In Lieu of Potato Salad

My father did not want a funeral or an obituary or potato salad events upon his passing. A true Irish goodbye. But here is what I would have shared.

It’s intimidating giving a tribute for such an accomplished and beloved writer and public speaker. One who often aimed to lead with laughter and then sneak in message. One who sought to make tears well but not spill. One who held attention with relatable originality. Yes, this is a daunting task, so I will call upon the master and his words for help.

Brilliance will be adequate.

This is what he said when he dropped us off at school, or whenever we started a new project or adventure. Brilliance will be adequate. He said it with a twinkle in his eye that communicated whimsy, humor and absolute confidence. We all knew he was joking, but what we felt was his absolute confidence that we could handle whatever was before us. He already believed we were brilliant, he just wanted us to believe it.

Life is short, eat dessert first.

I would like to think he coined this, but I’ve seen it on too many novelty items like post-it notes and oddly shaped plates that you can only find at the Hallmark store. But, he said it often. Of course my Dad’s definition of the four basic food groups was cake, cookies, pie and ice cream, ice cream being the preferred dish at every meal. Nothing fancy, just a little chocolate ice cream or a black and white milkshake. Just a simple reminder that life should be enjoyed not endured. Whether that takes the form of travel, or pursuing your passion or going to the movies or experiencing the culinary miracle that is ice cream, life is short, it can be hard, why not make it fun.

Don’t just give your boss what they ask for, give them what they need.

Dad was in the running for a job once. It came down to him and two other people. Each was asked to write a letter explaining why they were the best person for the job. The others wrote what most of us would, a carefully phrased treatise on our skills and what we could bring to the position. My father wrote “I’m from out of town.” He got the job. He never let fear propel him, instead he was fueled by the art of the possible. He saw beyond the task to understand the need the task was fulfilling. He wasn’t afraid to question or suggest or act based on the bigger picture. He did not work just to keep from getting fired, he worked to make a difference, launch change and dare to dream for more.

You must prepare yourself for the possibility that things could go well.

My father never trafficked in worst case scenarios. He always listened patiently as I spun a tale of woe to its potential and inevitable tragic outcome and then he would simply say “You must prepare yourself for the possibility that things could go well.” Things didn’t always go well, but how I handled and looked at them was forever influenced by these words. The way we tell the story of our lives can easily project their course. He chose, and inspired others to choose optimism. His words remind me that even when things can be hard, they are not impossible. 

See the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball.

You can’t do all three at once. I imagine he said this to every person he ever coached. One thing at a time. My dad never seemed rushed. He did not wear a watch or keep a calendar. When asked how he remembered things, he said, “if it’s important, I’ll remember it.” He also said “I probably missed a lot of meetings.” Except that he didn’t, because he made everyone important. He gave everyone his full attention. Whether he was leading a meeting, or giving a speech, or coaching third base, or giving advice, he made you feel like you were the most important person in the world for that collection of moments. He truly saw people, and even more importantly, he made us feel known, loved, and cared for, which is the true secret sauce to making people believe they can do anything. This invaluable gift is what made him such a life-changing coach, colleague, friend and father.

I’m the only one here I’ve never heard of

My Dad once made a brochure, (remember those), because his booking agent said that a lot of public speakers had one. It was entitled “The World’s Most Mediocre Speaker.” Anyone who has heard him speak, knows that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He never read from a page, he never wrote anything down, he never gave the audience a dress rehearsal-always an opening night. He was the speaker that others did not want to follow. His talents took him many places including the White House and Camp David. He could have let it go to his head, but instead, he chose gratitude and humility. When at the podium in front of celebrities and luminaries he often opened with the line “I’m the only one here I’ve never heard of.” It always got a laugh, but it also underlined the awe he often felt at the opportunities he got to participate in. He never needed praise and recognition, he wanted to be useful, helpful; and he was as can be seen in his words, intentions and actions. He never lost the wonder, curiosity and humility of the Iowa farm boy. 

I have a face that looks like it’s already been waited on

As are many of his wise words, this was meant to be funny; usually uttered when a server passed by the table a third or fourth time. And, as I have done with most of his words to live by, I have often stolen and used this one. Until now, I always translated it to mean, I am easily forgettable. I’m sure that’s how he meant it too, but not in a self-pitying way, just in an “I’m an average Joe” kind of way. Now, however, I believe it means that restaurant servers passed him by because he looked content. Because he was content. He carved out a life of deeds, well-accomplished, creative endeavors that redefined originality, service to so many, and loving dedication to family in all of its iterations. He found great delight in being an active and curious observer of human nature, and sought to practice and applaud everyday humanity every day. He is, in fact, unforgettable because he was brilliant, insightful, original, optimistic, attentive, curious, humble and content.

There are not enough words to capture my father, and he would be appalled at how many I have used already. I would not be who I am today without him, and learning to be without him beyond today will only be a little easier because of the words, example and legacy of kindness he has gifted to us all. 

He’d want me to close with a laugh, or a marching band. I don’t have the latter, so I will include one of his favorite jokes:

A guy on the bank of a river, looks across and sees a guy on the other bank. The first guy says: “How do I get to the other side of the river?” The second guy responds: “You are on the other side of the river.”

See you on the other side one day, milkshakes are on me.

To make a donation in his honor please visit either of these sites:

Be Proud Foundation

Mighty Writers

Thank You Target Customer Service

 I'm very grateful for the Customer Service Clerk yesterday at Target in in White Marsh MD. 

I was returning some sweatpants that I bought because they were on the "L" for large hanger. Because I'm a large now because of all the sourdough and Sauvignon Blanc I employ as diversionary tactics from the the panic of the Pandemic as well as the all of everything of 2020. These pants were on a "L" hanger, and I just grabbed them because I don't want to try things on, because dressing rooms now seem like a lethal luxury. So, I grabbed them and checked out. 

I'd been looking for soft sweatpants that were NOT joggers, because even having something tight-ish around my ankles would then pull on my waist band and let slip the latest love handle exposing all eyes to my back fat. My sourdough sauvignon blanc back fat. All eyes! or at least the eyes of my self-loathing inner bitch who just won't shut up. 

So I bought these open leg sweatpants at Target because they will make me feel a degree or two better about myself, which my current pile of too many pants does not. I buy the pants. I take them home and eagerly try them on. They are huge. This makes me happy. The large, is huge on me, like, falling down huge. For a moment I think I am losing weight. I am not, but the inflation of sizes works its magic on my ego and for a moment I feel great. I've never been so happy at a return. As I take them off, I think to take a peek at the size, because, apparently happiness needs to be based on fact. 

These pants are not large. 

They are not extra large. 

They are 2XL. 

I am no longer happy. I am no longer looking forward to this return. I now feel burdened by it. 

And by the fact that I have to make dinner soon. 

And by the fact that it never occurs to anyone else to make me dinner.

And by my husband's and son's bickering.

And by son # 2's struggle with whether to take next semester off.

And his too confident for his age declaration that college is a social construct and not really necessary. (mind you he loves college in non-pandemic times. LOVES it).

When am I going to find time to return these pants?

I try on my drive down to Maryland where I live part time because my husband got a job in DC, but I'm still clinging onto my life in Philadelphia in a current "last" ditch effort to reclaim some of my identity. Except that now I have this job in MD. Very nice people. I'm very lucky to be employed. Also true is that I am very sad to not be doing what I love, and each day of working with these very nice people, I am reminded that I never really believed I was good enough at what I loved. So I definitely see more sourdough and sauvignon blanc in my future.

So I'm on my way down to MD to work on site one day, and I think, oh, I'll just stop by the Target on City Ave. It's on the way. So, I drive there to discover that they have closed early due to an "abundance of caution." And then I remembered the riots because of the police shooting of a young black man two nights ago. And I remember the balance of sweatpants to centuries of injustice is insignificant. And I shut the f!?* up.

So next day, I do my work and begin to head home to Philly because Offspring #1 starts a new class the next day and is nervous. This can range from mild to hideous, so I felt it necessary to be home to cook large meals and generally absorb his anxiety because I need something to work for him. At this point I've been gone less than 24 hours. I'm in no rush to get home.

I'm in no rush to absorb my husband's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to absorb Offspring #1's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to think about Offspring #2's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to rush home to take care of those who are happy to leave me dangling in the wind uncared for and untended like the leggy web of dust gathering in the corner of every ceiling in my house.

And I remember there is a Target in White Marsh. There is also a TJ Maxx. Maybe they will have an office chair to replace the folding chair I've been torturing my back with. I decide to stop.

The line at customer service is not too long. Perhaps this is the turning point my life hinges on. I stand on my socially distant circle. Then my phone rings. I breathe, in an attempt to garner strength, as I see it is Offspring #1 calling. I answer the phone, like a chump.

There is much outrage with his dad. Apparently Husband is driving him crazy. 

I advance in the line. 

I am trying to calm my enraged Offspring whose complaints about Husband are all valid. They are all frustrations I have had over the years, and the Pandemic induced proximity has brought into sharp relief for Offspring #1. The problem is that once he goes down the rabbit hole, it tends to be a long journey.

I am in a public place. I am wearing a mask. I do not want to be that asshole on the phone when at the register. I do not want to be that asshole. But this geyser has sprung. 

And now it is my turn. 

And I am that asshole.

I plunk the bag on the counter, while still trying to calm the kid and get off the phone. I don't even take the time to shoot the clerk an apologetic yet empathy seeking look. I maybe see her face for a moment and a half, but it is miraculous. It is calm and wise. She knows I am dealing with a child's temper tantrum, even though it is not accompanied by the typical visual. She knows why I'm there. She sees the sweatpants. She gets the whole sourdough/sauvignon blanc dilemma. She understands that all of the pressures the everyday citizen is bearing from this pandemic are intersecting at this moment for me. And she processes my return in less than 30 seconds. No words were exchanged. I nodded my thanks and continued my conversation in the restroom alcove.

I left quickly. 

I was grateful for this Target Customer Service genius immediately, but I couldn't register it because of the ongoing tantrum. Not just my offspring's, but my own. My own swirl of shit both real and hyperbolized. And for a moment, not even enough time for a moment, another human being understood and helped in the subtlest and most astonishing way. They simply made my life easier for 30 seconds.

And this is why we will survive all of this, because sometimes we just get each other. We stop battling and competing and comparing, and simply recognize that of ourselves in someone else. We see beyond the noise and the 24 hour news cycle and the extremities that strain to define and limit our humanity. We look beyond our demographic, we forget our talking points, and we simply recognize the human being in front of us. We recognize the subtext of the moment, and we are filled with empathy, compassion and connection. And then the next moment feels easier.

This reminds me of another tantrum. This time Offspring #1 was maybe 2 years old and some change. Offspring #2 was pretty brand new. We were walking on the sidewalk of lovely Chestnut Hill, which is as it sounds-charming and beyond my tax bracket. Offspring #1 was cranky, I do not remember why, and he threw himself on the ground and tantrum-ed away. I attempted to calm the storm to no avail. An older, well dressed and coiffed woman was approaching. I feared the advice or disdainful look that I was certain would come. She reached us, stopped, looked at the Tasmanian devil on the side walk, and then looked at me and said:

"Sometimes you just have to lay down on the ground and cry."

She knew. She understood. She recognized.

So when, in the next weeks, the impulse is to lead and react based on assumption, I propose we all follow the lead of  Target Customer Service Rep and Well-Coiffed Chestnut Hill Woman. Recognize, see and ease.

And Vote.

The Pointillism of Puzzles

It is immensely satisfying to find all four corners of a puzzle. It rarely happens for me. I usually find three and then, after exhaustive searching, decide that the puzzle is faulty and the fourth corner was never put in. The same goes for the rest of the edge pieces, I seek them out, but their entirety eludes me. Until, of course, they pop up, usually on the cusp of puzzle despair, in the jumble of pieces, willing me to carry on. The last puzzle I tackled (I only do one or two a year), was a different story. I found all four corners quickly, and, with a little help, all of the edge pieces. It was absurdly satisfying. Looking at the completed parameters of this puzzle was resolutely affirming and empowering; there was still so much discovery, disappointment and victory to unravel, but the certainty of the structure was at once palpably soothing and invigorating.

This pandemic is a puzzle with perpetually absent edge pieces. 

For the most part, the overall edges are recognizable. There are a few minor gaps on the bottom, entire sections missing from the left side, the right side is a line of single pieces waiting for at least one connection, and I can't tell if this one piece goes in the center of the top or about a third of the way in from the left corner. It's also entirely possible that the piece from the top actually is the missing piece from the bottom. So, I get to work on sections in the middle until other edge pieces pop up.

The sourdough edge took a little time. I could piece together sections of it, but it took a few tries to see exactly how they needed to arrange.

The housecleaning section is still a bit of a jumble. Some parts came together really easily, while others still only have one or two anchor pieces present, and others have a few pieces that might belong there, but might also go in the stress eating or "maybe it's time to try Noom" section.

The Zoom section is disproportionally large, mostly shades of beige, with a lot of lines that seem to be going in one way, but actually align in every possibly angle. That one is best attacked in small doses.

I made some headway in the "What a great time to reinvent your life" section at the beginning, but have not found a piece that belongs there in awhile.

The "Pivotal Election and Social Justice" section is interlaced throughout the puzzle, and seems to have connecting pieces to every other section including a complex bridge composed of alternating arms folded and hands joined between the Hope and Despair sections.

The "Watch the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe" section took some time, but is finally complete, though it is still missing the edge piece of the Black Widow movie.

And then there are some sections that are just unrecognizable. School, Hug Horror, Time,"Is this Allergies or Covid?" These and more ambiguously designed sections butt up against the unfinished edges leaving jagged bite marks in my puzzle.

I know I need to be patient and diligent, but this puzzle is really monopolizing my dining room table. To be clear, this inconvenience is not infringing on our ability to eat on said table, it's just taking up space usually allotted for the rest of life's clutter; you know, the clutter that was already stressful before the Pandemic Puzzle arrived. And my regular puzzle strategies don't seem to be working. 

I really do think they shipped the puzzle incomplete, because the amount of pieces left are surely not enough to fill what is lacking. And yes, I've looked under the table, and the radiator and my dog's tongue for any missing pieces. And I'm not at the stage of completion yet where I can just look at the shape of the piece to see where it goes, I'm at the everything is foliage and/or the same color and could go anywhere stage. I've never put a puzzle back in the box without completing it, but this one is taking forever, and I don't know how much more bread I can bake or walks I can take or books I can "plan" to read. It just all feels so undoable.

I need another edge piece to pop up. I know if I search for it I will not find it. So, I should try to decipher the particular shade of red in this piece to see if it belongs in the "All the pants that don't fit anymore section" or the "maybe it's time to start making jam" section. I can just keep focusing on the specific variations of each section; double down on the details, on the pointillism of it all to eventually reveal the entirety of it all. Until another edge further defines the whole of what to see. 

And when my eyes begin to hurt and I'm tempted to hurl the puzzle to the corners I will eventually have to clean, I will walk away for moment, or two or 100 and lie on the couch with my dog and watch the Office again without judgment or remorse. Because when I go back and shuffle the pieces left in the box another edge piece might present itself, and sustain me for the next stretch.

An Unexpected Journey

I just completed an unexpected journey. It lead to a new sense of humility, and an affirmation of self truth. I did this without meditation or candles or essential oils. The tools needed were the most unexpected of all. In fact, truth be told, I had been actively resisting one of them for many years; an act of arrogance and elitism. All I needed for this journey was my son, and, as I'm sure you've already guessed, the Fast & Furious canon.

In addition to all of the everything we've been mitigating, the daily recognition of and mitigation of stress has been a constant. I have two basic responses to stress. They are not novel or unusual; I either shut down or am very productive.

For the last three plus months I have had days of proud productivity. There are parts of my house that are so much more organized. My craft game is high, including many masks, a sweater, a Marvel themed backpack, an iPhone wallet case, an in process cross-stitch project, and I am dabbling with my first t-shirt quilt. I have been seduced by the cultish sourdough craze and have baked many boules as well as discard delicacies. And, I am currently writing two plays and a mystery novel.

Don't hate me yet.

I have balanced that productivity with an equal, if not slightly heavier ration of inertia, ranging from wandering aimlessly from room to room, sitting on the couch watching Friends or The Office again and again...and again, eating too much bread and discard delicacies, playing Wordscape and Candy Crush for just a lot a bit too long, re-charging my Kindle because this will be the night when I actually read something, and sitting on my front steps with nothing in my head other than wanting to be apart from everyone in my house.

I have been forgiving of myself, and relentless with myself, and self care has taken on many forms. Most days, regardless of whether it was productive or inert, I just try to get to 'after dinner,' when the tasks of the day are done and I can settle onto the couch with knitting and a glass of wine, or cross stitch and a glass of wine, or just my dog and a glass of wine, and watch something on TV and cede all responsibility. My favorite 'after dinner' distraction is when my younger son, now 20, asks if I want to watch a movie. I'm not sure how much longer he'll be asking, so my answer is always "Yes." There are many movies we both like(Star Wars, MCU, Bourne, Dark Knight Trilogy). There are some that I have introduced him to that he has adopted as favorites (Some Like It Hot, What We Do In The Shadows, The Birdcage, The Cornetto Trilogy, Sense & Sensibility, etc.), and some he has introduced to me (Your Name, Snowpiercer, Parasite, etc.). He is forever trying to get me to watch Train to Busan, a quest that will go unfulfilled as I fear Zombies, unless couched in comedy, more than just about anything ever forever and always. Then there are the movies that he watches with his dad and brother. The Fast and Furious canon has lived comfortably in this category, until last week.

He and I were browsing the Roku. He attempted and failed with Train to Busan again. He asked what I was in the mood for. I replied "something fun that doesn't require much of me." As he scrolled the offerings on HBO NOW, he also suggested revisiting the Star Wars movies, and then Fast Five scrolled by, and I said "I'd watch that. Have you seen that one?" He had, but not for awhile, and he inherited my ability to watch movies multiple times. My genetics game has a high bar.

We watched. I did cross-stitch. I was able to follow along and absorb missing pieces from previous installments. The cast was pretty diverse, with some women who kicked ass, as well as the requisite awful scenes of women showing off their asses at inexplicable street races. There was a satisfyingly absurd car chase at the end, and it turned out to be a pretty enjoyable heist movie, complete with The Rock delivering preposterous lines, Gal Gadot pre-Wonder Woman, and a car chase with a safe. It was a perfect distraction.

The next night we watched Fast & Furious 6. The one with the plane.

The next night was Fast 7, the one where they drive through buildings in mid air.

At this point it felt important to go back to the beginning, so we back tracked to the first movie The Fast and The Furious, not to be confused with the fourth movie Fast and Furious. I agree that title innovation is not a strong selling point of the series. The first movie is basically Point Break with cars. This is a massive assumption as I have never seen the original Point Break, but I did just read the plot summary.

Next was 2 Fast and 2 Furious. No Vin Diesel in this one, and basically seemed like an extended Miami Vice episode, but diverting nonetheless.

Tokyo Drift was made next, but its place in the chronological narrative is actually after Fast & Furious 6. Drift is a stand alone, with only a few moments that affect the entire canon's arc. It does include an MCU style sting at the end with the reappearance of Vin Diesel's Dom Toretto.

Next is Fast and Furious, which I'm going to call a reboot to the franchise. Our core relationship of Dom & Brian is re-kindled, and the theme of "you never walk out on family" is firmly re-established.

And that now brings us to Fate (or F8) of the Furious, with key roles by Charlize Theron and Helen Mirren, both post Oscar win. Yes friends, Helen & Charlize know how to have some fun. For those of you in the know, this is the one with the submarine.

As soon as F8 rolled credits, my son brought up the trailer for Fast and Furious 9. Charlize is back, so is Helen Mirren. And I will be too. No Rock or Jason Statham, however, as they were busy making the offshoot Hobbs and Shaw, which I watched before the Pandemic began.

I could also go into limited detail about behind the scenes feuds; the narrative significance of men's tank tops, skate shoes and Charlize's hairstyle; the family dinners that end most of the movies, the gentle way they handle Paul Walker's death, and the characters' ability to walk away from unfathomable car crashes pretty much unscathed.

As I write this I am plagued with the need to explain the reasoning for watching these movies, almost as if I need to apologize for it. But there is no grand cultural or personal denouement to this journey (see, I even used a fancy french word to legitimize my lack of legitimacy). What I take away most, what has created a lasting memory, is the shared coping. There seemed to be an understanding that we had burned through our go-to strategies for lowering stress and disrupting monotony. This new routine became something to look forward to, and, consequently, brought a little extra perk and purpose to the rest of the day. It was, I can only imagine, an unexpected experience for my son to share with with me, not as unexpected as say a stroll through the zombie canon of movies, but unexpected nonetheless. And it was a pleasant reminder to me to maybe be a little less of a snob, and that on days when I cannot handle bleak, when I need to take a few hours break from significance, survival of the moment is not always self and societal examination, it is a brief escape into turbo engines, nitros and the Rock sporting tank top undershirts in the work place. It is a time for the head, heart and soul to rest and reboot, and to welcome comfort and ease from surprising places.

We haven't decided which canon to tackle next, so I'm open for suggestions.

What the #!%* Is a Derecho

The power went out the other day. I believe the locusts are on standby.

Power outages do not usually freak me out. I am flashlight vulnerable for sure. I always think they are in one of three places, and they never are, and they rarely work. Other than that, the biggest inconvenience is boredom, and the pursuant chaos of being out of control: no internet, can’t open the refrigerator, can’t find any matches for the candles I need because of my flashlight ineptitude, bored offspring, inability to do work, etc. The biggest revelation and reminder is always how much I rely on electricity; those charged particles that flow, and move and interact. It is a convenient daily miracle that I take for granted almost 100% of the time.

This past outage, I must admit, freaked me out. It lasted longer and, like when relatives call, had epically lousy timing. On day 1,000,437 of quarantine, in the midst of civil unrest with an imposed curfew, and during the hottest several days of the year so far, fate or nature or both sent in a derecho. A derecho, Merriam Webster explains, is "a large fast-moving complex of thunderstorms with powerful straight-line winds that cause widespread destruction."

Hello metaphor.

I think it’s safe to say that 2020 has, so far, been one large seemingly nonstop, derecho. 

• Pandemic
• Economic downturn
• Massive loss of jobs
• Lantern flies
• Killer hornets
• Ahmaud Awbery, Breona Taylor, George Floyd, unforgivably murdered
• Justifiable and necessary civil unrest
• Lack of compassionate selfless leadership from the President

This confluence of thunderstorms continue to gather strength, threatening their own types of power outages with pursuant chaos.

Of course there are the power outages of political failures, an overburdened and flawed medical system, income inequality, the powerlessness of joblessness, nature’s reminder of our expendability, and ongoing intolerable systemic racism. And when this derecho of shit joins forces into the perfect storm we are currently experiencing, the power outages that ironically result from and fuel it all at once are our personal outages. Our sense that we are powerless in the face of all of it. Our personal flashlight vulnerability that perpetuates the struggle to find a light.

It can be paralyzing. It has broken my heart. 

Now this next part is gonna sound weird, bear with me. I'm an improviser. I perform it, I direct it, I teach it. It charges particles in a unique way. Here's what it has taught me:

• Accept the reality in front of you and build on it
• Shut up and listen
• Be fascinated by the people right in front of you, rather than trying to be fascinating for a perceived audience.
• Cede control
• Embrace and listen to chaos
• Have each other's backs
• Make everyone else on stage look good
• Sacrifice yourself for the good of the team, sacrifice your team for the good of the show
• Everybody's contribution makes the making more unique
• You do not need to know the ending when you begin

I am not in any way shape or form suggesting that this is the panacea for our derecho. Whenever I experience a personal power outage, however, it is the truths above that create the potential energy, “the energy that a piece of matter has because of its position or nature or because of the arrangement of parts," (thank you again Merriam Webster) to charge new particles. It reminds me to be astonished and inspired by the courage and compassion I witness every day. Doctors, nurses, essential workers, protestors, community organizers, BIPOC everywhere who are undeterred, truth tellers and truth seekers. Even during our little local derecho, family, friends and neighbors tossed out life rafts and sent out posts offering to bring over a meal, to use a spare bedroom, or to open their homes to charge devices, without a second thought. These are the flashlights I find to get me through the outages. I am in awe of human beings, the other daily miracles I take for granted 100% of the time. I put my faith in the ensemble of humanity. I will work harder to have everyone’s back. 

My power is back on if you need to recharge. I’ll be here doing what I can to keep the locusts at bay.

I See

When I look at myself, I see 

• Not consistent enough
• Not organized enough
• Didn’t make you do enough chores
• Didn’t turn off the TV enough
• Didn’t teach you enough social etiquette.
• Didn’t insist on you making your own lunch enough
• Didn’t clean the house enough
• Didn’t volunteer enough
• Wasn't strong enough
• Didn’t garden enough
• Didn’t make enough vegetables
• Didn’t garden enough vegetables
• Didn’t have enough expectations
• Didn’t hold the line enough
• Didn’t teach you enough
• Didn’t let you struggle enough
• Didn’t play enough games
• Didn’t teach you enough about money management
• Didn’t give you enough of anything or everything.

Only possible conclusion: I was not enough.

When I look at you, I see 

• When you recount with saturating accuracy the details of Overwatch or the trade intricacies of Runescape, I see focus fueled by curiosity.
• When you tell your father to eat less ice cream, I see concern.
• When you tell me to relax, I see that you see how hard I try to work.
• When you correct my form when I occasionally exercise, I see your expertise.
• When you fail and fall and fury, and still get off the mat again, I see resilience.
• When I hear you laugh, I see your individuality.
• When you put your dish in the dishwasher, I see consideration.
• When the time comes that it occurs to you to turn the dishwasher on, I will see god.
• When you bring the garbage cans back from the curb on trash day without being asked, I see independence.
• When you say to the cashier “Thanks, have a good one,” I see connection.
• When you tell your brother “sorry man, that sucks,” I see compassion.
• When you eat a fruit or vegetable, I see balance.
• When you separate, I see self-care.
• When you call with a question or problem, I see you see the strength in asking for help.
• When you help your grandmother move mulch, I see kindness.
• When you are outraged by injustices big and small, I see engagement.
• When you cry at the end of How to Train Your Dragon,” I see humanity.

Only possible conclusion: You are more than enough.

When your life was put in my hands, I knew I needed to give you everything, and that everything would never be enough, because love got redefined that day. Of course I would never be enough, because it takes you to fill in what’s next. In this grand, messy, uncertain, heartbreaking, heart-making, hilarious collaboration that is family, my only driving wish is that you can survive and thrive in the wild. I see that you will. Thank you for showing me love’s infinite capacity. Now, turn the dishwasher on.

Some Call it Sexism, I Call it...

I'm concerned. There's seems to be something wrong with my husband and both of my offspring. On the surface it might be hastily diagnosed as sexism, but more intensive trials would reveal it as something more dangerous, dick-itis.

I had a vague suspicion that they might have been afflicted with this chronic ailment, but quarantine has made urgent what I can no longer ignore. Common symptoms are:

• Willful avoidance of placing dishes in the dishwasher
• Haphazard piling of once worn clothing, often in close proximity to but never reaching the hamper
• Deceptive preliminary assistance with meal preparation, quickly abandoned after the dicing of one vegetable
• Bi-weekly inquiries of "what can I do to help;" often mistaken as deep desire to change a dynamic, but quickly revealed as a get out of jail free card to avoid actually paying attention 
• Abandonment of societally accepted masculine chore of taking out garbage
• Leaving cabinets open
• Monopolizing television with bleak Scandinavian detective procedurals and re-purposed "average man turns into drug dealer/money launderer" series.
• In an effort to boost internet efficiency, configuring an elaborate network of ethernet cable booby traps snaked throughout the house.
• Appalling lack of personal grooming
• Inexplicable unwillingness to charge phones
• Inexplicable loss of phone chargers (during a quarantine?)
• Intolerable accusatory panic when searching for phone charger due to near dead phone
• Unwillingness to change, clean or fold any bed linen, ever, in the history of forever.
• Basically never participating in any activity that is deigned as beneath their masculine pay grade and traditionally understood as "women's work."

There are exceptions which lead to a false negative diagnosis. These exceptions are usually revealed to be shallowly motivated by a desire to stay out of the dog house and rarely have long lasting effects. Doing the dishes once a week, or taking out the garbage only when asked are not actual cures, but merely temporary prophylactic remedies

The cause of dick-itis is still unknown. Inroads have been made in identifying historical and societal patterns that have served as breeding grounds for this long-lasting condition. The common underlying factor seems to be a belief that they, men, and their needs and desires, are simply more important than women's. That there is simply no room for everyday tasks necessary for common comfort, hygiene, and continuity, in their minds, which must be 100% dedicated to their lofty goals and pursuits. The easiest conclusion to draw from this is that their brains are not, in fact, big enough. 

There are exceptions, of course. There are highly evolved men who have adapted. They have built up an immunity to dick-itis. They do pay attention. And there are women who can absolutely be afflicted with dick-itis. There are also women, like myself, who employ Benadryl-like and other OTC remedies to ease symptoms. These remedies are most often administered with the "it'll just be easier if" technique, seen by many as a quick relief tactic. In the long run, however, symptoms regularly recur. 

Success has been found in steady, disciplined and vigilant expectation setting which leads to the always male soothing elixir of routine. Early treatment is the key, and many have made great strides with the "teach a man to fish" approach to parenting, as opposed to the long standing and misnomered "maternal" instinct of "give a man a fish." Ironically the onus of this time-consuming treatment falls upon women, adding to the seemingly infinite list of what is considered "women's work." 

The long term effects of caring for someone with dick-itis lead to 

• Irritation
• The silent treatment
• Seething sub-surface resentment
• One more cocktail than is probably necessary
• Too many potato chips
• Mumbled, unsubtle rants of "I guess their dicks are so big it prevents them from bending over to put their 5th glass of the day in the dishwasher."
• Eye rolling
• Re-evaluation of every choice you've ever made

There is, unfortunately no quick fix. Most men will say there is. Their quick fix is "just tell me what to do, don't expect me to know what you want." They are right, to some extent, none of us are mind readers. To the rest of the extent though, understanding that if one person cooks dinner, the other should enable balance by doing the dishes should not have to be communicated or taught. In the year 2020, a mere 100 years after women were finally given the right to vote, it should be understood.