Saturday, April 14, 2018

Bob Newhart Got it Right

Endings are hard. Just ask the writers of Saturday Night Live. Sometimes they end a sketch well, but those are usually in the first half hour. Because endings are hard. That's why there are two too many seasons of The Office, the "see everything turned out alright" ending of Broadcast News, and the coda at the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Bob Newhart got it right, but he is one of the few. Because endings are hard. The finality of letting go is so unknown.

I often do not know my ending when I begin. I learned from improv that if I pay attention, trust my instincts and build on what is in front of me, the ending will present itself. I look at writing as a process of discovery; a continuing suspenseful delicious unveiling of the truth. Every blog post I have written over the last five years has been a product of this search for this often ridiculous and surprising truth. I promised to always tell you the truth, and it has been the easiest and most rewarding act of my life thus far. Easy because of the courage I find in words, and rewarding because the discovery behind the meaning each post's unique collection of words grants helps me breathe deeper, walk steadier and see clearer than I did before.

And now the ending is presenting itself.

There is no drama. There is no single reason. There is no big news. I am not done parenting, not by a long shot. And I am still making plenty of mistakes and figuring it out as I go along. It simply seems that life, circumstance and plain old instinct is leading me to figure it out in different ways.

I thank you for reading, for sharing, for commenting. My ongoing hopes are that we do not feel alone in our doubts, that we embrace our beautiful flaws and recognize their strength, and we continue to laugh at ourselves because we need to wear our imperfections like badges of honor. Let your loved ones see you fail and not give up, so that they feel comfortable doing the same. Because without failure, we lose innovation.

This Blog began five years ago with a list; a letter to my kids about what I really wanted for Mother's Day. So, since Mother's Day is right around the corner...

What I really want to give myself for Mother's Day
  1. I want to forgive myself.
  2. I want to remember I have not made my last mistake.
  3. I want to keep laughing at myself.
  4. I want to take the non-mom part of me out for a drink and see what she's all about.
  5. And I wouldn't mind an unnecessary pair of shoes.
Thank you all.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Eagles & Aristotle

We are not diehard Eagles fans. We are Eagles fans, but there is nothing extraordinary about our fandom. But we needed them to win the Super Bowl. We didn't know it, but we needed it.

For those of you who read my last post, other shoes keep dropping. Big Ass Steel Toed Boots keep dropping. For those of you who haven't, go ahead and read it. We'll wait.

Caught up? K.

So Big-Ass shoes have continued to drop at a steady rate, and we are all a little on edge here. We are four exposed nerves walking around taking turns freaking out and eating thin mints like M&M's. And when you operate at this level of "What the Fuck is Next" for an extended period of time, every ripple becomes Euripidean in scope. Forgetting milk at the grocery store, or getting stuck behind a slow driver or not being able to find the right socks to boost your mood are fate-questioning obstacles which can be added to the growing mountain of evidence supporting the universe's conspiracy against you. As a result, imperceptible bumps in the road become metaphors for a perceived narrative that can only lead to ends that equal or surpass those of Cleopatra, Hamlet and Willy Loman combined.

And then along come the Eagles. Carson Wentz leads them to Super Bowl dreams until a season ending injury stops them just short. No way can the back up quarter back fill his shoes. Unless of course it is Nick Foles. I was banned from watching the NFC championship because as soon as I walked in the room, the Vikings scored. The more evolved of you will snicker at my sense of importance, thinking that I couldn't possibly hold sway over the results of a game not even remotely related to me. And to all of you I say-Big Ass Steel Toed Boots. I was not taking any chances, so I left the room.

I contemplated doing the same for the Super Bowl, but my gut told me otherwise. So I sat. and played it cool and knitted for most of the game. Husband and Son #1 have always been loud football watchers. Son #2 and I tend to be more reserved, though Son #2 let fly a few choice words for the refs when he felt an injustice had been done. For most of the game, however, we all played out appointed roles, until the last 2 minutes. I paced by the coat closet, Son #1 and Husband tested the volume of their voices and Son #2 was pretty close to throwing up. Then Brady's final pass was blocked. The Eagles won. And the Carpenters had a catharsis that would have made Aristotle proud.

Husband and Son #1 danced and screamed, I fell to the floor and let loose a primal yolp, and Son #2 ran outside in his bare feet and paraded up and down our sidewalk chanting a triumphant WOO-HOO! We didn't realize how much we needed a win. We didn't realize how much we needed to feel happy. We didn't realize how much we needed to become reacquainted with hope.

Our particular catharsis lacks subtlety and nuance and art, but it is real and restorative, if only for a few days. And when I went to Dick's Sporting Goods the next day and overpaid for Super Bowl shirts and hats, I didn't bat an eye, because those are our talismen; they are the armor we don in what seems like our version of Agincourt. I still believe in Hope, but I stopped trusting it for awhile. I'm still scared of it, of the vulnerability it demands, but I'm more scared of living without it.

So, I will endeavor to dress my soul like Jason Kelce and start each day with a resounding Hell Yeah, because no matter the outcome, despite the Big Ass Steel Toed Boots out there, it really is the only way to live.


Thursday, November 23, 2017

What We Do Between Shoes

It's 6:01 am on Thanksgiving and I'm afraid to be grateful.

I'm afraid to feel good, because the other shoe keeps dropping. Life is just full of other shoes dropping right now.

I just looked up the origin of that phrase. It refers to apartment living in New York; the experience of lying in your bed directly underneath the bedroom of the apartment above you and hearing that upstairs neighbor take off one shoe, and then waiting for the other shoe to drop. You know the other shoe is coming, so you resist sleep in anticipation that it will be interrupted and ruined.

Life is a string of other shoes dropping.

Or at least it can feel that way. It is so tempting to feel that way. To cling to misery because it is safe, risks nothing, and gives us something to talk about at parties. There are expected shoes and unexpected shoes. Sometimes the shoe is big and clunky and alters the molecules of the floor, other times it is a Barbie sized shoe that doesn't scratch the surface. And yet, no matter the size, you are never ready for them because the timing of your dropping shoes is wildly unpredictable. This unpredictability does not, however, prevent us from preparing for the downpour of shoes, for trying to ready ourselves for impending doom, real or imagined, exaggerated or authentic. We can live an entire life around the inertia of waiting, nourishing ourselves with the anticipation of disturbance.

Or not.

Because a shoe dropping is over in an instant, it is how you spend time between shoes that makes a life. It is knowing that time will be disturbed and spending it wisely and unwisely and frivolously and quietly and daringly and honestly and mistakenly and forgivingly and authentically that turns waiting into living.

I'm still afraid in this moment right now because I do not know what the day holds; but after I write this, I will pet my dogs. Then I'll probably have a chocolate chip cookie--yes at 6:44 in the morning. Then I'll probably go for a run or check out Pinterest. Then today is happening.

So at 6:50 am, I know what I am thankful for. I am grateful for all the shoes dropping and all the moments in between.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

19 Lessons from My Boys

My tenure as a parent can, generously, be called a continuing on the job training program. And after almost twenty years on the job, I can confidently say I'm still in an entry level position. There are many muted Etsy visual renderings of quotes celebrating that kids are the best teachers; though I am not 100% on board with the qualifier, I certainly have learned a lot from my boys. Here is a partial list:

Lessons from Boys
  1. Put your clothes anywhere, at some point someone will get annoyed enough to move them.
  2. If the dishwasher is closed, it must be off limits.
  3. If Mom's in the house, she's assuming the risk of servitude.
  4. At some point procrastination will obliterate duty.
  5. Baskets of clean clothes and baskets of dirty clothes are indistinguishable; so they must all be dirty.
  6. Lost items are never my fault.
  7. Most things are Mom's fault.
  8. Parents never answer their phones or text with with the immediacy dictated by current social norms.
  9. Parents' priorities are
    1. Kids
    2. Pets
    3. Chores
    4. Duty
    5. Hopes & Dreams(though this category is obviously a sum of the previous four)
  10. Guilt applied at the appropriate focal point of parental exhaustion can be fruitful.
  11. Parents must be trained to knock at all times
  12. Parents should be clothed at all times because knocking is for chumps...and parents.
  13. No matter what parents are in the middle of, it can wait.
  14. Saying 'Thank you." relaxes Mom more than wine.
  15. Admitting they were right comes at a cost, best not to do it at all.
  16. Doing a chore without being asked once a quarter buys you a lot of leeway.
  17. Apparently parents will love you no matter what.
  18. But they're still too clingy.
  19. Organic apple juice sucks.
It is true that actions speak louder than words, as most of the above lessons I have learned by observation of habits formed as a result of co-habitating. Many of these same lessons could be applied to any roommate set-up. These are the quick jokes. Here are the lessons that I keep learning:
  1. Be here, for no particular reason. It's just good to know.
  2. I'm never going to like chores.
  3. I'm never going to like homework
  4. Sometimes bravery looks the same as getting out of bed.
  5. Being a dick around you helps me avoid it elsewhere.
  6. Just feed me, it will solve 75% of my problems.
  7. Trust me.
  8. I heard you. What you said 37 times is somewhere in my head.
  9. I need you but don't want you to know that I need you; so, just know when I need you.
  10. Sometimes I'm gonna want to talk to Dad instead. I still love you.
  11. Sometimes I'm gonna need the dogs more than either of you.
  12. I do notice everything you do. The only reason I don't do it is because I don't care about it as much as you do right now.
  13. I don't want to be the reason you worry, that's why I don't tell you everything.
  14. Read my mind, like know when I need deodorant, but don't assume you know me.
  15. I want to feel in control too, that's why I pick fights.
  16. Making you really laugh, not fake "I 'm encouraging you" laugh, makes me feel grown up.
  17. Life lessons will be learned, you don't have to make an after-school special about it.
  18. Apparently parents will love you no matter what.
  19. Organic apple juice sucks
As my job training continues, I will keep trying to rise above cynicism, to Alan Turing their code, remember that learning requires failing and lay off the organic apple juice. Maybe one day I'll make it out of the mail room. 

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

I Want You to Know Everything

Dear Boys,

I want you to know everything. Or at least everything that I know, which is far from everything, but it is more everything than you know, even though you're convinced you know everything.

1. It's okay to want something. Not stuff, but something that suddenly and momentarily reveals your meaning of life. Yes, there is danger in wanting something because:

     a. you might have to work for it
     b. you might not get it right away
     c. you might not get it at all

I promise you this, going for what you want and getting what you want will never look the way you thought, but the pursuit is oxygen and sustenance and defining. (This is basically my Oscar speech, which could still happen).

2. It's okay to give a shit about something(s). People. People and somethings. Yes, there is danger in giving a shit. Caring about stuff is a big old sloppy mess. It is thrilling, and panic-inducing, and gut-wrenching, and has the potential to beget great joy as well us ugly, snot pouring from your nose sobbing. Not caring is even more dangerous; easier for sure, but the risk of becoming a Cylon is too great. Remember the heart is a muscle, the more you use it the stronger it gets. Don't settle for a flabby heart. Don't be a Cylon. Give a shit.

3. It's okay to fail. Not just okay, it's inevitable. You will fail. More than many times. Failure is not bad, it is just a universal truth. Don't fear it, be curious about it, welcome it, become friends with it. Suffice to say, how you embrace failure will determine your own unexpected path to what is possible next. I've already failed 34 different ways in writing this paragraph.

4. Bad things are going to happen. Most of them are beyond your control. For the ones that aren't, be a human being: own them, apologize for them, learn from them. Bad things happening will make you feel sucky to varying degrees from being kind of a bummer to the aforementioned snot pouring from your nose sobbing. It's okay to feel bad. It won't last forever, and when it doesn't, it's okay to feel good again. Han Solo is going to die, but two years later Episode VIII will be released.

5. It's okay to ask for help. It's imperative to ask for help. Not asking for help is not a sign of strength, it is stubbornness, and shyness, and fear of the truth being found out. You know, that truth that you don't know everything? Because you don't. Some people know more things than you. And you know more things than other people. Everybody needs help, but only the strong ones ask for it. Batman needs Alfred, Sherlock needs Watson, Jason Bourne needs....never mind.

6. Know your audience. Be who you are, but know your audience. They matter as much as you, and more so when they disagree with you. You are not perfect. That doesn't mean you're wrong, it just means that other people can be right too, and it is ok to allow yourself to be altered. Pay attention to Atticus Finch's advice and walk in another man's shoes.

7. Read To Kill a Mockingbird.

8. Keep laughing. Life is absurd. Take it seriously enough, but not too much. Most importantly, laugh at yourself. We are all ridiculous and lovely. Laugh with not at. And always remember, comedy comes in threes; I don't care about A's and B's, but do not violate the rule of threes.

9. It is not your responsibility to make people happy. Be the hand on their back, the shoulder for their tears, the listener they deserve, and the truth they need to hear. Let their happiness be their achievement.

10. Do what needs to be done, not just what's good enough. Not because it will get you fame and fortune but because that is the only way to live.

11. And now in rapid succession:

  • Do not get emotionally involved with other drivers
  • Put the seat down every time
  • Give someone a sincere compliment every day
  • Don't leave your whiskers in the sink
  • Never let your bank account get to zero
  • Be illogical sometimes
  • Go to a movie by yourself in the afternoon
  • Never swim in the ocean alone
  • Make your bed, you'll appreciate it it at bedtime
  • Don't be a loud eater
  • Let other people talk sometimes
  • It's ok to eat a donut
  • Try new things
  • Say excuse me every time you burp

12. I will always worry about you. Even when nothing is wrong, I will worry. It is never because I don't believe in you, it is because I give a shit about you. You are not responsible for my worry, that is my shiny medal to show off. It will make me say and do stupid things (reference 1-11 above). It is part of the privilege of love; and in its purest form, it is a true indicator that we are alive.

13. Appreciate the past, look forward to the future, but live in the moment.

14. This list will never be complete.

15. Never get rid of my VHS of the original Star Wars: A New Hope. I saved the best for last.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Candy Coating Not Guaranteed

This is not candy coated.
  1. Teenager #1 is stressed beyond proportion.
  2. Not willing to deal with that stress, he is channeling his panic into obsessing about getting a new car, or the fact that his face is drying out due to the three showers a day he takes, or which dog he wants to buy.
  3. Teenager # 2 is stressed beyond proportion.
  4. He has inherited my proclivity for Target therapy, and is, therefore, dealing with his stress by coming home with pointless crap and novelty underwear (the differentiation is important as novelty underwear is never pointless).
  5. Neither teenager wants to work on their problems.
  6. They refute every suggestion with the disdainful wisdom born of the certitude of their staggering years walking the earth.
  7. They are both in pain.
  8. I am certain I caused this.
  9. I am uncertain of everything else
It's not about me. It's NOT about ME. IT'S NOT ABOUT ME!

So I double down on the whole "trying my best" thing, much to Yoda's chagrin.

My anemic attempts to help them navigate include making a lot of egg and bacon sandwiches, saying unpopular things like "Maybe we should try talking to a professional," and "Just do 15 minutes of SAT prep," and "Let's start with moisturizer before we go to the dermatologist," and "Would you like another egg and bacon sandwich?"

Epic fail on all accounts.

It's like the universe is not even trying to make this easy at all. I mean, shit, we made people, what else do you want from us? Compassion, devotion, patience, wisdom, humility, strength, selflessness and no whining to boot? And when all that fails what next?

I am looking at the past twenty years of my life and fearing I have done so many things wrong and very few right. I know this is just me caught in the shit whirlpool that plagues us all from time to time. So, I am writing to you, dear reader or two, not for pity or reassurance, but simply to stand in front of you, shit covered, and let you know that if you are nose deep in it too, you are not alone. To shout from the rooftops once again, that this business of guiding another human being or two or more to live as fully as possible is harder than making a reliable pancake from scratch, crafting a workable health care act, or convincing that telemarketer that even $10 a month is impossible due to the amount of eggs and bacon I buy on a weekly basis.

I promise to try to cast off the shackles of shame in my own ineptitude and double down in the trenches with all of you to be the hand on your back, the breath you can't catch and the candy coating you sometimes find lacking.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

I'm OK With Being Idiot

My assumption that I'm an idiot is absolute.

No, no, no. No naysaying please. And please put the eye rolling on hold for a minute.

Here is why I believe I am an idiot:

  1. I do not read voraciously
  2. My kids do not take all honors classes
  3. I watch more prime time than cable tv
  4. I often feel ill-equipped to have informed conversations with adults
  5. My children will not get massive scholarships to college
  6. I am easily swayed when someone tells me why I'm wrong about movies, music, books, and everything else
  7. I say yes too often so that people will not be disappointed or inconvenienced
  8. Besides knitting, I have no real idea what I'm good at
  9. The majority of my accomplishments have been fueled by an intense desire not to be discovered a fraud
  10. I am an optimist
  11. I think I'm an idiot
I have spent an embarrassing amount of my life doubting my value with less arrogance than Hamlet, less intelligence than Larry Sanders, and no where near the charm of any Emma Stone character.

Here is how believing I'm an idiot has lead me to discover value:
  1. I work my ass off lest I be discovered an idiot
Okay. Maybe that's not the best motivator, but it has certainly lead to some interesting outcomes.
  1. Because I work hard, I pick up a lot.
  2. Because I work hard people have come to rely on me.
  3. Because people rely on me, I get asked to do cool stuff.
  4. Knowing that I do not understand how to do cool stuff, I work hard so people won't fire me from doing cool stuff.
  5. Because I know that I'm an idiot I expect mistakes and do not fear them with the same intensity I used to.
  6. Because I have worked hard trying to learn how to do cool stuff, I have learned how to do some stuff.
  7. Because I know how to do some stuff now, I feel less like an idiot, until the next time I am asked to do new cool stuff.
  8. Because I keep doing this, my kids are hopefully learning that you do not have to know everything all the time (Though being teenagers, they assume they do know everything all the time, except when they don't, which is when I here them mumble-yell "Mom ?!)
  9. Because this works out more than it doesn't I have been able to stay an optimist.
  10. Because I am an optimist I believe that one day I will no longer feel like an idiot.
  11. Which only confirms the previous absolute that I am an idiot.
My assumption that I'm an idiot is, like any superpower, my greatest weakness and my greatest strength. It holds me back and propels me forward. It keeps me humble and strangely bold. It helps me relax and keeps me active. It forces me to be emotionally present by confronting my perceived inadequacies and asks me to remain endlessly curious to overcome my perceived inadequacies. It allows me to enjoy a cookie simply because it tastes good and is not a pathway to self-destruction.

Is this the healthiest way to walk through life? Probably not, but that could just be the idiot in me talking. The daily pressure from within and without to strive for perfection is omnipresent. It is an ideal that is personally subjective and unattainable because it will never be enough. Accepting less than perfection is an assumption of the presence of flaws; beautiful, unique, messy flaws. I would rather be uniquely flawed than impossibly and vulnerably perfect. 

And that is why I'm ok with being an Idiot.

Now you may resume eye rolling.