Birthday Reflections

Yesterday I turned 41 (one more year until I’m the answer to the Universe and Everything!), and I had a really lovely day.

When I think about where I was last year at this time– unemployed and reeling from it, no feeling in half of my face, waiting for a brain scan and unsure of what would be ahead of us– I am so damn proud of where I am today.

Even though, to quote Barbie, I’m not President. No one on the Supreme Court is me… all those Great Expectations never got checked off. I haven’t invented anything or won any prestigious award. The world doesn’t know my name and every month I get creative paying off bills.

With all that said (and please don’t punch me), I have a pretty great life. I noticed that yesterday.

I took K to school and then went and worked for a few hours (it’s true! Ya girl found work!) then it was time to pick her up again. We got to FaceTime with the cousins and her super cool 12 year old cousin took the time to show off her Garbage Pail Kids collection (yeah, they’re BAAAAACK!)

Then we got to pop over to our friends’ house for a bit before getting all fancy and going out to dinner.

Also, explaining the concept of Gift Certificates to K was funny– she and her friend thought that was SUPER cool. 

Now, when I say fancy, I mean I put on my eyebrows. K however, went full out with pink satin gloves, pink sunglasses, and her white wolf dress. And was a HIT. Her “pleases” and “thank yous” came automatically, she ate mussels and flounder meunière and we each had a mock-tail. I was even able to share my up-until-now-useless knowledge about removing her gloves under the table. And not only did she do it, but the server noticed!

The servers were above and beyond– chatting about DogMan when they saw her book, offering her BOTH “smooth” water (what she calls still), AND bubble water. 

It was just NICE. To be together as a family– the three of us. Sitting next to my girl and across from the handsome Rhys, I realized what a lovely life we have.

This clever and precocious girl, with such zest and creativity. This kind and handsome man, who makes us all laugh and plays peekaboo with the baby at the next table. Our little family. Absolutely complete.

There have been so many times in my life where I felt incomplete, LACKING. Like I was behind, or missing something. And now, at 41, I can see how full my life is. Not earth shattering or documentary-worthy. Not historic or inspiring or monumental. But lovely. And full.

I finally felt like I was enough.

Even without a Nobel Peace Prize or even a regional nod. Even if nobody beyond my family remembers my name when I’m gone. 

Who knows how long this moment of peace and understanding will last. Knowing me and my ADHD, I’ll be back in the depths of despair in a moment (probably after checking my phone). (BTW, yesterday I left my phone on Do Not Disturb and it was a lovely little respite. Highly recommend). 

But for now, let me share this: Oh. Wait, actually, I don’t have anything wise or insightful to add. Just that I hope you can set aside the Great Expectations and see your life through a lens of contentment. Through a historical lens, maybe.

That on the cosmic calendar, it’s pretty damn cool to be living our lives right now. Yes, so much is broken. SO, SO MUCH. And– so much is wonderful. 

The sound of rain when you’re inside and cozy.
The smell of the earth after rain (mmm, petrichor)
A freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Multi-generational friendship.
Dogs.
Music.
Dancing.
Dress up.
Remembering to take my time.
The smell and feel of fancy soap.
My roses that are somehow blooming right now.
Creators who make art and stories.
The things that feel so fancy to a child.
A crisp cloth napkin. 
Drinking from a fancy glass.
Heated seats in the car.
Real mail.
Helping someone. 

So, now that I’m REALLY in my 40s and not merely 40… I hope to spend the next 40 years enjoying the little things. Slowing down enough to remember the magic of someone grinding pepper onto your salad FOR you. 

I hope you find some simple magic in your day today. 

You are loved, by me and others. And you are ENOUGH, as you are. Even if you’ve never been to space.

xox.
(Remember to hydrate and moisturize)

Guardian Angels at the Park

As many of you know, my kiddo is quite the climber. QUITE the climber.

“I’m a National Climber,” she’ll tell people, after overhearing me call her a natural climber. After all, she crawled up the stairs long before she walked, and then trees, playgrounds, any structure she came upon.

And at eight, we’ve reached the point where I am no longer monitoring her every move.

And that’s where we begin– at a familiar park with high slides and a good time.  However this time, it was not the slide she climbed.

She shimmied up the SUPPORT POLE for the tallest slide. Yup. Full on Mulan’d her way, barefoot, up the pole and pulled herself to perch on the cross beam.

At which point she realized how far up she was. And how sweaty her hands were. And how she’d have to let go of the pole to wipe her hand and there was NO WAY on God’s green earth that was going to happen.

This is when she called for me. 

And I, alas, did not hear her.

I know, you’d think in the edit/re-write I’d portray myself in a better way. And come right away, get a spidey sense something was wrong but nope. I was chatting away/listening to the moms (as the New Mom, I’m working hard to find my place). So I didn’t hear her holler for me. 

I mean, fullest disclosure, I thought I heard her, but peeked around and didn’t see her in any Area of Concern, so went back to smiling and nodding. 

Then, one of the boys came over. 

“K needs help.”

Oh shit.

At which point, I discover her, in tears, about 15 feet up, beyond where I can reach her.

I thank the boy and scramble up the play structure so I can touch her foot.

“Hey,” I say, “Hey, let’s have you slide down this pole.”

Knowing she’s slid down the fire pole before, knowing she’s generally fearless.

And I have never seen her more scared in my life (Maaaaaybe when the gray dog chased her. Maybe). 

After several other approaches I realize I am just too short to reach her, she is too panicked to let go and drop to me, and she is begging me to call 9-1-1.

Then, I see a woman waving at me from across the park. 

“My husband is coming!” She shouts.

I see him swiftly walking towards me, I jog to meet him.

“Your son is stuck?” He asks calmly.

“My daughter, actually.”

“Here’s what we’ll do, I’ll climb up, pull her into the slide and she’ll get down.”

He’s clearly done this before.

We explain in to K. She is near hysterics. I calmly tell her, level with her (dangling off the rock climbing section), to take his hand. And after a moment she does. And he pulls her in, she slides down, and she’s safe.

I didn’t even catch his name, she was crying so hard and he was already trotting back to his family. 

Grateful doesn’t cover it.

I was so humbled by the moment of fear and helplessness. And even more humbled by the presence of help. 

I couldn’t help my child. 

I hate that. It was absolutely awful. And I felt so negligent. How could this have happened when I was right there?

And at the same time, I am so incredibly grateful for the strangers who were my angels. The woman who noticed me in distress and offered assistance. The man who knew what to do and was willing to do it. And grateful for my own willingness to ask for and accept help,

But most of all I’m grateful that she’s okay. That the lesson came with fear but no injury. That Daddy was home for her to run to. That it happened on a day that we could all be together as a family that night. 

Also (is it too soon to admit this?), I’m damn impressed that she shimmied up that high. Hopefully next time she won’t be afraid to slide back down herself. 

From the Mouths of Babes, War Edition

I’ve been quiet. There’s been so much and I didn’t feel I had much to add, so I let the chaos swirl within me.

Yet even when I don’t write, the world spins on and there are parent teacher conferences and lunches to pack and news to digest.

Then last night we were driving to a parent education night, talking about the weekend ahead.

“No school on Friday,” I told my husband.

“Why not?” Piped up Kiddo.

“Veterans day,” “Armistice Day,” we answered in almost unison.

“What’s that?”

“We honor the soldiers.” “And celebrate the end of the world war.”

“THE WARS ARE OVER?!! That’s GREAT!” She practically sang.

Oh baby girl, no. I wish they were.

“No, but the first two world wars ended,” (eventually).

“I wish all wars would end,” she declared from her booster seat.

Oh kiddo. Same. Same same same.

I light another candle and call my Congress reps.

Deck Blinds

These blinds have been sitting on my deck for longer than I care to admit. They symbolize the double work of chronic illness.

I know… but I’m only human

See, I am intermittently functional. There are days that my body can do just about anything, and then there are days where even my hair hurts. The ratio of functioning days to non-functioning days can vary.

About a month ago, I was doing pretty well. My body was keeping up with my mind and my spirit was soaring. I thought I’d found a brilliant balance between rest and work to keep myself functional.

When it came time to clean my blinds I knew better than to try to do all at once.

“Easy does it,” I coached myself, and did just two sets of blinds one day. Got them down, got them clean, got them back up.

Man am I nailing this adulting thing (I thought).

The next day I got down three sets of blinds, got them cleaned and reinstalled two of them and then my body said NOPE!

Whether or not my body surges into a flare depends on a multivariable calculus with factors I am still identifying. I realize the heat, my consumption of tomatoes (I know they’re nightshades but it’s the summer and they bring joy!), physical exertion, and maybe my cycle (?) all contribute. It’s not as simple as single cause and effect.

And this flare has been BRUTAL. Headaches that make me want to shave my head, extreme fatigue, like, there needs to be another word for it– cellular rebellion? Mitochondrial strike? Like nothing I’ve experienced before. (Yes, we checked my levels they’re all wonky and we’re rechecking them in another week to see what can adjust).

So this last set of blinds has been sitting here on the deck. And now they’re dirty again.

Chronic illness carries with it an invisible work load. Managing meds, running spoon calculations so you don’t burn out and get stranded, meal planning for those days when “Mind over matter” is simply not possible. (Peanut butter on a spoon counts as meal planning in that instance).

And these blinds, which at first felt like they were mocking my fragility, teasing me for my inability to finish a task, now feel like a symbol. A symbol of the double work, representing the extra load, the jobs that need to be done twice. And I won’t feel guilty anymore.

Shaming myself for something I cannot control is really twisted and does nothing to improve the world.

Yes, I have dusty ass blinds on my deck. Not very classy at all. But I’m getting stronger every day and one of these days I’ll hose these puppies down and re-install them. Not today because it’s a million degrees. And that’s NOT procrastinating, that’s considering the circumstance. And my challenge is to remember to cut myself some grace. To soften my standards.

So, for you, dear one, remember to offer grace. To your neighbor, to yourself.

Take good care of yourself.
You are loved by me and others.

xox

Gratitude within a Flare

One of the strange things about life in my body is that somedays I feel and look perfectly healthy and fine and then, seemingly out of nowhere, a flare comes on which renders me nearly incapacitated.

Today is one of those days. 

It started in the early morning, and I woke up and took my meds and applied biofreeze and drank water and tried to get more rest (which did not work).

So I took a shower and did my stretches and used my TENS unit and took more meds and brewed my tea.  I put on more bio freeze.

And now, just after lunch, I am beginning to feel like a human again.  A human in a lot of pain, but capable of functioning at about 30-40%.

This morning I did my best to avoid self-pity (which as you know is REALLY hard when you don’t feel well), but mostly managed to recognize that there are things outside my control and I’ve done the things I can do so all I can do is wait it out.

And this is where the gratitude comes in.  

I am grateful that my child is old enough that when I’m knocked out like this, we can still mostly function.  

I am grateful that I can (sometimes) maintain perspective.  

I am grateful I have a partner who understands and believes me.  

I am grateful for my TENS unit, batteries, and fresh electrodes.  

I am grateful that I no longer believe that I deserve to suffer.

I am grateful for dark mode and prescription sunglasses.

I am grateful that I no longer expect myself to “toughen up and keep going.”

I am grateful to understand that gentleness is strength.

So, whatever you are grappling with at the moment, I hope you find a way to be soft with yourself. 

Waiting for Barbie

I am looking forward to seeing the Barbie movie (I haven’t yet), and that is a sentence I never would have anticipated writing ever in my life.

Like many Silver Millennials, my relationship with Barbie is complicated. I played with the dolls, my grandmother had a suitcase of Ginny dolls, and I remember standing in the aisle of the long-gone toy shop in the once-upon-a-time mall, starting at the wall of Barbie stuff in complete awe and overwhelm.

Over time, I absorbed other people’s feelings about Barbie. In elementary school my friend and I did a report on ancient Egypt and planned on turning one of my Barbies into a mummy. Our teacher offered extra credit if we gave her a thicker waist.

So I learned that while we were expected to achieve the ideal, we would also be hated for it.

At one point, I built a gallows out of Contrux and jelly bracelets and hung Barbie for treason (she invaded She-Ra’s village… and I had no idea what treason was, just that you could be hung for it).

My eating disorder (that has sadly shaped most of my life), sprung NOT from a plastic doll, but from all the humans around me and the projections they placed on that doll. But it’s easier to criticize a doll than your mother, so Barbie took the blame.

In college I managed a production that took on Barbie and GI Joe and sexuality, and it was BEAUTIFUL and started to crack me open a bit.

We let the world decide what is and is not feminine, what is and is not acceptable. I rejected all things pink, sparkly, and flowy because the world showed me that being a woman is terrible. Juvenile. Stupid.

We mock Barbie in a way no other toy or franchise receives.

Because it’s easier to blame a doll. It’s tougher to tackle misogyny and capitalism.

When my daughter was born, I didn’t buy her Barbie. Then someone else did. (A Cinderella Barbie). And she loved her. More gifts came– Tiana, Elsa, a pass-along Barbie with chopped hair and a pink streak. I still haven’t bought her a Barbie but it’s no longer a Stance, it’s because she has enough. Two mermaid Barbies joined the team, a Chelsea doll (I *may* have bought that one), and a pink haired, actual-thighed canoeing Barbie. (I almost called her Thick Thighed, but they aren’t really thick, just… normal).

We attacked Barbie instead of the yogurt ads that promoted disordered eating. We attacked Barbie instead of questioning the plot lines written by middle aged men for preteen girls. We attacked Barbie instead of noticing that she was an astronaut, President, and teacher. We rolled our eyes at it.

We attacked Barbie instead of the culture that told us “You must be perfect but you must not look like you’re trying or you care.” We attacked Barbie instead of the double bind that keeps us trapped.

We blamed a DOLL for the problems humans created.

But the doll is not our culture. The doll is a doll.

It’s taken me 40 years to realize that Barbie was never the problem.

And I’m going to see the movie next week. I may need to borrow something pink.

Dear Queers:

Maybe you’ve always known.

Maybe you’re still figuring it out.

You are real and you are worthy of love.

You deserve to be not just SAFE in your love, but CELEBRATED in your love. In your Life.

I am sorry for my years of delusion and confusion.

For shouting “No she’s not!” Thinking I was defending you. “No he’s not!” Thinking I was helping.

I could have shouted “So? What’s it to you? What’s your problem?”

I’m sorry. We were children, I didn’t know. I thought I was helping.

I was afraid of myself, my differences. I knew, even then, to be Other was to be Wrong. To be Feared. So I claimed we were the Same.

What a horrible insult.

I am truly sorry.

How wonderful it is the we are Different. That there are more than just two ways to Be.

Happy Pride. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of us. And all the queer little turtles still in their shells— I’m proud of you too.

There are so many ways to Be. So many ways to love.

And I love y’all.

Xox

“Are you OK?” (No. Yes. Mostly?)

The past couple weeks have been a LOT. There’s been loss and grief and shock and perspective shifts. There’ve been so many adjustments, life almost feels fluid (which is pretty beautiful), and now it’s the end of May.

The phrase “Are you okay?” always throws me off. I feel defensive and defective and completely unable to answer it in an authentic way that doesn’t freak people out.

I don’t mean to freak people out. I really believe that I am doing mostly okay even though nothing feels okay. So many things are not okay. And I spend a LOT of my time and energy fighting to make things better.

Learning to use my rage as a tool rather than a self-destructive weapon. Channeling it into action to influence and change the things that are NOT inevitable. And then my doom? And I am learning to take my doom into the garden. Because yes, everything is ending and yet there are flowers and birds and music in the meantime.

I don’t fear my doom. It’s the darkness that feeds the light. The decaying husks that feed the soil. And the difference between a darkness that replenishes and a darkness that festers into rot is air. Just like we turn the compost, to keep it well, we must shift our selves so the darkness doesn’t linger. So it can restore us, rather than consume us.

Get some air y’all. And some light. It’s overcast here but the birds are singing.

You are loved, by me and others. Glooping along in the cosmic blob.

Existential Crisis and Love (and Poetry)

Living in the End Times is rough. Societal collapse, with rising prices and stagnant wages and an unthinkable wealth gap, is exhausting.

Mass shooting after mass shooting. Scandal on top of scandal. The floor keeps sinking in the race to the bottom and the climate crisis is here and the tipping point four years out.

So, yeah, I let my first grader cosplay as Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas to get her to go to school.

Loving someone amidst an existential crisis is so very confusing and so incredibly important.

I see my partner’s dismay/frustration in my constant naming of the Doom. I contain it in front of Kiddo but let it fly when it’s just Us.

I don’t know where else to put it, so I’ll put here:

I kept my Doom within me,
And it slowly ate my cells.

I hid my Doom from the others,
And sacrificed myself.

I turned my Doom against me,
Harming myself for years.

I spoke my Doom in the darkness,
Consuming myself in fear.

I took my Doom to my journal,
Writing thousands of words or so.

I took my Doom to the garden,
And got some flowers to grow.

I share my Doom with you, love,
Because I trust you and

If you know Doom like I do,
Let me hold your hand.

****

I’m heading out to the garden, loves. Have some water, chew something, and take good care.

You are loved my be and others.