Anxiety and self-discovery – Page 3

April 9, 2020April 9, 2020

Settling

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard. The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches. But the birds are active. I don’t know birds, really. I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee. But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning. I never would have taken the time to notice before.

**********

We have settled in to a strange new normal. It mostly looks like this:

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something. Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean.

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others. Some days, we feel more connected. Some days, we’re in our own little worlds. Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day. Some days feel manageable. Some days are full of tears.

Today, I went to the grocery store. I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different. This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away. I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores. I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves. I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor. I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted. Everyone wore masks. Nearly everyone wore gloves, too. It was eerily silent.

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me. Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger. Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air. People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space. People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping. Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car. And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable. I had already exposed myself. I had already exposed others to me. If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster. On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone. I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been. The kids have been creative. I’ve been working on my personal goals. I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things. I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do. On Tuesday, I was feeling good.

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good. I’m noticing some positive changes within my family. Our time together is less forced. There’s more room to explore our interests. I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock. With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.

Of course, there are things that are hard. Online teaching and learning are super stressful. I cried twice last week about work. I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it. I worry about my family and friends who are struggling. Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge. Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family.

**********

I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon. But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain. They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather. I sit and watch a particular droplet. I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates. I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below. I never would have taken the time to notice before.

March 31, 2020March 31, 2020

Back to Work

I went back to work today. Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment.

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?” Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas. We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home? What would the schedule look like? What about kids without access? Struggling learners? We had so many questions, and not enough answers. Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.”

Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials. Teachers signed up for time slots. No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home. We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.” I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly.

It did not.

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather. I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up. I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned). I thought I was ready for the task.

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom. The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board. Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected. My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant. This space got frozen in such an optimistic time. We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions. The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class. The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them. The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat. I cried.

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost. A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder. Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little. And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format. Because that’s what we do.

We’re teachers. We make it work.

March 22, 2020March 22, 2020

Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters. Everything makes me cry lately. My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge. A photo of an Italian hospital. Tears. A text from a friend. Tears. A fun family meetup online? Also tears. I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine. I do know that it’s Sunday. I know this because I got to go to church this morning. I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church. Virtual church. Which actually brought me to tears. I set up my computer in the living room. I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV. I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera. I rallied my family. Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas. Two of us had coffee, one drank tea. One sketched through the sermon. Another listened while he worked on a puzzle. I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy. I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened. More tears. Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once. What’s to come? None of us knows. But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it.

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas. Family game night? Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods? I don’t waaant to! Help me make brownies? How about I just help EAT the brownies? But something weird is happening to my children. Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary. We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?” I expected groaning. I expected eye rolling. But what I got was enthusiasm. They wanted to keep playing. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either. We played four more rounds. It was beautiful.

But anyway, I digress. Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon. We had discussed it at length. Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project. There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist. We had arranged to go pick it up. But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family. The kids haven’t liked these rules. As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother. I tried to be compassionate but clear. It was still really hard. I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world. To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it. But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip. We all loaded into the truck. There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously. They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash. We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops. We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots. When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money. They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch. They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up. On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store. We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk. My 17 year old asked to come. My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to. I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers. She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk. She observed that nobody was going near anyone else. I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared. I just want her to be safe. Right now, all of our kids need different things. Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear. Some kids need solid information and comfort. But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’ Because at that age, they are fearless. They’re supposed to be. That’s how God made them. So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world. They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance. They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger. They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check. They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.

March 13, 2020March 13, 2020

Something to Give

The house smells like pizza. My favorite insulated tumbler is full of sweet tea (I haven’t added the vodka just yet), and I’ve read half a novel today. I woke up early, showered, made a trip to the dump and then took Lee on a Target run. We laughed our way through the aisles and then returned home with all the fixings for a bake-a-thon. I’ve talked to my mom, my dad, and my mother-in-law today, and I’ve spent the morning exchanging texts with my sisters and many of my close friends.

I’m sitting in front of my computer, focusing on taking deep breaths. I’m prayerful and grateful.

And I am also just a few breaths away from a panic attack.

When I was a kid, I felt the panic coming on and then I panicked more. I would spiral so badly that I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. The tears rolled down my face and I felt certain that I was dying.

This continued into my twenties and thirties, but as I got older, I learned to recognize the signs before they became paralyzing. I know that the pain behind my rib cage on my left side is my ‘notice,’ if you would. It tells me I need to pause and breathe. I need to listen to my body and stretch and pray and summon a mental list of my blessings. My body tells me what’s about to happen, and I’ve learned strategies for preventing it.

But what nobody has ever been able to explain is what causes it. The doctors called it ‘free-floating’ anxiety when I was a kid. Which always seemed like a ridiculously cute name for something so terribly crippling. And if it was so freely able to float, why wouldn’t it just freaking FLOAT AWAY?

I could never point to a cause. I was never able to identify a particular stressor. My anxiety would appear at the most unexpected times. It was never when I was in the middle of a crisis. It didn’t show up for breakups or finals or first dates. It reared its ugly head in the middle of a lunch date with a friend, or just before band practice, or in a hotel spa. I didn’t believe the anxiety diagnosis for a long time, because … well, I just didn’t FEEL anxious.

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid. I recently started seeing someone new. She’s great. She’s thoughtful and funny and makes connections that I can’t see until she points them out. And she’s started to point out all the ways that I twist myself in order to feel liked, or wanted, or needed, or respected.

She has helped me to see that I don’t let myself feel my own feelings, because I’m too busy anticipating the responses or needs of others.

And I’m starting to notice it in a million little ways. I haven’t made my own favorite meal in years, because nobody else really likes it. I let my husband interrupt me, even though it drives me nuts. I spend so much time worrying about what my readers might want to read that I stop writing altogether.

All of this is so deeply ingrained that I don’t even know I’m doing it. I suppress my desires so intuitively that I don’t even realize what’s happening. That is, of course, until I explode. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like a panic attack in the grocery store. Sometimes it looks like angry screaming at my kids.

On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, Lee called for me. “Mom…. I’m so sorry.” Not a good sign.

Instead of cleaning his room the day before, what he had actually done was shove everything under his bed… including a gallon container of Elmer’s glue. The container, poorly closed and lying on its side, had deposited a three-foot wide puddle of glue under his bed. Resting in the glue puddle was an assortment of art supplies, empty cups, dirty clothes, and random trash.

To say I lost my temper would be a gross understatement. There was screaming and swearing and crying. I could feel my pulse in my temple, and I think I pulled a muscle in my neck. I lost my mind.

And it wasn’t until my therapy session, two days later, that I was able to tease out what had happened. She pushed me to look closer. How much of that explosion was actually because of the glue? What else had been going on? What had I done to take care of myself that week? What was I really feeling?

In hindsight, it was a straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back kind of a moment. I had been just barely maintaining the status quo. I was treading water, trying to be a good mom and a good teacher and a good wife and a good friend, and none of it was clicking the way I wanted it to. I was a shaken bottle of emotion, and the inevitable explosion took the form of rage.

I lost it because I had nothing left to give.

********

Over the past week, I’ve been trying to ‘be fine.’ I laugh about the empty toilet paper shelves and wonder if people realize that humans lived for thousands of years without paper specifically designed for butt-wiping. And then I walk a few feet away and buy cough medicine I don’t currently need.

I tell my students and my kids to ‘just wash your hands’ while I make lists of ingredients for two weeks of dinners, ‘just in case.’

I floss my teeth and photocopy vocabulary words like it’s a normal day, and then I spend my lunch period Googling various combinations of “Italy” and “COVID-19” and “CDC” and “pandemic.”

Yesterday, I left work, picked up Lee from his afterschool club, and went to the store… not because I actually thought I needed something, but because I wanted to look around and make sure there wasn’t something I had forgotten.

Please don’t take the time to write and tell me how crazy that was. My logical brain KNOWS that.

But I’ve been so worried about LOOKING crazy, that I’ve been ignoring these feelings. This anxiety is so repressed that it is beginning to seep out of me in ways that don’t make sense. And maybe that’s exactly what a panic attack is. It is the spillage that results from way too much trying to be fine.

I got the call yesterday afternoon that school would be cancelled today in the district where I work. Within minutes, I had made the decision to keep my own kids home, even though their schools aren’t closing until Monday. And in that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief that helped me to see that I had been holding my breath for days.

Today, as the world grinds to a halt in the face of a pandemic, I’m trying to let myself feel my feelings. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to feel sad. It’s okay to be happy for the chance to binge Queer Eye and bake brownies with my kids. All of it can be there at the same time. The gratitude and the strength can co-exist with the fear and the worry.

I’m trying to listen to my body and focus on my feelings and get curious about my emotional state. I’m opening my heart so I can be filled with something bigger than all of this. And when I can embrace all of those emotions and inhale the grace that has been extended to me, I’ll be able to find my center. That’s where I’ll find my gifts and remember that, with God’s help, I will always have something to give.

January 12, 2020January 12, 2020

2020

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.” I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse. I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans. I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.

And I like the name change. Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken. I do, however, believe that all things can be improved. Myself included.

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves. I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke. On January 3^rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?” Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year. Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement. But a resolution is so rigid. It’s a vow. And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable? Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October.

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up. You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty.

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things. If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman. If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear. If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.

I’m trying to find a better balance. I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough. Does that even make sense?

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better. But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better. What will make you a better YOU?

A better ME would write more. Writing makes me feel more myself. I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write.

A better ME would spend more time in nature. Being outdoors brings me peace.

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.

The list goes on and on. It’s too much to tackle all at once. But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.” What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have.

For example; I’m terrible at flossing. I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more. But I do brush my teeth every day. So I stacked flossing on top of that. Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss. It was yucky and irritating at first. But that was months ago. Now it’s just part of my routine. And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that. So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine. A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy. But I ALWAYS had coffee. So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee. Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries. On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting. I become compulsive and obsessive. I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky. The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks. Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’ But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.

I’m not buying into it anymore. I’m not broken. In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways. And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all. Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more. Get outside.

– Do more yoga.

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.

– Be more present.

– Write. Write a lot.

I’m not going to do this all at once. I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment. Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.

October 14, 2019October 14, 2019

Grace

I’ve set a writing goal. One blog post a week, plus another thousand words that I don’t post. This is week three.

The thousand words I don’t post come pretty easily. They’re not necessarily focused or organized. They’re a bit rambly and full of emotion and they pour out of me.

But the blog posts? They’re hard to write on a deadline. Because my best posts come from an emotional place. They come when I’m going through something that I need to process or share or work through. But it’s got to be just the right thing. It can’t be something too sensitive. It can’t be something too raw or recent.

I’m realizing, as I write this, that I don’t post anything that I’m even a little ashamed of. I’m inspired by Brene Brown’s work on shame and vulnerability, and her perspective has helped me be a little more authentic. But none of us likes to be judged.

When I write online, I am open to sharing some pretty raw and vulnerable stuff; partly because I know and trust most of my readers, but also because, deep down, I’m pretty proud of what I share.

I’m proud that we brought Bea into our family; I’m honored to be a part of this loyal, strong, smart young lady’s life. I’m proud of Lee and who he is; not only his identity, but his artistic talent and his sense of humor and his inquisitive mind. I’m also proud of the way our family has supported him. I’m proud of Cal’s quick wit and kind heart. I’m proud of my stepsons; their loyalty and their work ethic and their willingness to shift their beliefs and expectations to make room for the changing dynamics of a family. I’m proud of my musical, handy, impulsive husband, who is the reason anything big ever gets done around here.

I’m proud of this chaotic, messy, beautiful life we’ve built. And even when I’m sad, or frustrated or lonely or afraid … I can tell you that, too. Because it’s real, and honest.

But it’s hard to share shame. When you know you were wrong. When you know you didn’t give your all. When your negligence or laziness or messed up priorities led to someone getting hurt.

And what I’ve learned about all that is that it isn’t necessarily the EVENT that’s so hard to deal with. It’s a reconciliation of yourself. It’s figuring out what to do with a juxtaposition that has you questioning your own identity. If you believe yourself to be an honest person, and you did something dishonest… what do you DO with that? Do you blame others? Pretend it didn’t happen? Hide under your covers? Give up and become dishonest always?

If you consider yourself to be responsible, but you made an irresponsible choice, the hardest part is figuring out who you are now. Are you still the person you thought you were?

It is in this vulnerable place where I find my faith to be so valuable. If I can convince myself, in that agitated state, that I am loved and beloved, JUST AS I AM, then I can find the next step.

I can look at who I am and who I want to be and know that, even while I am improving, I am still whole and valued and loved beyond measure. That’s the power of faith and forgiveness.

I think it’s easier said than done. I think it takes a lot of mental and emotional work. But it’s so worth it. We do it for our kids, right? Think about it. We don’t tell them they’re BAD KIDS. We tell them that they’re GOOD KIDS who made a bad choice. We tell them that we love them no matter what and that we’re going to help them make better choices.

That’s what grace is. So today, I’m going to extend myself a little grace. I hope you will do the same.

October 5, 2019October 5, 2019

Sewing

Probably about 10 years ago, my mom gave me a sewing machine. I think she might’ve found it at a garage sale. Or maybe she just had it lying around and never used it. I don’t recall exactly. But she remembered that I made curtains for my first apartment, and she thought I might want a sewing machine.

I DID want a sewing machine. Or maybe more accurately, I wanted to be the kind of person who uses a sewing machine. So I eagerly brought home a gently used Singer.

That sewing machine has been in my spare room, my basement, my garage. It’s been all over the house. But it’s never actually been USED.

I guess that’s not entirely true. About five years ago, my husband and I took it out to try to sew new boat cushion covers. But we couldn’t figure out how to wind the bobbin. We also realized we’d need heavy-duty needles and probably more sewing experience than NONE to make those cushions actually happen. So we covered the torn cushions in pretty layers of red duct tape, instead.

And the sewing machine got relegated, once more, to the basement.

Recently, I was looking at a bunch of dingy, flattened throw pillows on my couch. I love throw pillows. But every time I buy them, I cringe at the price tag. Why are pillows so freaking expensive? They’re fabric squares stuffed with fluff!

Then, of course, I tell myself, You can make pillows. How hard can it be? I remind myself, You made those curtains. And they were almost even!

And I so desperately want to be the kind of person who sews, that I pick up a few fabric squares and I carry my Singer up from the basement. This time, I watch a few bobbin-winding videos on YouTube. I realize that the bobbin needs to turn COUNTER clockwise, and it feels like I’ve solved the problem. Until I break the needle.

It took a few more videos and a trip to the store, but GUESS WHAT? I made a pillow! I actually made TWO pillows. Maybe they’re not store-quality, but they didn’t come out too bad!

A few days later I hemmed a curtain!

I’ve got big plans now, guys. Pillows! Tablecloths! Curtains! Dog bed covers! I’m pretty sure I am now capable of sewing lots of square and rectangular things.

But aside from my obvious bragging, I have another reason for sharing this with you. I think, sometimes, as we get older, we get stuck in our routines. We know what we’re good at, and we do those things. We’ve already defined ourselves.

You are either ‘a runner’ or ‘someone who doesn’t run.’ A ‘muscian’ or ‘not a musician.’ Creative. Funny. A writer. A fitness buff. Or not.

And then, slowly but surely, we shrink to fit our own definitions of ourselves. We forget the joy of learning something new. And guys, it is so freaking fun to learn new things!

My challenge to myself this season is to keep growing. Keep learning. Keep trying new things. I’m trying to stretch myself beyond my own vision of who I can be. I know that I am a teacher, a reader, a mother, a musician…. I’ve been all of those things for so long!

But I can be more. I can be SO MANY things! I’m taking a writing class now. I’m learning so much, and loving every minute of it. And with the help of a great technological advancement called YouTube, I feel confident that I will eventually be able to sew things that aren’t square!

With a little bit of effort, I am going to become an author, a person who sews, and maybe even a woman who can curl her own hair. The sky’s the limit!

Will you join me? What have YOU always wanted to learn?

June 2, 2019June 2, 2019

Adrenaline

I never really thought of myself as an adrenaline junkie. As a kid, I was a straight A student who was super involved in my church. I played piano and worked as a waitress and babysat to make a little money.

Of course, like many of us, I look back at some of the stupid things I did in my teens and early twenties, and I thank God that my bad decisions didn’t have lingering (or lethal) consequences.

Yeah… I did some dumb stuff. In high school, it was illegal bonfires and lying to my parents about where I was spending the night. Parking with my boyfriend to ‘check out the view’ from the mountain lookout. Dancing in the Denny’s parking lot at 2am. Camping in the woods with kids I had just met.

In college it was frat parties and spring break trips. It was stumbling home drunk and pizza at 3am. It was smoking cigarettes and venturing out on the railroad bridge at Letchworth State Park, praying a train wouldn’t come through.

https://fingerlakes.fandom.com/wiki/Letchworth_State_Park?file=Letchworth_rail_bridge.jpg

In my twenties, the big risk was moving to a new city by myself. I made a new group of friends and found myself hosting late night house parties, making out with strangers in bars, and cliff jumping at the quarries on the North Shore. I got my motorcycle and loved the rush of scraping my knees against pavement around a tight turn.

But somewhere along the line, little by little, the risks began to change. I fell in love. Got married. Had babies. Bought a house. All risks, but a different kind.

Over the last few years, we’ve gone through a couple of new jobs, our son’s transition, and bringing our foster daughter into the family. We fought through a rough spot in our marriage and some tough times financially. There were a lot of adrenaline-inducing events.

But recently, things have calmed down. I no longer feel as if I’m preparing for a battle. We’re all doing well. And instead of being relaxed and grateful, I find myself missing something. I think it might be the adrenaline.

Don’t get me wrong. I have zero desire to jump off a cliff or go camping with strangers. But I also know that my natural tendency is to hang out squarely within my comfort zone.

The thing is, there’s JOY in my comfort zone. There’s friendship and security. There is laughter and fulfillment. This life that I have? It’s pretty great. It’s full of date nights and book club and bedtime stories; family dinners and church gatherings, guitar lessons and movie nights; good friends and camping trips and family vacations.

So when I find myself missing SOMETHING, my first tendency is to dismiss my own yearnings. What could I possibly need? I’m not 23 anymore. I’m incredibly blessed.

But the more I ignore that inner voice, the more persistent it becomes. And eventually, I have to spend a little time listening to myself. For me, that just means I need to notice the places where I’m stuck. I need to notice what’s become too comfortable and remember that even a beautiful path traveled too frequently becomes a rut.

I know what I like. So it’s easy to stick with it. Date night? Let’s go to the usual place! Family vacation? We love camping! Need some girl time? Book club every third Saturday!

But maybe the easy choice is taking the place of the more fulfilling choice. Sometimes the harder thing is the more rewarding one. That doesn’t mean I need to get a tattoo or go sky diving (although they’re both still on the table). I might need to try a new restaurant. Volunteer for a new cause. Make plans with a friend I haven’t seen in a while. I might need to turn off Netflix and write a little bit.

At this point in my life, my adrenaline comes from socializing, from creating, from trying something new. My motorcycle is still an important outlet, although I’d rather feel the wind in my face than my knees on the pavement.

I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need to take stupid risks to feel alive. I don’t need to do something dangerous to get a little rush. When this beautiful life of mine starts to feel like a well-worn path, I just need to step into the woods, notice the birds, and smell the flowers. I have to be mindful of the things that make me feel like ME and remember to do them.

April 28, 2019April 28, 2019

Heartbreak

This damned job rips your heart out sometimes.

I have friends who are not in education. Those friends will often complain that something is missing in their work. Some feel that their talent is being wasted. Some feel like glorified salespeople. Some feel undervalued, or derive little personal satisfaction from the end goal of making money. When I’m in those conversations, I am reminded of why I chose education. I don’t suffer from that particular affliction. I find a deep purpose in my job. It’s not overstating to call education a calling. Those of us who do it, do so in spite of the many drawbacks… we do it because we feel deeply called to teach.

We all know that teachers don’t enter the field because of the financial allure of a big paycheck. We don’t have a lot of hope for advancement. We do count on decent benefits to provide a counter to the constant financial and emotional drain of this particular career.

And we start out with an idealistic sense of our own power for good. We start with boundless energy and enthusiasm and optimism. We start with a deep love for humanity; for children in particular. We want to be a part of something bigger. We want to change lives and show love and impart knowledge along with confidence and character and a love of learning.

And then.

We learn some hard lessons. We learn that our best efforts will often be rewarded with a lack of support or even outright opposition. We learn that those parents we thought were on our side may actually view us as an enemy force, conspiring to corrupt and demean their children. We get slammed by grief, as if for our own children, as we watch our students experience trauma or violence or heartbreak. We load our desks with snacks and spare toiletries for those who are homeless or struggling or simply without supervision as parents struggle to make ends meet. We run clubs and after school events on our own time and our own dime, so that our students have a safe place to spend a few extra hours after school. We pool our resources to ensure no student will be without a gift for the holidays. We buy coats and shoes and gloves to leave with the nurse, for the kids who come in without them.

And when my husband and I decided to become foster parents to take in a student with nowhere to go, do you know what the intake worker on the phone said to me? She said, “Oh, you were her teacher? God bless teachers. I don’t know where half these kids would be without teachers who step up.”

Teachers do. They step up. And the financial sacrifice is nothing compared to the emotional sacrifice. Because you can’t do this job well without putting your heart into it. If you’re not capable of loving other people’s kids, then teaching isn’t for you. If you’re going to make a difference, first you have to make a connection. You have to look at the students who are hard to love; you have to really get close and you have to find their best qualities, and you have to bring out those qualities over and over and over again until the student begins to recognize that they, too, have gifts to share. The kids that are hard to love are often the ones who need it most. And if you’re going to connect with those kids, you have to be willing to let your own heart get broken over and over again.

And when these kids move on, you wish them luck. You check in on them occasionally. You clip newspaper articles and leave them in the staff room with a smiley-faced note that proudly proclaims, “Former student! ” You run into them at the bank and the grocery store and some will come right up and hug you while others sneak by with a shy smile and the briefest eye contact. You go to high school graduation for each class that you’ve had the privilege to teach. You cheer loudly and you congratulate them by name.

Because that’s just what you do.

Teachers know that.

So how is it that I know all this, and this week still took my breath away? This week shook me like a rag doll and then left me breathless and bleeding emotion.

The foundation of this crappy week is sadly something pretty typical for special education teachers. I’ve been teaching for 18 years, and this is the third time that I’ve had to work with a lawyer to prepare for a hearing because parents are suing. Of course, I can’t get in to the details of the case, but I’ll give you some background. If a student needs an out of district placement, I believe it is my responsibility to advocate for that. I will never lie and say that our school is meeting the needs of a child if I don’t believe that to be true. That’s the good thing about teachers’ unions. They protect teachers so that we have the freedom to advocate for kids instead of being puppets for the financial decision makers. But there will always be parents who want something different for their children than the school district is willing to provide (read- finance). And so. We have to gather all our paperwork and dot our I’s and cross our T’s and take precious time away from our students to prepare to go to court. As a general rule, teachers are pleasers. We’re pretty confrontation-avoidant, and because we put our whole selves into every ounce of this job, we take any criticism as a personal attack. A hearing is pretty much the opposite of how we’d choose to spend our days.

So this week started with preparing for court.

And then come the state tests. I won’t write all of my thoughts about state tests here. A measure of progress makes sense. Eight year olds having panic attacks and bursting into tears because the teachers who have always guided them and encouraged them aren’t allowed to support them at all? Come on. Eight hours of testing? Unnecessary. A computer-based assessment when all the research tells us that kids’ reading comprehension deteriorates on a screen? Well, that’s just nonsense. There’s got to be a better way.

State testing layered over court preparations. The week was off to a rocky start.

And then the unthinkable happened. Our community was rocked by tragedy. A murder- suicide involving both parents of five children who have moved through our school system. I couldn’t breathe for a moment when I found out who it was. I shoved all of the emotion to the back of my mind and I proctored the test and I taught some students and I prepared for the hearing.

And I turned into a puddle when I got home that night. I told myself I was overreacting. I told myself that my tears didn’t make sense. This wasn’t my family. I barely knew the parents.

But the kids. I taught the youngest. I could see his face when I closed my eyes. I thought of him and my heart broke into a million little pieces. I cried. And I cry every time I think about it.

You know that phrase about having kids? “It’s like having your heart walking around in the world every day.” Well, imagine that times a thousand. Or more. How many students have I taught over the past 18 years? They’re all walking around out there, with a little piece of my heart.

The next day, I spoke with one of my teaching partners. She had the kid in class, too. And I confessed that I was totally shaken; in a way that almost seemed inappropriate. I was more upset than should be warranted, given my peripheral relationship with the mom and dad, and the fact that the kid had been in my class several years ago.

But her eyes widened, and she looked at me and said, “Yes. Yes. Me, too.” And we both held back tears for a few minutes as we reflected on our time with that kid and we shared the common thread of our helplessness and the overwhelming emotion of knowing that this kid whom we had cared for so patiently and carefully and lovingly…. this amazing young man just had his life ripped apart. His heart was broken and ours broke right along with it.

Because that is what we take on as teachers. We take on all the heartache.

Today, I just have to sit in the sadness. I have to acknowledge that this job requires more than just my time and my energy and my commitment. It requires connections and relationships. And what makes it good is also what makes it hurt so damned badly. That’s the risk of relationship. That’s the price of a job that makes you whole; it also has the power to take a piece of you.

April 19, 2019April 19, 2019

39

Today is the last day of my 30s.

I wake up to the smell of dog pee on my carpet. Again. And before I even open my eyes, I’m doing mental calculations. How much will the vet bill be if she actually has a bladder infection? What if it’s worse than that? What if she has cancer? I can’t afford to treat dog cancer. Wait. What am I thinking? I don’t care about the money. This is my beloved PET! But… how much money are we talking about here? Maybe she’s just getting old. Am I going to pay hundreds of dollars for the vet to tell me she’s old? When should I replace the carpet? How much will it cost to replace the carpet? Is she just going to continue to pee on the new carpet? What about flooring and a throw rug? Am I mentally redecorating for a dog with cancer?

I roll out of bed, clean up the mess, and let the dog out. I make myself a cup of coffee and slice an apple and start my to-do list. I have about fifteen phone calls to make; the tree guy (I’ve been putting that one off for a couple of years), schedule Bea’s road test (this terrifies me, and I’ve been postponing it for weeks), the doctor’s office, the other doctor’s office, the dentist, the hospital billing department (because I swear I already paid that co-pay)… but it’s 6am, and none of those places are open yet, so I set the list aside. I stop writing long enough to rub the sleep out of my eye, and then I realize my mistake.

I have a sensitivity to a few fruits; apples are one of them. I can eat certain types. Others make my mouth itch. But all apples need to go directly into my mouth. God forbid the juices get near my eye. You see where I’m going with this, right? I just rubbed my eye with a hint of apple on my finger and now my eye is itchy and swelling and red and it’s entirely because of my own stupidity.

I leave my list to wash my hands and rinse my eye and on my way back, I get distracted by the unmade bed in my room and then I head upstairs to the linen closet because I really need to change the sheets before I make the bed. A tangle of squished sheets and blankets tumbles out when I open the door, like a scene from a bad comedy. I spend 30 minutes cleaning the closet. I change the sheets and make the bed and pour a second cup of coffee. I spread some peanut butter on a banana for my kid and he spills dry tapioca all over the kitchen floor. I walk across the kitchen with dry tapioca pearls stuck to the bottom of my feet, and I hand him the broom.

This is the last day of my 30s.

For my 30^thbirthday, my husband threw a party. He rented a room at a restaurant and his band played and he invited everyone we knew. My kids were 2 and 4 at the time. They danced and ran around and were generally adorable. Eventually, my niece took them home to bed. She babysat and I danced and drank heavily and said some terribly embarrassing things in front of my father. I laughed with my college friends. I reminisced with my sisters. I introduced my old friends to my new friends, and I reveled in being the center of attention. People came from out of town; there was an after party in a friend’s hotel room and we finally passed out in the wee hours of the morning. It felt like I was 22 again. I loved it. That party was epic.

I am almost 40.

I’m not feeling old or depressed or any of those things that stupid movies tell women they should feel when turning 40. I love my life. I’m glad to be 40. Maybe it’s cliché, but I feel like I’m coming into my own. I’m learning and growing. I’m becoming a better human.

A decade ago, I was a newlywed and a new mother. I had beautiful babies and a loving husband and I was living somebody’s dream (mine? I wasn’t sure…) But my whole life felt unfamiliar and I secretly looked forward to those rare nights when I could go out and feel childless again. I read books and I made plans and I was totally committed to doing marriage and motherhood right. I was scared most of the time.

I look back on that young woman and I admire her. I love her energy and her passion and her commitment. I feel her confusion and her struggle and I wish I could go back and give her a hug.

I am not that woman anymore.

I recently picked up a book at the library. It’s one of those funny books about motherhood and it starts pre-baby and tells the birth story and then makes a lot of jokes about sleepless nights and baby poop and all the unexpected parts of new motherhood. I’m finding it mildly entertaining, but totally irrelevant to my life. Because middle-motherhood is a totally different beast.

I’m not a new mother anymore. I’m a middle-mother. My kids are in the middle of their childhoods. I’m halfway done with the ‘raising them’ part (I have no illusions about ever being ‘done parenting.’) I’m not sleep-deprived anymore. I’m not changing diapers. I’m at the point of motherhood where a puking kid isn’t even a punchline… it’s just another moment in a series of moments. I’m at the point where none of this feels new anymore.

Except it is. Puberty and driving and break-ups and college. It’s all new. And scary. But it’s not the kind of scary you can joke about. It’s ‘suicidal teens’ and ‘substance abuse’ and ‘date rape’ scary. It’s real-world, big-person problems. It’s a court date with your foster daughter and a night in the hospital with your teen.

So solace doesn’t come from a funny book anymore. It doesn’t come from drunken, escapist, ‘pretending-I-don’t-have-kids.’ It comes from real, genuine, human connection with other mothers. Solace comes from knowing we’re not alone. It comes from prayers and faith and it comes from all of the mothers before us, who have walked the journey and come out on the other side.

I’m so grateful for the women who hold me up. I have friends, of course, who are wonderful. But I’m particularly grateful for those women who are a generation (or more) ahead of me on this journey. These warriors KNOW. My mother. My mother-in-law. My Aunt Bev. There are a few women in the church who read this blog and hug me afterward in a way that lets me know that they remember all of this. They know. And they will talk me through and hold me up and remind me that I am not the first or the last. I count on these women to help me with the mothering, but they also help me to find the truth buried in all our myths about marriage.

I’m not a new wife anymore. I am no longer operating under the illusion that ‘our relationship is different’ or that ‘all you need is good communication.’ I realize now that a date night won’t fix everything… but it certainly helps. I’m starting to hear ‘staying together for the kids’ as ‘not ready to give up.’ I look at the relationships around me and I realize that we’re all capable of breaking each others’ hearts. I’m starting to understand that any relationship is a series of choices and that you can choose each other or you can choose to leave… but they both require Herculean effort and the only escape is apathy.

I’m starting to replace, “I would NEVER…” with “You never know…” and I’m just a little bit softer. In every sense of the word. My body is softer. My heart is softer. I’m a little less judgmental and a little less edgy. I’m a lot less cool, and I’m seeing more value in simply being warm.

This is the last day of my 30s.

I run the errands and make the phone calls and make a plan that will pull my kids off their screens. I connect with a friend and eat an omelet and use the good conditioner when I shower. I put on my new socks and my favorite jeans. I load the dishwasher and I take my son to the cardiologist.

A decade ago, I would have been terrified. Today, I am confident. The doctor tells me what I already feel- my kid is fine, he needs to drink more and stand up slowly and sit down when he’s feeling faint. An awesome sonographer points out all the parts of my baby’s heart, on a screen so like the one where I first saw his little heart beat. She patiently describes where the valves are and points out how the blood is flowing and my other son rests his head on my shoulder and we are all reassured. I’ve got this. As I listen to his heart beat once again, I realize I’m stronger now than I’ve ever been.

At home, I shave my legs and pluck my chin hairs and pour a glass of wine. I text my sister. I run the vacuum. I read a little and write a blog post.

Tonight, I will get together with a small group of friends. We will eat and drink too much and laugh too loudly. We’ll celebrate our friendship and appreciate each other. I’ll hold my husband’s hand and enjoy his company and I will look at him and remember how far we’ve come. I will hug my kids (against their will) and I will relax into all of these blessings.

Today is the last day of my 30s.

Tomorrow, my fourth decade begins. And I’m ready for it. I’m looking forward to it… even if there’s dog pee on the carpet.