy. it started as crying and devolved into screaming, hitting, scratching, and flailing.

i wasn't stunned by the officer's arrival. in fact, i had been rehearsing in my head what the conversation might go like, and mercifully it didn't go as badly as i feared. (me: jail, anna: child protective services. IN FLORIDA.). 

i exhaled, with some frustration, and calmly explained that 'we' were way past 'our' 3 year-old limits and headed back to the hotel to get some sleep.

this all happened on the monorail platform, where moments before, i had walked up the ramp carrying this shrieking mini person. at the top of the ramp, when i went left to wait for the train, every single other living human being that wasn't being paid to be there went to the right. 

afterward, i stood on the monorail platform reflecting on my encounter with the orange county sheriff's officer. i was a little relieved that, while no one confronted me directly about what must have looked, at least a little bit, like an abduction attempt, someone definitely reported us to the authorities. strangers looking out for kids is good, right? 

but then we boarded the train, and as she calmed down i started contemplating the implications. what does it say about men and fathers that a man with a child and no woman in sight is obviously someone to report, or at least to suspect? 

if sarah were enduring our delightful girl shit monster shit monstering all over her, would anyone have thought anything else than, "that poor woman!"? and what does the data say? (hint: no one has ever been abducted from a disney park.)

and then she fell asleep, and i reveled in the bliss of a sleeping three year old, breathing steady and slow on my chest as we cruised through the sky together, alone. and all was forgiven. 

eventually she woke up — refreshed — and we played and had fun as if nothing else was possible.

we've had a magical trip, with just a little bit of magical shit monstering and just a little bit of magical police interrogation. 

I'm Just Sayin' That the Following Animals Have Been Known to Eat Their Young: Bears, Felines, Canine, Primates, Rodents, Insects, Fish, Amphibians, Reptiles, and Birds. Just Sayin'.

The kids have both been telling us we're "mean mommy and mean daddy" lately, to which I say, "VICTORY!!" with an elaborate old English accent, in a deep bow whilst fanning my plumed pirate hat.

You see, kids, we are mean, because you are little shit monsters. We are just trying to teach you how to make good decisions so you don't end up the bad kind of criminals. It is our job, our sanctified duty, to be mean. And it takes a lot of dedicated work to be this mean to you. A little appreciation would be nice, actually.

I love you. I'm proud of you. I cherish you. And, sincerely, you are a shit monster.

I don't actually relish screaming at tiny people. I've never approached an elf or a leprechaun with ill will. I have no beef with gymnasts or jockeys. My eyeball-popping hollering, and my punitive withdrawal of all the fun things in this world, is reserved for you and your monstering.

The 3 y/o tonight told me to 'ZIP YOUR LIP' and later cut out the fun rhyme and just told me to 'SHUT UP.'

Shit monster.

The 5 y/o keeps misbehaving in kindergarten, and when he then has to pay the consequence for getting marked down on the behavioral color chart, and loses privileges for a night, he's mad at me.

What the what-ness?!?

He has an orange day for talking out of turn and not keeping his hands to himself, and I'm the mean one? Really.

Shit monster.

Bless those teachers, for making the "needs improvement" colors yellow and orange instead of "poop brown" and "bile green" like you know they really feel about the whole thing.

I don't have much more of a point to this post other than self-congratulations and self-pity and an all around, "I feel ya," if anyone else out there is a mean mommy or daddy and living with shit monsters.

I just keep thinking about how good chocolate cake acts as a sponge for red wine.

But, Officer, I Always Drive Topless With My Easy-Bake Oven

I got pulled over the other day, for speeding in a place where I always drive, and I always speed. The officer was so quick and polite and had the kindest eyes, so when he "let me off" with "just a" ticket for impeding traffic or starting a riot or some such, I thought I'd gotten away with something. That we had made a real connection. He got me. He knew my life was hard enough.

So, he gave me, not a full speeding ticket, but just a loving reminder ticket. A "rest assured, ma'am, there won't be any points on your license" ticket.

That till cost me $180.

What.

The only thing I learned (besides possibly a reminder of my white privilege) is that I'm not anymore young enough or cute enough to squeak out of a ticket with my eyelashes or bosom full of remorse, and not yet old enough and frail enough to sneak out of one with fresh baked car cookies or charm.

In an animated film, I'm in that gap between nubile wood fairy and wise old tree.

Probably my citizen's perspective that any of that can influences an officer doing his/her job is offensive to police officers. I broke the law, there are dollar-dollar-bill-y'all consequences of that. That is all.

But, still. I used to get out of way more tickets.

I do find it interesting how my encounters with strangers are changing as I age. I think I'm teetering on the edge of reminding men in their 20s more of their moms than of their penises. I'm OK with that. But it's different.

Ten years ago, if a stranger said something to me, about me, I would feel offended and threatened. It happens so rarely now, I'm caught off guard and am like, "Thanks! Do you really think so? I just slipped it into a size 12 jeans. Hollah!" The other day, when I was told I had pretty eyes, I got out of my car and mouth-kissed the cashier at the Jimmy John's drive-through.

That's the last time she'll compliment a stranger.

Change happens. Aging happens. I feel great about how I look. I'm on a path toward silver streaks in my hair and playful crow's feet, strength of body, and grace and wisdom. I love all of that and think it's very attractive and positive. Working hard on minding over matter.

Ah, well. I'll pay that speeding ticket. I'm moving forward in life, and I'm doing it quickly.

"Don't Worry, Be Happy," Says the Artificial Fish Trophy Hanging On The Wall

I'm trying to write through my anxiety.

I've been having a really hard time writing lately, which historically has meant it's what I most need to do. So here goes. No promises.

I'm like most of you, sometimes swallowed up by the sadness in the world, the darkness in the people,  I'm afraid of the winds of change that's blowing through humanity, or, maybe, more accurately, I'm afraid of the stillness, or the regression. I'm afraid the bad guys always win and that has gone on forever and will go on into perpetuity. I'm afraid that movies lied to us. Heroes just get shot or die of dehydration from drinking contaminated drinking water.

I worry about never being enough. Enough of a woman, enough of a mother, enough of an employee, enough of a writer. And now, after marriage counseling last week, enough of a wife. Enough of anything.

I worry about worrying, because I think it's a female trait and I hate that. I feel it undermines my power. I worry about worrying because the anxiety affects my health and my work, my family and my creativity. Sometimes I look at my kids and think that they're going to be hurt by having a mother who is emotionally less-than. Or more-than, maybe. I don't know.

I wonder if the condition of the people we love is a reflection of how we feel about ourselves...and worry that my insecurities, my self-doubt and loathing might negatively affect my kids? Marvelous.
Other times, the better times, I think my worry and sadness is all normal and healthy and just a function of being a sensitive, emotionally aware person. I am very vulnerable to the hurts. There have been times in my life that this has been a weakness, but by now, at thirty-six, it's deliberate. I'm an adult, I could choose to scar down with cynicism and closure and ego and thin distractions like the accumulation of stuff/stature. I think I have the script for that. I think the props are TV and alcohol, credit cards and cell phones. I get it.

OK, Glennon! Ok! I hear you! I'm trying to remember! Keep telling me!
But I'm not. I'm keeping myself open and raw, trying to live clearly, simply, honestly, and showing my whole mess to others. It's exhausting, but it's what makes sense to me. And even though I worry that my worry will harm my kids, I also think that being emotionally honest is a positive thing to demonstrate and promote in my kids. They do all that instinctively now, as children, but will eventually also face the option to shut it down. I hope they won't, even though I know how hard it all is. I'll remind them and me, constantly in repetition, that it's OK to talk about insecurities and fears, purge and release them, and occasionally trip on them.

So, I'm trying to be tender with myself. I'm throwing a handful of words down on the page and I'll try not to hold my breath until I know if anyone reads them or hates them. I'll keep sharing my feelings, even when they're ugly little bastards. Not gonna shut down, not going to shut me down. Just one word at a time.  I'll listen to music that makes me glad, and to the sound of boots on the wood floors and acknowledging that they're mine, and I'm safe. I'll work at seeing my kids' faces full of joy and sun and not see their earnestness as potential for harm in a horrible world, but instead feel glad they're throwing out their sunshine into it, making it just a little bit warmer and brighter. I'll try to throw some of my own.

I'll soon share about marriage counseling. It wasn't great the first time. It was actually really annoying, and I'm for sure going to write this therapist into a story or play some day when I'm out of my writing slump. BUT, the session did open much conversation and truth truthnesses later between Robb and I, and we're feeling hope. And that's good.

Thanks for always being there to let me dump my stuff. Lord knows you are all better listeners than this marriage counselor. Weeeew, I've got some stories. For a later time.

(But, seriously. She wore dominatrix shoes and she's at least 60. Ok, I'm done.)

Childfree To Be You and Me

I've talked to a few friends recently, who have given me the distressing news that they are choosing not to have children...and that people keep harassing them about it. 

The first bit, the choosing not to have kids bit, is not something that should be doubted or questioned or criticized. I think not having kids is a very logical, sane, reasonable choice a person or couple can make. 

So, why do older couples and parents of all ages so strongly encourage, or even shame, their family and friends about their decision to not add children to their family? 

I think it's several reasons. 

1. I mean, we're mammals. (That, by the way, will be the title of my 2nd book) and we're biologically programmed to reproduce. So, likely, if we see someone ignoring their bio clock or electing to not make life decisions based on their twitchy reproductive organs, it makes us feel unbalanced and insecure about our own decisions. And maybe about the future of our mammal tribe. I guess. I mean, by all accounts, we're drowning in human mammals on the planet. We're good. Your cousin, Tina, does NOT need to have a baby to keep us afloat. Leave her alone. 

2. FOMO. Having bio kids does have a narrow window of about 30 years of our lifespan (having bio kids *easily* has a narrower one than that), so the concern is if you 'drag your feet' too long, you'll have the rest of your lifetime filled with regrets over something you can't fix. But, the thing is, I think that by the time you're in your 30s or 40s, you know yourself pretty well and know if you want to parent. And, if you're waiting for career or couplehood to fall into place before you spring out some offspring, there is good science out there to help, or  adoption. But that's not what w'ere talking about. We're talking about folks who do not want to have their own kids. They may like kids, love kids even. They may very well want to be crazy involved in the lives of their nieces and nephews or friends' kids or whatever, but they know they don't want to parent. And that's fine. 

3. I mean, it's really, really fine. There have been studies that show that the happiest people on the planet don't have kids. And also how detrimental children are to relationships. "In fact, people without kids were happier than any other group, including empty nesters." Read this article on Psychology Today. Pretty interesting. It discusses the negative impact that kids have on individuals and relationships- loss of intimacy and privacy, stress, financial loss, sex, etc. I TOTALLY BUY ALL OF IT. My kids are the greatest two people who have ever breathed, but still- all of that rings absolutely true. My life is infinitely more stressful and my marriage more burdened since having kids. Also, no matter how hard we work, there seems to be less money. And no time. 

4. Your life will be "empty" or "lonely" or "without purpose" without kids. I don't know. I've heard this one from older people a lot. I know that before we had kids, we did spend more time on ourselves than on...kids. We were more fit, better read, better traveled, better slept. All that is true. But we also pursued our careers more aggressively/successfully and took riskier risks creatively and did more volunteering and giving of our time and money to our community. It wasn't all bad for us or for the larger 'us,' either. I think, if you have a big pile of friends and family, and stay active in the world, there's no reason to believe you'll have less companionship or purpose at any stage in life…and, if you’re worried about who will take care of you in old age, it’s kind of presumptuous to assume you'll be covered if you HAVE kids. I mean, they might move away. They might not want to or be able to be what you need of them, you know? 

So, why do we have kids? Because we like dressing them in ironic Halloween costumes that make our friends laugh. We like the god-like power of assigning a name to a person that they then have to live with for the rest of their lives. We like to challenge of carrying 15 grocery bags, 2 backpacks and a screaming person up stairs. We wanted to put our love toward young people who might occasionally love us back. We maybe a little bit wanted to put something next generation-y into the world? (Yikes). We thought we had to, because it's 'what you do?' 

I don't regret my decisions, but I would never impose them on other people. My kids are the bees’ elbows, and I’m so glad they’re part of my family, but I don’t think I’d say, “I can’t imagine life without children.” Being a parent has been great for me, but I could also see how not being a parent would have been swell, too.

So, you know, if you’re a parent and you find yourself in conversation with someone who is choosing not to be a parent, don’t be weird and pushy. Don't be every interviewer ever who talks to Jennifer Aniston. Just don't do it. 

And if you’re a child-free person and you’re stuck in a conversation with someone who is trying to bully you into parenthood, tell them what you’re reading, what your travel plans are, and what you ate at brunch last week. That should shut them right up. 

But, Really, Who Even Has A Good Sex Life?

This, by the way, is probably going to be the title to my first book. And when I tour with it, all the women in the room are going to be like, "YEP" and all the men in the room...who dropped the women off, I guess?....are going to be whimpering in the back, holding their poor sacks in their tired hands.

I meant they brought a bag lunch and their hands are tired because they folded laundry all morning. What were you thinking? It's going to be a long reading and Q & A, they'll need snacks!

Anyway.

I'm forever trying to figure out why I'm not much interested in sex since having kids. I feel bad and sad and weird and guilty about it, so I ponder it a lot. Here's what I've come up with.

Some of it is the relationship ups and downs, the lack of romance and connection and just general functionality of life leaves no room for something as frivolous and time-consuming as sex.

Some of it might be the normal process of aging, hormonal changes, or effects of birth control.

And some of it is that I feel like I've given up enough of my body and I don't want to give it up anymore. Just leave me alone.

Let me clarify.

We watched some friends' baby this weekend and he's teeny tiny and still needs to be fed milk every few hours, so we happily woke up with him a few times overnight to feed him bottles and whisper back and forth over his little head about how amazingly cute he is and how isn't this kind of fun to have a baby in the house again but haha not THAT fun.

And then I really thought about how viciously much I do not miss it. How resentful I am over the sacrifice my body made to take care of my babies. How, between pregnancy and breastfeeding, I don't feel like anything else should be asked of my boobs or vagina. Leave them alone.

Watching Robb give a baby a bottle didn't elicit fond nostalgia, because he almost never did that when our kids were babies. I was one of those competitive marathon moms who thought I needed to breastfeed my kids for a full year without any help, while working full time. So,  I was breastfeeding or pumping approximately every 4 hours for 14 months, twice over. That's approximately 5,000 times. At, let's say, 20 mins per feeding or pumping session, that's approximately 1700 hours, or 70 days of having a baby or a machine attached to my breast. (If I failed to do the math right, we'll assume that brain decay is also a consequence of the sacrifice). That was after I bled out 2 miscarriages and carried 2 babies to term and delivered them painfully out my lady hole, and in addition to all the other parenting stuff that happens to your body- getting stepped on, carrying screaming 40 lb people through grocery stores, etc.

My body is tired and sore and kind of cranky. No, it does not want genital stimulation and no it REALLY does not want to stimulate anyone else's, even for the sake of harmony or world peace or whatever.

The other thing, that I say in a more timid, embarrassed, holy whisper, is that my body was sexually available for others' needs before I was enlightened enough to use it for my own purposes. When I was in my early teens (thank God not earlier), my sexual awakening was basically when boys took interest in me and had expectations of sexual acts we would perform on each other. My body, which I had always had a negative opinion of, suddenly was desirable for males. They liked what it could do for them. My body didn't get much out of these encounters for many years, but my heart felt temporarily less alone and more worthy. The conclusion that my body wasn't entirely mine, but was somehow owed to the men who were interested in it, in trade for the bump in self esteem their interest gave me, was easily reinforced by movies and TV and what I knew about porn.

It took me years of fighting through embarrassment and fear, and a very patient, loving partner, to figure out what my body wanted and how to get it that. To speak for it and let it have its own goals that were independent of anyone else's needs.

So then there were a few blissful years of a healthy, dedicated, exciting relationship with a healthy, dedicated, exciting sex life.

And then we had kids. And my body was again on loan to other people. And I LOVED them and was glad to make that sacrifice...but it was hard. It was really, really hard. And I LOVE my husband, but neither of us want sex to feel like a sacrifice to me and it does. It just does. So I don't do it.

Having and raising kids, and growing up, and finding a stronger version of me through therapy and friendship and all these things over the past few years has given me an actual, real self esteem. I am my own authority and I just don't want to compromise that. Especially for something that I have compromised before.

I know better now. I feel bad for that teenage girl who thought she had to put out sexually to feel love. She was really funny and weird and wise and kind of good at theater and sports and friendship and being a sister and a daughter and she didn't need boys slobbering on her to be worthy. She didn't know.

I hope figuring this stuff out for myself now will help me help my kids through adolescence better. I'm practicing saying it all honestly here so I can say it honestly there, then.  Also, I'm sharing it because I wonder if anyone in couples out there is feeling "YEP" or whimpering about the same? You're not alone, if you are.

I'm hoping to find my way back to the healthy part where I feel ownership over my body again and excitement for sexy time with my mate. As the kids grow less dependent on me, that helps. As I practice using my big girl words to express anxieties over these things, that creates intimacy, and that helps. Shared time and experiences together just the two of us feels like romance, those dates help.

Anyway, I'm not quite ready to close up shop permanently just yet. The sign out front used to say "Going Out of Business Sale, Everything Gone. Just Go Away."

Now it says "Closed For Business, But The Power Is Still On. You Can Hold My Hand And See What Happens."

Yelp Review for "Cool" New Restaurant, By Child

1 out of 5 stars because it wouldn't let me choose none stars. 

We ate at this new restaurant, called something like JusteatitIsweartoGodYou'llLikeIt. My mom was freaking out about this place for one million years. She kept calling it the "hottest new restaurant in town," which I didn't understand because it was neither spicy hot nor hot hot temperature hot. She called it ironic when she finally got in but didn't have a babysitter for me, but I don't think she knows the real meaning of that word since she was raised in the 90s.

We still had to wait. But there are no couches or chairs, you have to stand at the bar. People were kind of rude. They kept glaring at me like I shouldn't have been there. My mom glared at me like that, too. My guess is it's because I didn't have enough fancy hair on my face. There seemed to be a hair dress code.

I guess they don't do carry-out here, because they don't have to and they hate me.

When we fiiiiiinally got to sit down and went over the menu, all of their non-alcoholic drinks were cold-press coffee and Kombucha, so basically they wanted me to get high or drunk on deadly vinegar poison. Then, the curtain near our table was this really soft, billowy muslin material and obviously I had to touch it. Had to touch it. Had to touch it. The food on the menu all sounded like poop and poop sandwiches and they actually did not have french fries on the menu and my failure of a mom also did not have any in her purse. You would cry, too.

What they did have, though, was plenty of pork belly and candied pistachio goat cheese honey things. I couldn't picture it. HOW DOES THE PIG LIVE WITHOUT ITS BELLY? How does it? No one would answer me. I kept trying. I asked every person within and without ear shot, but they were not hearing me over the music.

The music.

What.

It was really loud and confusing. My mom was drinking something with mulberry jam and jalapeños in it, and I know she didn't like it because I really know what her "doesn't like it" face looks like, but she drank every bit of it because it cost $14 and stop asking her about it right now. I tried to take her mind off it and told her I CAN COUNT TO 1000. So that pretty much took us through dinner.

Which was a disaster.

They put truffle oil on everything. Truffle oil tastes like what the dirt under rocks tastes like...I've heard.  And it was on EVERYTHING. Like, I imagine that's what they put in the soap machines in the bathroom there. Although I wouldn't know because I don't like to wash my hands when I go to the bathroom. Unless I go #2, but I didn't there, so that was OK.

The dessert was fine, though. They had different flavored cotton candy and rock candy and deep fried candy bars. I liked all those a lot.

It's 4 days later and I still haven't slept. And still no one has answered my pig question.

The end.

We Hurt Each Other Because We Hurt Ourselves and That Sucks

you If we cured anxiety and depression, wouldn't we cure war and cruelty? Or, in other words, if we were healed and whole and our worries tended to and our tender parts loved on, wouldn't we not want to hurt ourselves or each other?

I'm not saying that flippantly, and, although I always suspect that I am naive because of my privilege, I mean it. As best I can tell, love and tenderness is the solution.

My most rotten behavior comes from a source of pain and insecurity. I have to believe that's true for most everyone? Even enormously powerful political people? Wink wink trying to find some mercy here wink wink? Even guerrilla religious fighters who light children on fire to prove their authority? 

Maybe? Can there be this many sociopaths who found each other and formed political parties/cults? Or is it just fear collected, reincarnated as dangerous power and violence?

We're afraid we're secretly not worthy, we're afraid we're secretly bad, so we show our teeth and puff up our chests and strike hard. We ruin others to prove we're getting something right.

It's fucked up.

In my experience as a social worker and medical provider and person, when I've engaged with 'difficult people' in a rage or a huff or who are spinning out of control, there's usually a source of fear at the center of it. When I'm able to find that, and hold it kind of gently with them, and then slowly, carefully, start to step with them down a simple path, one small solution at a time, they can start to breathe and simmer the rage. It can stop their anger or ill intentions in their tracks.

Why are you yelling? What are you afraid of?
Why did you hit me? What is worrying you? 
Why are you cold and mean? Why do you feel alone?
Why do you hate people? Who hurt you?
Why are you trying to overpower and own? Who told you you weren't good enough?

We can keep passing on the hurt, fist-over-fist, from one generation to the next, or we can somehow get to the core of it and save each other.

I think.

I'm trying to keep my head down but heart up. I'm hiding a little bit. Avoiding the news. Avoiding the hard stuff. Avoiding the crushing realities of the powerful people who are mad at the rest of us for not being one of them. I'm afraid that there's no Batman to save us. I'm afraid that there's no God.

There's a whole hella of a lot of "why?" going on. Why? Why? Why?

All I ever seem to conclude about people is we need to find each other's hurt and validate it and try to love them through it.

So, I think we're trying. I'm seeing people rush to help others a little more right now. I think the result of us all being terrified that we can't fix the big injustices and hurts is that we're trying to relieve some of the little ones. People are donating funds, time, showing more kindness to people on the streets, maybe. The Midwest lost power and friends and neighbors and even grocery stores are offering to take cold foods, to shelter people.

Human efforts seem bolder, hastier, less hesitant than business as usual.

I guess that's what we can do. LOVE HARDER. REACH DEEPER. FORGIVE AND LOVE YOURSELF, it might save others.

That's all I got.

What's Love (and LOVE) Got to Do With It?

My 5 year-old son has a male best friend he talks about constantly. They cause mischief, they have their own secret language. They send notes home with each other. They adore each other. My 3 year-old daughter has a female best friend she talks about constantly. She includes her in stories she makes up, she names her dolls after her. She seeks her out the very second she arrives at daycare and then sticks to her like glue all day, according to the teachers.

The kids both use the term "best friends" to describe their people. All us grown-ups go, "That's great! You're fitting in. You have friend(s)!"

But I've been thinking....if my kids had opposite-sex favorite people, would us grown-ups (and then, in time, the kids) describe those relationships differently? What if my son had a female best friend or my daughter had a male best friend? Would we still say, "Yay! Friends!" or would be weirdly romanticize/sexualize these pint-size, pre-pubescent relationships? Would we refer to them as their "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" and talk about how one day they might get married? Or would we discourage the opposite-sex friendships since 'boys should play with boys doing boy things' and 'girls should play with girls doing girls things?'

If we did that, would it change the way they look at those relationships? Would it effect the way they look at themselves, even? Would it shape their expectations? Could it jack up their relationships for the rest of their lives? Could it put unnecessary divisions or distance between themselves and other parts of themselves, or others? Is that our adult/societal subconscious goal?

AND, isn't it possible that my daughter, with her total infatuation with this little girl at her daycare has some early loving feelings for her? Or my son for his friend?  If the potential for romantic loving feelings starts early in life, are we witnessing it now in these relationships but just are using heteronormative language to describe them?

It's just a ponder. I wouldn't be surprise if you're crying total bullshit on me right now. I mean, the idea of my kids as romantic beings is eww gross. They're under 4' tall and still don't wipe their asses very well.

I'm not going to sexualize/romanticize any of my kids' relationships with either sex until they tell me what's up, later in life. I want them to be naive, sweet kids without the flutters of the heart and the straining of the groin for as long as possible. But I'm aware that their sexuality is never not developing, just as their emotional selves and intellectual selves and physical selves...whether I'm squeamish with it or not, it's happening. And the things I say and do now might have later impact in what they see as normal and acceptable and valuable.

So with all of their same-sex or opposite-sex friends, I'm going to try hard to let them describe and define the relationships and not put words or labels in their mouths or ideas in their minds.

Partly my goal is that they grow to expect respectful, loving relationships out of any friendship they make, with either sex and can be themselves in those friendships. Maybe they can see that men and women have way more alikes than differences? Maybe my kids can be of the first generation in the history of humans to have healthy opposite-sex friendships? If that's even a thing? (Harry Burns would say no)

Mostly my goal is that they can peacefully (as peaceful as navigating relationships and human sexuality can be) figure out who they are and how they love and what makes sense to them without my/society's expectations filtering through them too much.

So...you're 5, kid. You have to sit at your desk and not talk when the teacher is talking, but you don't have to have a girlfriend or boyfriend now. You're 3, kid. You have to sit on the carpet when told and not eat too much Play-Doh, you don't have to be thinking about who you're going to marry right now.

And forgive any adult who tells you otherwise. Negotiate your way through friendships, expect honor and love from them all. Day by day, as you get older, listen to the flutter in your heart and you'll figure out what love means for you. I'm hear to listen to what you learn about yourself.

And when you ask me about how babies are made, I'm going to give you way too much clinical information and pull out all my colorful diagrams and to-scale models, so make sure you're in a comfortable chair.

Hear Our Rally Call- Aaaaaayeeeeeeeeaaaaaay

Last week I went to a conference at a spa in the desert. Some girlfriends joined me for some much-needed R & R. In this case, that stood for Rum & Rally. 

Rally: feisty verb, means; to call together for a common purpose, to assemble. To rouse or revive. To reassemble and restore to order. 

These women. Dang, these women. They look like adorable Lululemon models (is that how the hell you spell that store? It's very brainfusing to me). One of them is going through a divorce from her fuckwad husband and finding her BIG ROAR, one survived brain surgery and is parenting 3 tiny children (nbd), and one is the sunshine hero for kids who have walked through the worst kind of hell.

We rallied to revive and restore order to ourselves, with each other's help.

We rallied. And it was good. My friend experiencing the divorce is fighting her way through it, head above the water, warrior shield gleaming, but as importantly, she's reaching out for help. She doesn't want to just not drown alone, she wants fellow swimmers. She doesn't want to have to create all her own armor in isolation, she wants craftsmen who can help her build and reinforce it and then remind her to pick it back up in those moments when it's hard to carry.

She sounded the horn so her tribe could gather, and I'm so impressed. I don't do that enough and I'm learning lessons from her. When I've had trauma with loss and hurt, I've withdrawn into myself and found a whole lot of unhelpful sad there. Humans are meant to live in community, especially women, I think. We need to force the Red Tent notion (1997 novel written by Anita Diamant about some of the big names in the old testament sharing "lady time" every month away from the rest of the tribe) because we live in our own private family pods of isolation now a days and don't have access to our women for support and education, like we once did.

BTW- no one sat on straw and menstruated during this sojourn. We sat in saunas and eucalyptus-scented spa rooms and didn't menstruate. I don't think. I'm pretty sure, but I guess I don't really know. Stop saying menstruate, Sarah. Anyway, it was crazy posh. There was a warm indoors waterfall. We felt like Oprah. Who doesn't menstruate, cuz she's, like 60. STOP SAYING MENSTRUATE. But I think we had similar conversations to the ancient women. We talked how to best raise our kids, manage our relationships, monitor our health, what exactly they might serve at the Mexican Sushi place nearby where it's so hard to get a reservation....

It was beautifully healing and empowering to be with these women. I'm so glad we rallied and so hopeful for the path our warrior is blazing through the pain. What a privilege it is to see how these women fiercely fight the obstacles that try to stop their progress or tarnish their dignity, and miraculous to see how they retain their grace and tenderness. I'm inspired and emboldened by how they're doing life.

(You're probably wondering. Yes, I am a good friend, so, of course, when my friend experiencing divorce first told us about it, I offered to have her ex killed. Obviously. She has respectfully declined all my assassination offers even though I keep telling her how discrete I am. So discrete, in fact, I just talked about it in a public post on the internet. But how funny would this paragraph sound read stiffly aloud in court by a prosecuting attorney and then read back by the court reporter while everybody in the room stared at me? Come on!)

So, we assembled and helped each other restore order, or make a new order within ourselves. We roused and revived. We drank rum banana drinks. We never found out whether Mexican Sushi means you're now allowed to put corn tortillas around guacamole and spicy tuna, but boy we hope so.  It'll just have to live in our dreams until we rally again.

As I See Myself Better, I'm Trying to Keep My Back to the Mirror

"It doesn't happen all at once. 

You become. 

It takes a long time. 

That's why it doesn't often happen

to people who break easily,

or have sharp edges,

or who have to be carefully kept. 

Generally, by the time you are Real,

most of your hair has been loved off,

and your eyes drop out

and you get loose in the joints

and very shabby. 

But those things don't matter at all, 

because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, 

except to people who don't understand."

-The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams

The other day, Anna told me that my eyebrows were "boys" eyebrows. Today, Henry told me my nose was really long and maybe, if I'm lucky, I could turn into an elephant when I grow up.

Last week, I went out with some new friends for Galentine's Day and a 20-something told me I had "great skin for 36."

HAHAHAHAHAhahahahahaha. heh.

Aging, and physical appearance in general, is a tricky, loaded thing. We have this one body our whole life, and, from an early age, we have concerns about it and goals for it. I don't mean cholesterol points and bone integrity goals, I mean goals about how thin, how young, how flawless, how same as everyone else, we're supposed to be. It's much discussed how inundated we are with images of the agreed-upon physical beauty standards and how advertisements are so influential to how we feel about ourselves and how we spend our stress/money/time/self esteem. And generally the older the body gets, the harder it is to stay ahead of those concerns and to meet the goals.

BUT, the magic in aging is you get wise. You stop letting those marketers selling shiny thigh gaps tell you that it has to be one of your concerns. You've seen some stuff, you've survived some stuff, your goals have changed. You know your face and legs and boobs and brows is about the least interesting thing about you.You are your stories, your strength, your courage, your love, your faith, your energy, your humor, your fortitude. The rest of it is just fluffy static. I think if we're doing the aging thing right, the body concerns have less impact and the goals relax because we're focused on bigger heart/brain stuff for ourselves. We're trying to be brave and real, good and purposeful.

So, my body is not whatever they tell me perfect should be but I'm great with it. There's freedom in critically assessing the expectations sold to us and calling out their harmful bullshit. I'm getting better at it. It takes a lot of work and time. I still play by more rules than I wish I did. It's a process.

About my eyebrows, I told Anna, "I have thick hair there because that's how it grows because I'm a mammal." Dude, we ALL have 'boy eyebrows,' just some of us dig them to by the root and some of us largely let them be. I thought, you'll be sorely disappointed to find out where else mammals grow 'boy' fur, honey bunch.

About my elephant trunk for a nose...I told him I like it because it does a good job smelling, and it's like my grandma's and my dad's and it makes me think of my family. It's characteristically ours. My nose used to be one of my top concerns. It used to bother me so much. It was the most prominent thing I got teased about in youth, next only to my ridiculous height (girls are supposed to be short and slow and weak, haven't you heard?). Now I truly could care less. Now, if you're going to make fun of me, let it be about my content, or it's not going to hurt me. If you hate my jokes or you think I'm a jerk, I'm listening, but if you're bothered by my face or my body, that's on you, not me anymore. AND YET STILL, if I do eventually become an elephant when I grow up, my first order of business is to step on Henry.

The twenty-something who was trying to throw me some pity about my oldness asked me what my secret to looking young was, and I told her coconut oil...but then a few minutes later she went outside to smoke a cigarette and when she got back I got to share with her another super secret anti-aging beauty trick I have. (Ahem.) I was (almost) not even judgmental because I am so evolved. You're welcome.

What else? I have a deep worry line in my forehead. It's mine, I earned it. I'm keeping it. I exercise to stay healthy and strong and so I can outrun predators and because I yell at my kids less when I do.

Overall, I'm happy with how I look but more importantly, I care less and less.

While I was writing this, and eating chocolate chips by the handful out of the bag, as one does, Anna come up and asked if she could have some ch(l)ocolate. I told her she could have the same number as she is years old, so she got 3 chocolate chips.

Guess what? I'm almost 40. Bam. So many perks. Suck it, youngins, less chocolate for you.

I Can't Even Pretend to Be Nice to You Anymore. Happy Valentine's Day.

Years ago, a good friend of mine lived in Anchorage, Alaska for a while (cool, right?) and wrote for a newspaper in the tiny fishing village where the show "The Deadliest Catch" was filmed (REALLY cool, right?). She told me about one of the events she covered while she was there called the "Eskimo-Indian Olympics." They've been doing it for 60 some years and the competitions test the athletes for qualities/skills that at some point in history would have been useful for survival; courage, persistence, strength, stamina, etc.

The most intriguing of the events is the "ear pull." The competitors sit across from each other and have a loop of string that they both place behind their ear and they pull against each other until someone pulls the string off their oponent or someone gives up.

There is blood and pain. See below.



I'm guessing this event tests perseverance and stamina, fortitude, mind-over-matter-ness, self control, etc.

But, really, I think it's a great test to see if you can withstand marriage.

Think about it. You're stuck together with a bind. When one of you leans back, it impacts the other one and they have to lean forward or risk losing an ear.

OK, not that, maybe, but they have to lean with you, or risk pain. Your movements impact their movements, and vise versa. If you resist, it sucks for both of you. The more you test your own strengths and limits, the more the other person is impacted.

You could just both sit up straight quietly facing each other without pain or blood, but that's not how either of you develop. That's not how growth happens. Eventually you get bored and walk away.

In our experience, when one partner is going through a big personal change, the other partner, naturally, freaks out. We've been through this a couple times in our 20 years together. One of us has a huge revelation and starts growing in a new direction. The other person might be intrigued or proud on an intellectual level, but that change is going to impact them in very personal ways, and that's scary. The change manifest in re-dividing home or child responsibilities, major family income changes, common interest changes, new friendships, new direction of identity or purpose, or new way of looking at life. These all shake up the status quo.

It's exhilarating to explore your new self, but it can wreak some havoc on normalcy of the relationship. If you feel like you're trying to grow and the other person is pulling back against you and you're both in pain for it, you get resentful, like they're holding you back.

"You don't get me."
"We've grown apart."
"I can't even pretend to be nice to you anymore."

These are things I've said in the past few years as we've both gone through major changes. The last one was especially uncomfortable. What I've fought for, is that I don't have to be less than what I am and that is 100% authentically me. If I'm not feeling connection, I can't fake it. I tried. I felt like I was moving in new directions and he couldn't come with me,  so I made nice about the distance. Then when that didn't work, I made really NOT nice about the distance, now finally I'm trying to find a place in the middle where we can hear each other again. I let up on pulling back and he's leaning in more. My insistence on protecting my growth will in the end be good for both of us, but man it burns on the way.

Our ears are barely hanging on by an ear thread. But it's something. Hopefully it will be reinforced or replaced with something better by our continued work and marriage counseling.

What we've learned (are learning) is it's the responsibility of the person going through the big transition to be patient, direct, clear, honest, tender and graceful to their partner and for the person witnessing the transformation to also be patient, direct, clear, honest, encouraging, and graceful as it happens.

Growth happens in each person through the course of a relationship, of course. Sometimes it happens in little spurts, sometimes in huge leaps. The relationship will have to be flexible and malleable and able to change with it,  or it will snap.

And you will lose an ear. DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU WILL LOSE AN EAR.

OK, enough big girl lessons we're trying to learn today. Ugh.

Here are some Valentine's Cards for long-term relationships that the Think Tank has helped me thunk up.

'Oh, you're still here.'

'Thank you for making me coffee this morning. I guess the murder I had planned can wait until tomorrow.'

'I love you even though you're you.'

'High-five for honoring contracts.'

'Romance DID mean fancy dinners and intercourse. Now it means sharing the spoon in the peanut butter jar and binge-watching old sitcoms.'

'I'm for sure not buying fancy underwear to impress you, but I did find that mustard you like on sale at the grocery store.'

'You're still better than dating strangers. Gross.'

'Here's a picture of the card I would have gotten you if we still celebrated.'

'Instead of a card, I'm going to actually try in bed tonight. No, just kidding. Here's  card with a pun about a train on it. That should help with your chronic disappointment.'

If you have others, please include them in the comments! 

Why Is This My Problem?

Everyone I know is in a funk. A deep, angry, scared, sad super funk. Anxiety and depression symptoms are sploding all over us. It's winter, it's gray, our TV shows are depressing and weird, we're all watching anxiously as major changes roll down from Washington and wash over our country and the world like hot poo...

Two things I have to say about that. Wait, three. Wait, nine. Hang on. Let me collect myself.

OK.

1. Keep your head up, your eyes open and your brain as clear and focused as you can.

2. Heal others in the ways you are capable. If you're good at cooking, cook. If you're good at hugging, hug. If you're good at making solid jokes about 'hot poo,' do that. If you're good at protesting and fighting for change within the system, do that. If you're good at making art, for the love of God, ART.

Make yourself hope for others and get hopeful yourself. No one is served when we wallow. It's tempting. It's really hard to find a path out of it, but do. One step at a time, make your way up. Others will help you and you will help them.

3. If you're wondering, "why am I feeling so upset by the potential injustices that are coming for others when it doesn't affect me that much personally? I don't have a child with special needs. My family immigrated here generations ago, there's no dispute over our papers. I am heterosexual. I am wealthy. I look like the people in charge, they seem to be supporting my interests."

Congratulations! If you're still worked up about all this, it means you're not a sociopath. You live in a way that identifies the needs and problems of more than just the person living in your head or the people living in your house. You have empathy. It sucks! It's terrible feeling the pain of others, but deal with it. This DOES affect you, because you are a member of the people. Sorry about that. It's a pretty nasty club, but don't hide from feeling, don't stop yourself from going there and feeling the burden of others. But do make sure you're able to still do #1 while your heart is breaking. Balance. We need you.

That's all I got for now. If you have advice or corrections or encouragement, I'll take it. I'm going to try to keep writing and keep telling jokes. Those are ways I think I can offer some healing.

Knock knock.
(Who's there?)
Interrupting cow.
(Interrupt-)
MOOOOOOOO.

Try that one on a child and they will LOVE it but you will regret ever doing it because children don't understand jokes and they will try to replace the cow with a talking hat or sandwich and you'll get a headache as it spirals away from reason. But at least you made them laugh.

All I Understand is Pastry/How to Adult with More Than One Kid

We decide to reproduce and have a child because we are biologically compelled to do so. We decide to have a second child because we remember reading in school about how farming families had, like, a dozen kids who would raise each other and take care of the duties of the farm and we are thus led to believe that the first kid will care for and be entertained by the second kid and we’ll go back to being left alone. 

This is incorrect. 

It just means that once you have more than one kid in the house, never is SOMEONE not ominously turning the knob on the other side of the bathroom door going, MOMMY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? I’ve started answering, “Eating pizza and playing with the good Play-Doh, what are you doing out there?” 

Because fucket. A little longing builds character and I have to go to work to take a decent shit anymore.

We’re over 3 years into this whole two kids running our lives thing and it’s just now getting to the point where they may play pleasantly together without trauma or request for supervision for a full 5 minute stretch.  

They are beautiful and delightful and draining and difficult. It’s just the way it is, I think. I have friends who have way more than two kids and I look at the adults who did that on purpose like saintly aliens. Why….? How…? Peace be with you. I also have friends who somehow ended up with twins, which is NO STAGGERING OF THE BABIES, take it all at once, and they are trying to figure out how in the world to put the correct shoes on their own feet, much less on the four new feet they’re suddenly responsible for. It’s so daunting and disorienting. They deserve a door-to-door chocolate cake service for the rest of their lives. 24 hours/day. Cake on demand. 

Maybe that’s my message. I don’t know. I’ve had a bunch of wine. Maybe it’s just that we’re all overwhelmed and freaked out and drinking from the fire hose (and wine bottle and peanut butter jar). No one knows what we’re doing. If you feel off-balanced, we’re right there with you, hopping on one foot, leaning against each other and the wall. 

The other day my Yoda-like sister said, “I’ve decided there’s no such thing as an actual adult. We were led to believe one day we would ‘get there’ and ‘be one’ but I think it’s all a hoax.” 

I think she’s right. We’re all just babies being babies raising babies. We have occasional epiphanies and stretches of evolution, strokes of wisdom, but mostly we’re terrified and insecure and weird and worried. We want to rescue the world from itself but all we can muster is eating a stack of pancakes. 

The existential crises we’re all in right now after this election, coupled with the responsibility of providing for our families….woo. I love that I am in a family of four, but I’m feeling very doubtful that I can reliably take care of myself, let alone them. Where does that leave the rest of them?

I don’t know what to do about any of this except make the pancakes and order the cake. Pastry is all I’ve come up with. Anyone else? 

I am a Planned Parenthood Patient.

I'm sitting here thinking about how to write about women's healthcare without pissing anyone off and I realize, that's dumb. I can't. I should just write what I know, and write it clearly. 

I will try to be especially careful and level-headed in how I write this. If you're like me, you feel like words are flying fast from all directions and everything is confusing and muddy right now. It's hard to know what to believe and to figure out what to feel from the information and "information" that is available. 

Everyone is yelling at everyone else to stop yelling. It's loud. 

So.

I am a patient of Planned Parenthood. I went there when I was a teenager because I wanted to start having sex (as people do) and I didn't want to have children at that time (as many people who have sex don't). 

I chose Planned Parenthood, because they had been around for almost 80 years then (100 years now) and they seemed to know what they were doing. The staff was kind and encouraging to this scared, embarrassed girl, and provided me my first pelvic exam and cervical cancer screening (Pap smear) and my first contraception, which I paid for out of pocket. 

It was affordable to me, which I assume meant it was subsidized by their programs, because I was a college student and my waitressing income was limited. I did have health insurance, but it was through my parents and I didn't feel like I could use that to go to a provider in their network for contraception because I wasn't sure if I could get away with making the right choice for me without my parents knowing that I was having sex. This was not something I felt like I could share with them.

I went to the appointments alone and took care of the expenses on my own, because even though my male partner and I were having sex together, contraception was my women's healthcare issue.

My male partner and I had sex for several years without ever having a pregnancy, because of the contraception provided to me by Planned Parenthood. 

After I graduated from college,  I was fortunate enough to become adequately employed and received health insurance through my employer, which helped cover my contraception and GYN cancer screenings and other care. I continued to use contraception until I was married and had completed my advanced degree, established my career, and was prepared to be pregnant and raise children. After I had my children, I went right back to using contraception. The cost is currently much lower than I have ever paid, with the Affordable Care Act. 

Most of my friends did the same. We went to Planned Parenthood for contraception. Later, we all graduated from college. Many of us went on to get advanced degrees and to support our families with income from our careers. There was over a decade in there where we were all having sex (as people do) and none of us, female or male, were yet wanting to have children. 

Before we had our own insurance and adequate finances, we had Planned Parenthood. 

Some of my friends did get pregnant unexpectedly. Some went on to parent at a much earlier age than they planned.  It's been an uphill climb for them, as statistics report it will be, both for the teen parent and the child. Some of my friends chose to terminate their pregnancies with medicine or medical procedures at Planned Parenthood or other safe, legal women's health clinics. 

One thing is for sure- we were all definitely having sex. 

Ok, so, I know. Termination. Abortion. I have to talk about abortion now. I know just the word makes people worried and angry and ready to plant their flag. I'm sorry if you're feeling upset right now.

However, abortion is a part of women's healthcare. Has been since the dawn of sex, in all parts of the world.  In this country, at this time, it is legal and safe through women's healthcare clinics like Planned Parenthood. People have been having legal, safe abortions for over 40 years in this country. Prior to that, people were having deadly, illegal abortions in this country.  

In addition to the people I personally know who have had elective terminations, I get a chance to talk to a lot of women through my job, and it is very commonly a part of women's health histories.  I have been a Physician Assistant for almost 10 years and I have taken medical histories on thousands of patients. You may not feel like you know anyone who has had an elective termination, but I promise you do. From teens to women in their 70s, terminations are part of women's stories. You might not be aware of them, because the women don't change color afterwards or anything, and it's not brought up at dinner parties all that often, but you do. Again, I'm sorry if that is upsetting to you, but it is the truth. 

And making it illegal only means the terminations women will continue to have, will not be safe.  And here. 

So, I am a Planned Parenthood patient.  And So Are You. And You. And So Is Your Girlfriend. And Your Wife. And Your Mother. And Your Grandmother.

So why am I talking about this now?

Access to women's healthcare, including contraception, abortion services and cancer screening is at risk here in the U.S, and across the world. In this country and in others that we help support, these services can mean the difference of life expectancy, equality, personal and financial independence, education, and more.

Above is one easy, breezy story from my easy, breezy life. For many women in our country and in other parts of the world, organizations like Planned Parenthood are literal life-savers. 

Why?

A review. 

1. When people have sex, which they do, the male partner might impregnate the female partner unless there is a physical or hormonal barrier to prevent that pregnancy from occurring. 

(Notice, after this point, we stop talking about the male partner's role, because that is variable. It has now become a women's health issue).

2. If the pregnancy occurs, the female then either carries the pregnancy, with all its potential complications (seizures, hemorrhages, ruptured organs, pelvic floor injuries, etc) and outcomes, and delivers a child she must provide for for its lifetime, or grant to someone else to provide for,  OR, she terminates the pregnancy with medicine or medical procedure, with all its potential complications and outcomes (hemorrhages, perforated organs, etc). 

3. The U.S president just signed the "global gag rule," an order pertaining to organizations that provide women's healthcare internationally. This will block U.S funding for international family planning charities unless they agree not to discuss abortion with their patients in any way. 

This has been done before, with disastrous results. "In 2001, when President George W. Bush imposed a more limited version, 16 developing countries lost shipments of contraceptives from the U.S. Stanford University researchers found that the Bush version of the policy reduced contraceptive use in Africa — and increased abortion rates."

According to the Huffington Post, "The United States spends about $600 million a year on international assistance for family planning and reproductive health programs, making it possible for 27 million women and couples to access contraceptive services and supplies. None of that money is spent on performing abortions. The Helms amendment has prevented U.S. tax dollars from funding overseas abortions since 1973."

"In poor countries, the most dangerous thing a woman can do is become pregnant...Marie Stopes (an organization like Planned Parenthood International) estimated that if it cannot find replacement funding, the new policy will result in 6.5 million unintentional pregnancies, 2.2 million abortions and 21,700 women dying in pregnancy or childbirth." This is all in this article from the New York Times today, which does a beautiful job of outlining why pregnancy prevention and access to elective termination is essential to women's survival. 

4. That is the ultimate goal of women's healthcare, is it not? Keeping women alive? Pregnancy, delivery and terminations can all be deadly to a woman depending on her conditions and the care she receives. She should be able to decide whether or not to put herself at that risk. She should have control over her pregnancy or not pregnancy.

5. They are protesting against Planned Parenthood. Again. Still. I am telling my story and sending them support, because I am extremely grateful to Planned Parenthood for making contraception available to me when I did not have my own health insurance and had limited funds. In my life, it was my desire to have sex (as everyone does) without getting pregnant that made me a loyal fan of Planned Parenthood, but now that I see how much they do for how many people, I want to support them even more. 

Stand by Planned Parenthood. Stand up for Planned Parenthood. We need them. We are their patients. 

https://www.plannedparenthood.org/get-involved