You're Doing It!

So this is weird. In recent days I find myself bombarded with general Facebook posts inspiring the masses to follow your passion, leave that job you hate, move about in the world and make your dreams come true. And I feel paralyzed by the optimism.

Sure it all sounds grand and like the premise for a really successful summer movie aimed at grabbing the 22-35 female demographic, but I seem to be thwarted by the very real need to buy gas, pay for the homeowner's insurance and replenish the supply of frozen pizzas and Jimmy Dean Breakfast sandwiches which are really the only things I have energy to "cook." I would love to follow my passion, but who's going to pick up teenager #1 from school or buy a new concert shirt for teenager #2? Who's gonna buy dog food (because they can really only last on cheerios for so long) and give the bathroom sink an occasional wipe down? Who's gonna chip away at the mountain of debt while I'm off pursuing a passion which, apparently, has no monetary value?

Seriously. I'm asking. Who?

Somehow I don't think the New York Times Best selling author who is posting platitudes is going to spot me the cash it will take for me to follow my bliss. No, I have to go out and earn that through grit and determination and hard work ( or so says the next post on my feed). But wait a minute, that's what I've been doing for the last 25 years. At what point does grit cross over into delusion?

Never Mary! Don't give up on the dream! You gotta believe! Be Brave!

Seriously?

In my 20's and 30's I would have seen all of these inspirational posts and effectively worded quotations as signs that I was on the right path. In my late 40's it just feels like a justification for not seeing the light. I don't think the universe is sending me signs to be patient, I think the universe might be telling me to choose paying the bills over creative fulfillment.

But you can do both! Get out there! Network! If you can dream it, you can do it!

Okay. Sure. You're right. Stay positive. I'll do that after I'm done at my day job; oh but wait a minute, I have to do that other job tonight. Well maybe in between...nope nope, I need to get milk and take teenager #2 to the dentist. Okay, okay, I'll just stay up late and finish that resume, oh, but wait a minute I have to put in time on the marriage thing so husband doesn't feel neglected and unimportant, so I'll just wake up early, except I can't keep my eyes open after the third night of five hours of sleep and my resume looks like a 2 year old just discovered a typewriter for the first time.

All I'm hearing is excuses Mary...If you really want this then you need....

Okay shut up right there. The problem is I don't just want this. I want that, and the other thing, plus a side of what the hell was I thinking. I want a life. I want to go on vacation, and I want to have a dog to walk, and I want to laugh with friends, and I want to conquer that level of Candy Crush, and I want to try that recipe, and I want to see that movie, and I want to see my kids graduate high school and have a life too. I want a life. I need a life, so I have something to bring to that silly pipe dream passion of mine. And to have a life to feed my passion I need money to feed my family. I still have to pay the bills, because the life I chose to lead has messy, wonderful, weird, annoying, perfect responsibilities. And some days optimism doesn't make the cut for the to do list.

I love the intention behind the inspirational sharing; in fact my office has many of those same quotes scattered on the walls. I will always be a glass is half full kinda gal, especially if it's full of wine. I still ascribe to the power of Zuzu's petals. But one's bliss does not always remain simple or singular.

So I would like to add an option to the pile of inspiration. In addition to "YOU CAN DO IT!" I'd like to propose the occasional "you are doing it." No CAPS, no graphics, no sweaty well-toned Nike athletes. Just a simple reminder.

Job Listing: Wife Needed

I need a wife.

I suppose I should say "I need a co-spouse" or "partner" or "life companion" or some other Gwyneth Paltrow inspired label. But that is just pretty candy coating to help this bitter pill go down. What I need is a wife; because I am failing miserably. I will concede to this modern world that I do not define wife by gender; we have indeed come a long way baby. No, a wife is no longer defined by gender, but by job description:

Job Title: Wife

Position available immediately. Full time wife needed to maintain household, schedules and sanity of typical (and by typical I mean crazy) family in Philadelphia region. Duties include but are not limited to:

• Maintaining well stocked refrigerator and pantry
• Cooking nutritional meals that have a chance of actually being consumed
• Scheduling all doctor's appointments, confirming said appointments, rescheduling said appointments when the team makes the playoffs, driving to and from said appointments and providing incentives (read-bribes) to appointees to complete said appointments
• Cleaning the house (rapid stuffing of extraneous shit in closets and doing quick once over with Swiffer, microfiber cloth and Febreeze spritzing acceptable in emergency drop-by situations only; full on baseboard scrubbing, lemony fresh pledge smelling, white glove level scouring required for any and all in-law visits)
• Driving anywhere at any time for any purpose that fate dreams up.
• Filling gas tank to avoid spouse's eye-rolling
• Loading dishwasher, unloading dishwasher, and putting all dishes back; even if you don't know where they go, finding someplace for them other than the middle of the table.
• Laundry: washing, folding, and putting away. Job also includes tireless discovery of socks under random pieces of furniture in rooms where socks do not tread.
• Providing appropriate reactions to all in the family from outrage to unadulterated joy and intuiting the calibration of said reactions without the benefit of clues, hints or support.
• Coordinating all home repairs as well as being present while they occur and knowing when to offer a glass of water without appearing awkward.
• Providing spousal back-rubs with no personal agenda
• Maintaining everyone's schedule flawlessly including reminders and the willingness to cancel things you want to do in lieu of last minute vital work, sport, or school functions.
• Embracing Spock's motto "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."
• Paying all bills
• Killing all bugs, cleaning up all vomit, tucking everyone in, relinquishing all rights to remote during March Madness (and every other day as well), replacing toothbrushes every two months and anticipating everyone's needs before they do.

Applicant should have experience in doing all of the above with a smile on their face and joy in their heart without a shred of irony or attitude as well as a willingness to take on more duties as they arise without having to be asked.

Hours: endless

Compensation: personal fulfillment-results vary and are inconclusive.

Benefits package: See compensation

If interested, please have head examined and then run quickly away. The Gap almost always has openings, and you get a store discount.

F*#k College

Teenager # 1 is a junior in high school. The year of reckoning. The year we've been credentialing for since Pre-K. The year of acronyms: SAT, ACT and APs. The year they really look at. The almighty THEY. The THEY we endow with the power to determine our children's' fate, our parental street cred and the rear window decor of our cars.

College.

It is the golden carrot we have dangled in motivational fervor for our kids and ourselves since conception propelling us to achieve the unattainable security of a future unscathed and paved with prosperity. It was the reason for the in-vitro Mozart jam sessions, the flashcards at 18 months, the Suzuki violin lessons at age 3, the meticulously vetted Pre-K decision, the insistence on that first grade teacher rather than the other one, the phone call to the 6th grade science teacher about that B on that test, the hard-won debate about why 9th grade honors English IS a good fit, the backseat driving for that community service project, and the editorial "assistance" on that application essay. College is the holy grail whose elusive acquisition overshadows the original reason for going there in the first place.

I went to college. I liked college. I learned a lot from college. But as the mother of a junior I find this mantra keeps presenting itself to me: Fuck College.

Do I want my kid to go?

Yes.

Do I want him to suffer the pressure, stress, shame, anxiety and mania which feels intensely prevalent in the process these days?

Not particularly.

And the good news is, he does not feel that. The pathetic news is, my husband and I do.

Not because we expect our kid will go to Yale or Stanford or Oxford; not because we expect him to win the nobel prize, not even because we want to brag about it to our vast network of friends we have lost touch with because we've been too busy parenting. Nope, we feel it because he says he wants it, and we want to help him get there, and we all seem to disagree on how to accomplish that.

He sees it as some far off place like Narnia or Oz; a desirable location whose entrance requirements include simple door opening, curiosity or the luck of being near a tornado at the right time. And the urgency of arriving at said fantastical yet totally attainable Eden is eclipsed by the release of the next new history making limited edition pair of Jordans. His response, as is the response to all distant deadlines, "Don't worry Mom, I got this," delivered with a confidence which makes me believe he has turned a corner in his maturity, but is later revealed as a deceptively Oscar-worthy piece of acting.

My husband believes in teenager #1's potential absolutely. And, because of that faith he, admirably, suggests, and encourages, and suggests some more, and makes pacts, and suggests again, and puts down his foot, and threatens summer school, and suggests one more time, and gives up, but not really, because he knows how to help if only teenager #1 would let him help, so he suggests one last time, which turns out to be the proverbial straw for the overburdened camel.

And me, well, I'll try anything. I do what husband does too and help too much. I also do what teenager #1 does and live for days, weeks, months at a time in denial. I also make a lot of food to feed the beast. I also search desperately for moments of calm to introduce potentially controversial subjects like GPA or coming up with a list of colleges, or SAT prep. I also devise alternate plans in my head for the future which often includes a time machine sending me to the future so I can skip over all of this Bullshit.

And then there are moments of alarming clarity for husband and me. Moments when we realize that college is not, in fact, the holy grail. It is not a lifetime warranty guaranteeing success, prosperity and happiness. It is the road more travelled, for certain; a well-paved road with a high success rate, But it is just one route. There are so many others. Some of those other routes actually lead to college in a different way. Some of them lead to trade schools for jobs which will, most likely, never be erased by digital advancement; you know like cooking, cutting hair, fixing a car, fixing a clogged drain. Jobs we rely on and pay dearly for because they insure convenience. And some other routes lead to the opportunity to make a new path. How Robert Frost-ian. And, just like that, College's death-grip is relieved. It becomes just another in an infinite list of choices.

Bearing that in mind, I will amend my previous hostility with my own personal College Serenity Prayer

There are no mistakes, only opportunities
I cannot control the future
My self worth is not defined by the stickers on the rear window of my car
My child's life is his to discover
An SAT score only measures how well you take the SATS
My children WILL eventually move out of the house
Life is what you make of it
Eggs and bacon at 10pm can cure all ills
Panic is not our friend
Fuck College

Be Careful What You Wish For

I went on a job interview last week. An all day job interview, immersive you might say. And the strangest thing happened, I left feeling like I did really well. So, of course, the next logical reaction was terror...that I might actually get the job.

So then I began to soothe myself by listing all the reasons why I would have to turn it down.

• My average hours per week would most likely double.
• The logistics of getting everyone to school on time could evolve from difficult to nightmarish.
• I might not have the right work clothes.
• It would mean putting another nail in the coffin of my actual hopes and dreams.
• I wouldn't be able to go to as many of my son's basketball games next year.
• Dinner time would morph from its current state of slapdashery into an all out farce.
• I may not be up to the job.
• It might mean I am good at something.
• It might mean I am good at something I never planned on being good at.
• It might verge on the periphery of what some call success. 

Whenever I set out on a new venture, I am usually propelled by two fears:

1. That I will be discovered as the fraud we all know I am at any moment.

2. That I will do well and have to feel pride in my accomplishments.

And there are probably so many conventionally cliche and weird ooey gooey places this ritual of self sabotage originates from.

• Catholicism
• Being the youngest of six and therefore a product of my parents' realization that kids really raise themselves.
• Being a woman
• Being a hard worker as opposed to a brilliant thinker.
• Being married to a successful man
• Being lazy
• The complacency of comfort
• The possibility that there really isn't much under the hood.
• My mother's self-image
• My father's success
• Being me

I have worked very hard over my many years to program the intricate software of my self-doubt for a balanced output of manageable accomplishment and resentment. The constant wrench in these works is that I am also plagued by optimism. Optimism upsets this balance because it drives me to read Marianne Williamson's Our Deepest Fear, and listen to anthemic pop music, and watch Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech and Hoosiers in its entirety which leads me to possibly the most dangerous outcome--believing in myself.

Don't worry, it doesn't last long because I quickly equate self-confidence with arrogance (see Catholicism above), and resettle into my acceptable version of ordinary. (You literally just witnessed this process since I was sickened by my own declaration of believing in myself to the point of belittling it and blaming it on the Catholic church)

This has been my  life's "To be or not to be." Only its gravitas is not so much the stuff of Shakespeare. (doing the whole devaluing sleight of hand again right here.) The root of this particular evil is simple: I will be discovered a fraud when others finally realize that there is not much of value or interest or capability beyond the obvious good looks and superficial charm. The irony of this particular evil is that is has driven me to make sure my fraudulence is never discovered, which has consequently lead me to develop skills that some now may consider valuable. And how do I reconcile that? How do I accept success (something I want) when I ultimately feel I do not deserve it (something I believe)?

I haven't been offered the job, so, thankfully, I do not have to answer that question yet. I can continue to postpone the possibility of success and the epiphany of self-significance by getting on with the reality of life. And one day, when when I truly crack this nut, I can get on with the reality of living.

Do You See What I See?

I never thought of seeing as being a subjective experience. Perception, yes, but the facts of seeing always seemed to me to be absolute. That is obviously the Grand Canyon, that is the letter A, that is the last piece of pizza. There's nothing hypothetical there. Once again, however, I am wrong and must evolve if I am to survive in the this constantly shifting anthropology of modern motherhood.

Exhibit A:
I left the house on a Sunday night. I'd spent the majority of the day doing laundry for the various humans in my home. I fold laundry, as I do most tasks of tedium, not listening to NPR as most of my neighborhood claims but in front of the TV. After the final load of laundry was put away, I left the empty laundry basket in the living room tucked up against the coffee table; partly because I didn't feel like walking upstairs again, and partly as a test. Yes, General Akbar, it was a trap of sorts. I wanted to see if anyone would bring it upstairs. I left that night to do what I do and I returned Tuesday afternoon to find the laundry basket in the same exact location; untouched by human hands or even toppled by the dog trying to get to whatever crumbs were left temptingly on the coffee table.

I say it was a trap to catch my children and husband in the act of willful laziness, but it was really a trap for good old me. There was a part of me that hoped someone would do what needed to be done, what seemed excruciatingly obvious to me; but most of me knew the basket would be there with its pathetic lonely used dryer sheet still hovering in the corner. And of course I was frustrated. No, I was mad. I actually trapped myself into being mad. My miscalculation came in the assumption that Husband and Teenagers 1 & 2 would walk into the living room from any angle and see the laundry basket. That was, in fact, my fatal flaw Aristotle.

That is when I realized that seeing is subjective.

I walk into the living room and I see:

• blankets askew and piled in violation of all magazine recommendations
• empty glasses with juice puddles waiting to be tipped and dripped all over the rug
• random bottle caps left to find their own way to the trash
• dirty socks on floors, furniture and draped on the dog
• jackets fallen from their hooks
• mail unsorted and neglected
• clumps of dog hair amassing troops in corners to wage war on my pride
• An empty laundry basket

In short, I see chaos. Chaos I have contributed to, but chaos nonetheless.

When Husband & Teenagers walk into the living room they see:

• The TV
• Places to sit and lie down
• Blankets to keep them warm
• a convenient place to find socks
• remotes
• a convenient overall location to call out to the kitchen for food and drink

In short, they see comfort.

It is the same with the piles of things on the steps intended to be brought upstairs. Even if I put the new toothpaste box or pile of paid bills, or whatever item belongs on the second floor in the middle of the steps, it is invisible. Until someone actually trips on it and then asks loudly why no one brings things up and just leaves stuff on the stairs, at which point I clench my teeth, roll my eyes and answer them inappropriately in my head.

I want to blame them so badly. I want to point out their insensitivity and laziness and selfishness, but I cannot because I gave them no opportunity to succeed. I tried to enlighten through passive aggression, a ploy universally employed and effective only in the distribution and proliferation of guilt and self-loathing. It really isn't that hard to ask someone to take the laundry basket upstairs. Much easier in fact than trying to elicit gratitude for my efforts by expecting them to read my mind and exhibit compassion the way I want it rather than the way they offer it when I'm too busy generating fury over perceived chaos.

So, I cannot blame or resent them for failing tests they did not know they were taking. I can teach them that a laundry basket is not actually a quirky design choice, I can ask them to help a mother out, and before I expect them to see the world through my eyes, I must remember to look at the world through theirs. Though the lens may be filtered by Call of Duty site scopes and clouded with Doritos residue, I will try to see what they see as I continue to navigate the terrain of this bizarre wilderness.

Boden & Foreboding

So I haven't written in awhile. You may think it's because I've been so busy being fabulous; and as much as I'd like to perpetuate that kind of magical thinking, that is not the reason for my absence. It's because I am depressed. I know, boo hoo, poor me. I'm disgusted myself, though I'm not sure if that is because of my innate sense of moral righteousness or caused by the depression, which, of course, diminishes the validity of said disgust. As a result, instead of writing witty blogs with a little message thrown in courtesy of a spoonful of my characteristic hilarity, I have been doing what you do when you are depressed but trying not to be.

I've been shaming myself into gratitude since there is suffering far greater than mine here, there and everywhere.

I've been listening to a lot of anthemic pop music.

I've been finding too much hidden meaning in movies like Mockinjay and How to Train Your Dragon 2.

I've been knitting. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

I've been watching too much TV and, having caught up, am seeking out new broadcast addictions.

I've cried and tried to cry.

I've browsed the extra 40% off sale page of the Sundance website frequently.

I've done the same with the Anthropologie website, but they only have 25% off sale items and, even in depression, I am plagued by my practicality.

Boden's sale page is next. (I'm actually looking at it right now whenever I can't think of what to write next.)

I'm exercising regularly because it has been said that helps. It does, briefly until I am done.

I play Candy Crush. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

I search job listings.

I frequent Groupon's travel deals.

I stay up too late.

I've stopped filing my nails.

I practice envy and resentment.

I add to my debt. (Usually by way of Sundance, and, momentarily, Boden)

I confide in my dog. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

Why am I depressed? There is no fabulous or obvious reason. Unhappy at work, failure to achieve most of my dreams, lousy parenting, brain chemistry, winter, no marketable skills, no money for this awesome whimsical Boden skirt. Take your pick. It is a decidedly mundane and whiny depression and I am not doing the one thing I should be-therapy.

It's a tricky thing to start therapy when you are depressed. It makes sense and should appeal to my aforementioned practicality, but it actually feels on par with establishing breathable air on Mars or getting my kids to understand the correlation between stiff gummy toothpaste and the act of leaving the cap haphazardly to one side of the tube of Crest. Here is the Mt. Everest I see before me:

To start Therapy I have to first find a therapist. How do I do that? Ask for references from a friend I don't mind telling that I need to be in therapy on the off chance that their recommendation is actually in network(see Boden dilemma above). Or maybe I can search my health insurance's website, make a list and start making calls. Being depressed it takes several days to work up the courage to call an office and talk to a disinterested but trained in empathy intake administrator to explain my reasons for seeking out a therapist all the while sounding like I don't need one because I fear judgement from this stranger. After one call, filled with pride and exhaustion, I reward myself with a cinnamon roll and feel confident I have made enough of an effort and can now forgo any future search or follow-through. I might even make it to an initial appointment in a weird basement office filled with shelves of action figures used for play therapy and role play, only to be further exhausted by not finding the right therapist for me, plunging me into a deeper depression. And then, a week or two later I begin again with the next name on the provider list. It may, in fact take many calls of forced nonchalance and visits to a variety of eclectic offices before I find the therapist for me, and the prospect of that kind of mental health EHarmony is daunting to the point of being defeating.

What I really need to do is start therapy when I feel good. It takes hope to start therapy, and depression and hope are not quirky friends who bring new sitcom-like understanding to the term opposites attract. It stands to reason then that I should seek out therapy during bouts of confidence, just like I should buy jumper cables before my battery dies. So, will I help myself and get into therapy? Yes. but that's not why I write this.

I write this because depression whether it feels justified or petty, whether it is triggered by tragedy or no milk for your cereal is not insignificant, wrong or a sign of weakness. Denying it because you do not feel worthy of or entitled to it does not make it go away. Shame or pride will not conquer it. Treating it seems impossible and scary and an open invitation for stigma. Because, the truth is, we don't want to need help. We've all retained a touch of that stubborn toddler defiance that repeats "No, me do it," time and time again. If I broke my leg though, I probably wouldn't wait to see if it would go away with time. If I had heart disease I might not just tell myself to get over it.

I am not writing to reveal anything new about depression or too shock you with the suffering I feel. Mine is a garden variety depression. And I still feel pathetic and arrogant for presuming I have it. I do not really believe I will make any strides in normalizing or de-stigmatizing depression. But I want to stop pretending everything's okay even though by outward appearances it is. It's not just that I am depressed, I have depression. I'm hoping experts will help with it. I am not asking for you to feel anything about my talking about it. I am not hoping you will solve it for me. I'm just saying out loud(ish) That I have it. Because saying it gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment...

And gives me the confidence to accomplish more.

Right after I add this kicky Boden top to my wish list.

Dear Everyone: My Holiday Letter

Dear Friends and Family,

So, another year has come and almost gone and it's time to relieve my guilt over not staying in touch or visiting, or calling or wishing you Happy Birthday on Facebook by catching you all up on our lives over the last 365 days.

Where to start?...?

We began last January with a goal of paying down our holiday debt by March; a worthy goal as of yet unrealized. We did manage to transfer it all to a no interest credit card that will help us realize our goal by March...of 2016. On the financial upside, I managed to save enough promotional stickers at my local grocery store this Fall to acquire two lovely Cuisinart stainless steel pans, and all for doing what we already do, buying food that nobody's in the mood to eat, which forces me to buy more food which gave me more stickers. It's a cycle made less vicious by the shiny new cookware.

Teenagers 1 & 2 are embracing their adolescence with a fervor that were it spent on homework would guarantee a full ride at the Ivy League of their choice. They do pursue their interests with commitment and curiosity which could logically lead to an eventual Assistant Management position at Gamestop or an unpaid internship at Youtube as a "Video Entertainment Tester." To say we are proud would be a thing to say.

Teenager #1 took the brave, and mature beyond our expectations, step and moved to a new school for his junior year. The move has initiated a massive reshuffling of lifestyle which includes our family living apart for a good portion of the week. We have discovered that this is both hard and better at the same time. Initial results yield the following data:

• Teenagers 1 & 2 like each other more when they see each other less.
• Grocery shopping for two households is about twice as much fun as it is for one.
• Pajamas and socks seem to be the number one forgotten item in the weekly packing process
• Passive aggressive miscommunication increases at the same rate as logistical details
• Teenager #1 is empirically happier which makes it all worthwhile until the next time he pisses us off

Teenager #2 has discovered sarcasm and is still unlocking the secrets to its comic effects and limitations. He has shown refreshing independence in adjusting to his freshman year in high school, is arguably more mature than the rest of us and will likely be taking over the world as long as no one messes with his free time or takes his Doritos. These strides can obviously be attributed to superior parenting skills, and Husband and I are eager to take full credit for his success and achievements since that is why we had the children in the first place.

Husband continues to work hard at his dream job, cultivate his sense of guilt and obligation, exercise patience with an imperfect wife, perfect his excellence at sleep (which conveniently helps with cultivating his guilt), indulge his uncommonly acute and delightful sense of humor even when no one else is in the room and take abundant pride in the fact that he washes and irons his own work shirts, a task he assumes absolves him of doing any other laundry or changing the sheets on the bed.

And as for me, well, given the above, could I be any happier? Who has time to know? Am I right? Seriously, I continue my search for the Holy Grail of jobs that allows me to perform, direct, write and knit, pays me a living wage, gives me a ridiculously inappropriate end of the year bonus and sends me to exotic travel destinations at least twice a year. If you know of any openings, you know where to find me. On the personal side, I am maintaining my on-again-off-again relationship with cleaning, I am consistent in my yo-yo parenting-having moments of inspirational clarity worthy of a guest spot on ELLEN counteracted beautifully by moments of staggering incompetence worthy of an appearance on any talk show aired by Fox or the CW. I've lost 17 pounds while still enjoying gluten, dairy, eggs, sugar, salt and processed foods which makes me a poster child for absolutely nothing. To sum up, I feel blessed and restless, motivated and tired, panicked and zen; in a word I feel human, wonderfully ambiguously, cluelessly human.

And finally, Family Dog is still adorable and finds comfort in eschewing the conventional store-bought doggy memory foam bed in lieu of the wide variety of piles of clothes which, luckily, can be found in every room on floors and chairs alike.

So, as you can see, with the joy and contemplative call of the holidays, we all keep our priorities firmly in line and look forward to relaxing days with each other marked by erratic yet predictable spikes in stress from the togetherness to which we have hitched our holiday wagon.

I will close not by wishing you Happy Holidays as that ups the ante of the potential pressure cooker that is this time of year. Instead I wish for you presence, perspective, a kick ass pair of shoes and an appreciation for the courage each day requires and each one of our unique ways to unleash that courage(which, for me, conveniently, usually involves a kick-ass pair of shoes.)