My Expiration Date

It's hard to believe, but my due date is less than a week away.

With large life events that are on the calendar for ages, it's always somehow surprising when they've actually arrived. Sure, I've known since January that my due date is October 10. But that's, like, a real day. Um, this is really going to happen. We're having a baby!

It all "becomes real" to me, for some strange reason, when I buy milk and the expiration date is further out than whatever big event I've been looking forward to. If the event happens before the milk will expire, that means it is now happening very soon. By the time someone opens this carton of milk and wrinkles her nose at it, I will have graduated/moved to England/gotten married/had a baby/etc. It's when Big Life meets everyday life, and it weirds me out a little, every time.

I remember first experiencing this when I went grocery shopping the week before college graduation. I'm pretty sure I stood in the dairy aisle for a few minutes, trying to process the fact that this skim milk had a longer shelf life than the rest of my college career. I would be drinking this milk as a college graduate, maybe on the morning of graduation, or maybe even on the morning of moving out and leaving campus for the last time. I was so not ready for college to end, but there it was, written on the side of the milk carton. I had to move on.

Of course, my feelings about the event are a little different this time. I was very sad to be done with college, and a tad bit overwhelmed about figuring out the rest of my life. I did have some beer/pizza/pop college weight gain that made my clothes a little tight around the middle, but nothing like the tightness of a pregnant belly that has been stretched about as far as it goes. My skin itches all the time.

It takes me about three different positions to actually get myself rolled from one side to the other in bed at night. And a whole lot of grunting (although some of that is just to wake Keith up a bit and make sure he knows how uncomfortable I am). Physically, I am so done being pregnant. And emotionally, I'm ready to. I'm getting so excited to meet this new baby. Is it a boy or a girl? Will it cry for the first day, like Eleanor did? Or will he/she be calm and curious?

I bought milk today; it expires nine days after my due date. There had BETTER be a baby in my arms before that milk goes off, or I .... I don't even know what. I can't consider the alternative.

I've warned Keith that I am aware that having a due date of October 10 is no guarantee a baby will be born on that day. However, I am guaranteeing that my patience in dealing with the physical difficulties of pregnancy will expire on that day. I'm not particularly patient right now, but I am quite certain it can--and will--get worse if the due date comes and goes without any sign of labor.

I've been telling myself all along that this baby won't be early. Eleanor was a few days late, and I'm just going to go ahead and assume Baby #2 will be the same. I do have my bag packed, although I keep reading the novels I borrowed from the library, which are specifically supposed to be for the hospital. I keep trying to picture what my life will be like next week. Will I be taking Eleanor to Preschool on Monday? Picking her up on Tuesday? Meeting friends at a tearoom for our tentatively planned outing on Wednesday? Going to Parent/Teacher conferences on Friday ... with a new baby?

I'm trying to think of a good, solid conclusion to this blog entry, but I think I'm just going to have to accept that this is one situation that is all about questions and no answers. I don't know how or when labor is going to happen. I do know that I'll be constantly thinking about it until it does.

I'm also pretty certain that, the rate I'm going, I will have used up all the milk in my nightly chocolate milkshakes before we get anywhere near the expiration date. Maybe they can help my patience last a little longer, if needed.

15-Year High School Reunion

Last weekend, Keith and I attended my 15-year high school reunion.

I saved this for my last post of the week, because I've been wondering all week what I really had to say about the experience.

Reunions, particularly high school reunions, feel like they've reached almost mythical levels of importance in our society, and I'm not sure why. It was nice to see people, see how they've changed, hear what's going on in their lives, find new similarities with people I didn't know well during high school.

It was not a life-changing event. My sense is that a big reunion (although I know 15 years is kind of an odd one; we missed out on a 10-year, and the organizers decided to go ahead and hold a 15-year one instead of waiting for another 5 years) is supposed to make me stop and really think. I will be in a room filled with people that I haven't seen on a regular basis since I was 18 years old. I thought I was chubby (although I would LOVE to weigh that much again) and my only priority in life was ME. Where was I going to college? What was I going to do with my life? What was I going to do about my hair?!?

So in some sense, I suppose that going to a reunion automatically makes a person confront her 18-year-old self, and consider what has changed. And that could provoke some deep thinking of a sort. Showing off pictures of Eleanor and, whether intentionally or not, also showing off my 8+ months pregnant belly, I did think quite a bit about how the nature of my personal relationships have changed over the years.

But this isn't really a revelation to me. I've known for quite some time that I'm not the same person as I was at 18. Or rather, my brain/the way I think still seems the same but many of my priorities and experiences have changed. To be somewhat flippant, I think this is a normal and positive development.

On the other hand, I can understand why this reunion experience wouldn't be particularly earth-shattering for me. I can't think of anyone from high school that I was constantly in touch with, very close to, with whom I've lost contact since. In July, we went to the Lakehouse weekend with about 10 other high school friends and their spouses/kids. I see my best friends from high school on a pretty regular basis (at least a few times a year). I know about their families, jobs, current hobbies, etc. So seeing these familiar faces was not a surprise.

Another part of my high school experience that may not always be the case is that, overall, people were pretty nice. I wasn't bullied in high school. There weren't any people that I really wanted to confront. I didn't have any one or two particular people in mind that I was either 1) keeping my fingers crossed to find out terrible things had happened to them, thanks to karma, or 2) trying to impress people with where I'm at and what I'm doing. Of course there were people that I liked more and some that I liked a bit less, but none that I felt ruined my life or anything melodramatic like that.

I kept thinking, all this week, that I surely must have something of greater import or depth to report about the reunion, but I was actually a bit relieved by how much of a non-event it was. I enjoyed talking to old classmates and catching up, I was proud of myself for wearing my high-heeled boots and standing for much of the evening, I was surprised by how little of the talk was about the past but that it focused mainly on the here and now.

I was not suddenly shocked into realizing that my life is anything other than I already thought it was, if that makes sense. I'm a happily married mother of 1.8 children. We have a big enough house and enough money. I have a job that is enjoyable and frustrating (sometimes simultaneously). I have good friends and family. I enjoy my hobbies and often don't get enough sleep. I am still me, and a 15-year reunion didn't change my opinion on the matter.

The Clash of the Preschool Classroom

It's so hard to believe this day has come! Today was Eleanor's first day of preschool. Eleanor had been dealing with some new-experience jitters last night. But by this morning Eleanor's apprehension of the night before seemed forgotten, although Keith and I were more nervous than ever. Would she cry? When? For how long? Would she be that one kid that couldn't take it? Or would all of our fears prove unfounded, and she would join in right away, make new friends, and not even notice when we left?

The answer, of course, lay somewhere in the middle.

To start, it was the first day fantasy of every parent. We played together in the room for about 10 minutes, and then when she started a new activity we said our good-byes. She didn't want hugs or kisses, and couldn't even be bothered to look up as we left, she was so engrossed in her crafty activity. We retreated to the hallway bench, and waited for the fallout.

You'll notice I said "retreated" and I realized that, during my inner monologue, I was describing many aspects of the morning in terms of warfare. Those of us parents who were waiting in the hallway carefully watched every time the classroom door opened. We listened for screaming, and we waited for the reports from the "spy parents" who were just emerging from the battlefield. How's it going in there? What about my little 3-year-old soldier? How's he/she doing? Is she putting up a good fight? Is she victorious over the yearning for home and familiarity, or has she succumbed to the tearful enemy of fear?

Early reports on Private Eleanor were very encouraging. She was completely engaged and looked like she'd been going to Preschool all her life. She was playing dress-up, playing with dollies, sampling all of the delights a Preschool classroom has to offer.

And then, the tide of battle suddenly turned, and Eleanor was a casualty. Two other kids were screaming/crying. Keith told me the one kid started crying pretty much before he was even over the threshold of the classroom. And these were loud, determined criers. There were a few other stoic soldiers; they were crying, but more for their own personal anguish. But these two were loud and wanted everyone within earshot to know they were not happy with their marching orders. They surrendered 100% and just wanted OUT.

Eleanor could only resist the sounds of agony for 15 minutes or so before she decided they may have a good point. She started to remember that she had a mommy, too, whom she missed very much. A mommy that she needed to see right now. So that's when the field commanders called me in, the special Eleanor Relief Unit, to hold and comfort her. I stayed in the class for probably an hour (most of which time, the two original criers or a late addition kept the noise/angst level on red alert). We played quietly, but there's plenty of time where I just held her and she twirled her hair and looked around, shell-shocked.

I finally escaped again with a half-hour left in class. The crying had stopped, and the imminent delivery of rations (goldfish and juice) had revived the troops. She teared up again a little after I left, but rallied valiantly.

I rejoined the other civilian parents in the hall, awaiting the final battle outcome. When our children were dismissed from the battlefield, the word that actually came to mind for me was "hostage." Only one child came out of the classroom at a time, straight into the arms of his or her loving, caring family. It felt strangely like a hostage situation where the authorities had finally talked down the hostage-taker, and the tense situation was coming to a peaceful resolution.

Actually, the hardest part is that we get to do it all again tomorrow. She's only in a two-day per week program, but it's back-to-back days. Tonight, we tried to rectify our tactical errors by discussing some strategies for unforeseen battle circumstances.

"If other kids start crying, what can you do? Maybe you can offer to give them a hug or a tissue? Or, even if they keep crying, you don't have to cry!"

Eleanor overtly agreed with the situational analysis and, like a good little soldier, is prepared and excited even to enter the fray tomorrow morning.

Hopefully sometime within the next few weeks, the tears stop and I can start thinking of preschool in friendlier terms like "education" and "fun." Until then, once more unto the breach, dear friends!

The Perfect Post

I'm not sure if it's my role as mother, teacher, housewife, friend, or writer ... but lately the word "perfect" and its overuse has been really bothering me.

I think I've become oversensitive to it because of all the new baby reading/preparing we've been doing lately. Being a hormonal, pregnant woman apparently makes me a "perfect" target for a Perfect Campaign. Don't I want everything to be Perfect for the baby? Perfect name, perfect clothes, perfect nursery .... heaven forbid you even consider the concept of "good enough." It must be Perfect!

It takes me back to the days of wedding planning. Anytime something unique happens in a modern American consumer's life, in my humble observations, that consumer is urged to make it Perfect. You'll (hopefully) only get married once! One honeymoon, one first house, and every baby is its own unique opportunity for perfection in parenting. Or at least the accoutrements that go along with it.

I may strike people as a perfectionist personality, but I actually really hate the word and the idea behind it. Either it's right or it's wrong, and there's no room in-between. Why does it have to be "perfect"? What does that mean? Why urge people to strive for something that doesn't even exist?

Maybe this is just a few years of therapy talking, but I honestly don't think I've ever bought into the idea of perfect. Now, I am absolutely willing to admit (I almost wrote "perfectly willing") that I want things how I want things. And if they are not that way, I may get a tad anxious or upset. But to me, that's different from the Perfect that advertisers and advice columnists are trying to sell me on. I'm talking about my own personal goals and aspirations—goals that are often far removed from society's view of perfection.

For example, my wedding was quite unconventional in some ways. When we got engaged, I told Keith my engagement ring could cost, at the most, $200. I didn't want a diamond (although he got a miniscule one anyway). The engagement ring wasn't that important to me, and I didn't want him spending a lot of money we didn't really have on a status symbol. I would much rather have a nice honeymoon, which we did! So facets of the wedding were not Society Perfect, but they were just how I/we wanted them.

What is the point of this perfection rant? It's a stern reminder to myself, and a call to my fellow parents/teachers/friends/house spouses/writers/etc.: Don't give in! Don't spend that extra money or extra time to make something "perfect." Just make it what you want. If we strike "perfect" from our collective vocabulary, we'll all be a lot more relaxed, hopefully slightly richer, and perfectly relatively happy.

Lead Paint Perspective

This is my last lead-related post, I promise. Probably. But the past weeks of dealing with lead paint issues again has been interesting in terms of my response to the whole situation.

When Eleanor had an elevated lead level at her one-year check-up, I was so worried about her. I also spent a significant amount of time being neurotic about how it meant that I was a terrible mother who couldn't even keep her own child healthy. My therapist tells me I have a problem with "downplaying the positive" and I would say that's absolutely true when it comes to parenting. I take for granted anything I do well, as something surely all parents do, not even worth mentioning.

Instead, I focus on my shortcomings as a parent. I look at all of the times I get frustrated or tell her I can't play right now or give short answers like "Because I said so" instead of really addressing her questions about the world. It's so much easier for me to see what I'm doing wrong, instead of what I'm doing right. And the whole lead issue played right into that tendency of mine, and reinforced every negative comment I had ever told myself about my ability to be an effective, loving mother.

It took me a long time to get over that, and to not be so completely ashamed that my daughter had an elevated lead level, when almost no other parents we spend time with had an issue with it. The biggest problem with lead, in a neurotic sense, is that the effects are not always immediate. So I can spend years watching and waiting, attributing any of her possible shortcomings in school or bad teen-aged behavior to being a side effect of the lead poisoning that I didn't prevent. It's all my fault.

But I did get over it and come to terms with the situation. We've done everything we could to resolve the situation, and now I don't spend too much time wondering about the long-term effects, if any, because there's nothing else to be done.

And then, of course, that whole Pandora's leaden box was opened again with this house painting situation. But I've been shocked—absolutely shocked!—at how well I've handled it. So much less neuroses the second time around! To be fair, I'm sure a lot of that has to do with 1) it all started with our neighbor's house, not ours, and 2) at this point, we don't know that Eleanor's lead levels are elevated again. We are hoping that we've done enough to prevent that; Eleanor and I both have doctor's appointments next week. So if either of us get tested and the results are high ... well, at that point I probably might as well call this blog "Lead Ledger" or something like that.

Let's all keep our fingers crossed that it doesn't happen, though. The other big difference between last time and this time is knowledge. Last time, we had no idea what was going on, what we should do next, or even where to go to get this crucial information. We kept running into dead ends, contacting people who never got back to us or couldn't (or wouldn't?) give us the information we needed ... we spent a lot of time getting absolutely nowhere. Meanwhile, during all the fruitless phone calls and misinformation, that loop of "You're a terrible parent!" kept playing in the back of my mind, and every time I was put on hold I had another opportunity to sit and visualize all of the ways my lack of knowledge and inability to protect my child was ruining her life, now and in the future. (Yes, yes I was a lot of fun to be around.)

This, out of all the factors, is what has changed the most between last time and this time. We called the EPA to report the contractors on a Wednesday. Over the weekend, Keith and I cleaned the house inside and out. On Tuesday, lead abatement contractors cleaned the outside of the house and declared it lead free. (Or as lead free as any place in an aging, inner-ring Cleveland suburb can be.) I went from total panic to near resolution in under a week. The main reason for that difference is that, this time, we had the knowledge. We knew what steps to take next, and how to handle things.

This may sound strange, but I've actually found this second experience to help get some closure on the first time. I can apologize to my younger, freaked-out self. I know that you did the best you could. I know that it wasn't all your fault. You tried so hard to prevent the problem, and then fix the problem as soon as it arose. It is okay to blame other people sometimes, because all of that responsibility really shouldn't have been on your shoulders. And look! This time, we handled it so much better. Well done.

Let's just hope there's not a next time.

To Sleep or Not to Sleep?

What has happened to me?!? Every month, I barely eek out 10 posts ... and then I disappear off the face of the blogging planet until roughly the middle of the next month. At which point I repeat the process all over again. There's always hope for next month .... but I guess I'm saying: Don't be surprised when I have a flurry of posts the last week of April, and go incommunicado for a fortnight in May.

What am I doing while pointedly not blogging? It's hard to say, really. I've been having a serious dilemma lately about how much to sleep. As I reported on March 9 (my first blog post of that month!), I am (on and off again) reading The Happiness Project. It's set up as a 12-month project, with one large goal for the month, and several smaller, more specific goals to help reach the overall goal. So if the overall goal is, say, Boost Energy, the smaller goals will be "Get more sleep" and "Exercise more."

At first I was really excited, and read straight from January into July (I've stopped short of contemplating eternity in the August chapter). But it really did all just seem like a whole lot to do. So I put the book down and focused on one thing. One small goal, not even a larger one: Get more sleep.

It worked really well the first week I focused on it. I decided that getting up at 6 o'clock was a reasonable goal; two days a week I'm up earlier for my bootcamp work-outs, but I'm not going to set my internal clock to wake up at 5am every day. That's just ridiculous! So if I want to be up, well-rested at 6, I tried to follow the guidelines of stopping my day 9 hours before that. Stopping at 9 o'clock would give me a half-hour to sort of close out the day: get ready for bed, clean the kitchen, pack my bag, lay out tomorrow's clothes. Then I would also have a half-hour to decompress and get mentally ready for good night's sleep.

As I said, it worked really well for about a week. Did I mention that I started this on Spring Break? Like the one week where I didn't have to have anything done, absolutely, within the next 24 hours? Since the semester started back up again, it hasn't gone so well.

Does anyone out there feel like they get enough sleep? I want to wake up feeling refreshed. I want to stop choosing between being ready for tomorrow (in terms of my task list: lesson planning, grading, clean house, lunch packed) and getting enough sleep. I want to make it through a day without feeling the need to rely on caffeine and sugar to prop my eyelids open for half of it. I want Eleanor to stop turning around when I'm "reading" (actually falling asleep and mumbling bedtime stories) and saying, "Mommy! Wake up!" Or, when I'm already falling asleep again at 8 o'clock in the morning, she pokes me and says, "Stop sleeping! You already slept!"

I remember a year or so ago, reading a short advice column in a fitness magazine. The reader's question was a very familiar one: I work out in the mornings, but I don't always get to bed on time. If I have to choose between 1) only 6 hours sleep and get a good morning workout, or 2) get a full night's sleep and skip the workout, what should I do?

I feel like I'm faced with this decision all the time. And I was so incredibly pissed at the columnist's answer; I can still feel my irritation level rising today, just thinking of it. Essentially, the columnist said, "Both working out and sleep are important. So you should get a full night's sleep AND work out."

Um, when was that an option?!? Do you have a house? A job? Kids? Pets? This is not an AND situation. This is strictly either/or. And most of the time lately, I've been choosing sleep. I'm trying to blame it on the pregnancy, but I can choose sleep and go to bed a little earlier ... and then still feel the need to take 2 naps the next day, like I did on Saturday.

Alright, this rant is getting a little long-winded, so I'm going to shut it down. I should already be in bed, asleep, anyway, since I have bootcamp at 5:30am tomorrow morning. So now I'm wondering: sleep? workout? Just stay up all night, trying to get ahead, and live on caffeine and sugar tomorrow?!?

*The picture is from just a couple of weeks after Eleanor was born (August 2008). It's much harder to get sleepy pictures of her these days!

I'm Pregnant! (It's FB official even)

So this is the first time I've had big news to share since I joined Facebook, and I was a little unclear on the etiquette. How long do we wait after informing immediate family and some friends of the news? Is there a grace period? Is it like the 3-5 days of waiting like calling for a date after getting someone's number?

In the end, it was at least partially dictated by the fact that the Big Sister shirt from Cafe Press arrived in the mail today. I'm sure there's people I should have informed before I told all of Facebook. So, if that's you: I'm sorry. I just don't have a lot of time/energy these days.

Eleanor absolutely refused to let Keith take her picture, until he bribed her with a Reese's peanut butter cup egg (yum). Then she was all smiles! But really, she does seem quite excited about the prospect of being a big sister. She talks to "Little Sib" (since we're not planning on finding out the gender), and rubs my belly every night, telling Little Sib goodnight and that she loves him/her.

I'm also excited, but very intimidated. Being a mother of one has been a challenge. But two?!? I just don't know about that. When I think about how much fun it will be to have two kids .... the scene I imagine always takes place in about 5-7 years, when the kids are potty-trained, reading, and as excited about visiting museums and historical places as I am! (Dream on, all the experienced parents smirk.) I have to confess: I really don't think my strength as a mother is taking care of a newborn. At least the first time around, I found it to be incredibly stressful, and I don't deal well with sleep deprivation. That pretty much says it all about the first 3 months!

But I suppose I'm getting off track here. We're all very excited. Little Sib is due to arrive in early October, which seems far off or just around the corner, depending on my mood. I know that Eleanor will be a wonderful big sister, and I'm sure that all of my fears will be allayed as soon as we meet this amazing child.

The Happiness Project

I've had a lot of ideas swirling around in my brain lately (and clearly, not making it into the blog) and I feel like they are coalescing into The Happiness Project. Or my own quirky version of it.

My Mom has had this book for a while, and apparently I pick it up every time I go over there. My Mom actually bought another copy for me because she saw me eying her copy all the time. It just seems so decadent. A whole entire year spent devoted to finding my own happiness? But when would the grocery shopping get done? And how could I sleep?!? I feel like I spend so much time just trying to make it to the next day that it's hard to imagine devoting much, if any, energy to The Big Picture. I'm stuck looking at my feet instead of down the road.

Which is related to another blog post I started composing in my head and never actually finished. How much time do I spend making myself miserable RIGHT NOW, with the hope/promise that my life will be easier later? And how often is it actually easier later? Or do I just find something else with which to fill the time that I struggled so hard to free up?

So of course, I'm up late to grade papers. And instead, this is the time that I choose to step back and think about The Big Picture. Because I have been miserable lately. I want to be happier about my choices in life and instead I feel the stress levels building again. Last night I dreamed that I had a new job. It was still part-time, in a small office, and was incredibly laid back and low key. No late nights here!

So in this dream, I was explaining to my new co-workers why I quit teaching. Even though I enjoyed it and felt passionate about it, I also thought it was very stressful and didn't feel part-time at all. It felt like I was teaching full-time and taking care of Eleanor full-time and the rest of life—anything else I needed or wanted to do—was fit into the little bits of time left. As I explained the situation to them, it was as if a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I suddenly realized how light and relieved I felt.

And then I woke up.

And Eleanor woke up, an hour ahead of normal. And then we dove into another frantic, crazy, out-of-control day.

It gets back to what I said before about having margin. I don't really know what I need to do to fix it, but I know something needs to be done. So I'm signing up for the 2011 Happiness Challenge, and hoping desperately it doesn't just become another item on my to-do list.

It's Not Your Problem

Apparently, I've gotten to the point of being a little too comfortable with last-minute lesson plans. I get my lesson plans "mostly" finished, and then forget about them.

Like for Tuesday, I planned the lesson the night before and was set. I got to campus early enough to sit for a few minutes at the adjunct office, check my email and mailbox, print out a few files, and then leisurely wander down the hall in plenty of time for my class. I was so relaxed!

Until I got to class and, looking through my lesson plan about a minute before class started, I saw that I was intending to look at three articles to talk about the research papers. We would work on paraphrasing vs. summarizing vs. using direct quotes, and then the students would need to create a Works Cited entry for their articles. Did I remember to print these articles beforehand, when I was sitting at the computer checking my email? No. The night before I had meant to send myself an email with links to three articles, but apparently hadn't even managed to accomplish that.

While I had the students working on a short literature response, I ran down the hall, found 3 relevant articles, and printed off a few copies of each. I didn't even have a chance to skim the articles so that, when I asked them to summarize the main points, I could be certain that the students had, indeed, focused on the actual main points of the article. Instead, when they told me about the main points, I nodded and smiled.

So anyway, when I was scampering down the hall to belatedly finish my lesson prep, mid-lesson, I passed a guy on a cell phone. All I heard of his conversation was, "Look, that's not your problem. Don't worry about it! I will take care of it."

And I was immediately jealous. I would like many, many things in my life to not be my problem. Granted, shoddy lesson planning should be (and is) my problem. But there's a lot of other issues—like when our house is falling down around our ears or Ohio is thinking about stripping public employees (like teachers) of collective bargaining rights or this country's dependence on fossil fuels and refusal to financially support public transport—that I really wish didn't always feel like my problems to solve.

Is there any way that I can send myself a repeating email? Maybe a reminder on my Google calendar that pops up a few times every week saying, "This is not your problem! Don't worry about it." Or at least stop worrying about it long enough to finish your lesson plans.

MY WTF Moment and the Idea of Margin

I finally got around to telling you all about my new 5:30am workouts because I really wanted to tell this story and it's important to know that it takes place before the sun has even considered touching the horizon.

Last Thursday, I got up at 4:50am (okay, 4:56) and got dressed and drove to bootcamp. I didn't take my phone or my wallet because, really, who was I going to call? What was I going to buy? I suppose Starbucks would be open ... but who needs caffeine after an invigorating workout?

In case you can't tell where this is heading, I was only halfway to the workout place when the empty light on the gas gauge pinged on. I can't stand driving with the gas light on. No matter how many times Keith tells me that I still have a good 20-30 miles to go, and it's only 5 miles to the workout place .... I don't really believe. I may logically understand it's true, but I spend the entire time in the car gripping the steering wheel, imagining all the horrible things that will happen when I run out of gas and get stranded.

So I did manage to make myself drive to the bootcamp and deal with it afterwards. But I wasn't sure how I was going to deal with it, exactly. I had no wallet and no phone. What are my options? Am I brave enough to risk driving all the way home? Even if I were, Eleanor had a check-up at 9:10am and then I needed to leave for work at 10:45am. Lately, getting Eleanor out the door has been difficult, to say the least. If I didn't get gas on the way home, what were the chances that we would be late to her appointment or I'd be late to work?

My brain couldn't handle it. I had to get gas ASAP or my head was going to explode from the anxiety and fear. I remembered I had a few bucks in the glove compartment. So after bootcamp I hurried out to the car and checked.

I had $3 in bills and one more dollar in quarters. So that would be enough for just over a gallon of gas. I'd feel stupid buying $4 of gas with change, but it was better than not getting any gas at all.

I went out of my way to go to the gas station closest to the bootcamp. I pulled up to a pump wit a sigh of relief. I had made it! The world wasn't going to end!

I went inside to pay my measly $4 to get the pump turned on. Some irate woman was leaving as I was entering and she said something about having difficulties paying. I said I had cash instead of a card, and figured it wasn't a problem. I went in, paid my cash, and went back out to the pump.

And then.

It didn't work.

The cashier came out and yelled something to me that I couldn't hear so I went back in. He handed me back my cash and said the pumps weren't working. I stared at him.

"BUT I NEED GAS." I stated, slowly and clearly. "This is all of the money I have and I'm out of gas."

The young man shrugged apathetically. "All I can tell you is that I'm pressing the buttons and they're not working."

I walked out, my $4 in hand. What now? Surely the car was going to run out of gas now; it seemed destined. I just kept thinking, "What the F#@k?!?"

(Digression: Keith and I don't swear much at all. Honest! Which is especially important now that Eleanor repeats everything we say. Like that time we were in the car and Eleanor kept telling us to "Strap Up!" instead of "Buckle up!" or "Strap in!" and I told Keith, "It sounds like we're a bunch of trannies!" and Eleanor happily chatted about being trannies all the way to the Botanical Gardens. So I'd never drop the F-bomb at home, but it seemed warranted in this situation.)

I mean, really. How does this happen? The gas station DOESN'T WORK?!? Who does this happen to? It was one of those moments when it feels like the entire world is part of a conspiracy to drive me insane.

But, no matter how much I overreacted, the world didn't end. I drove to another gas station and got gas there. I was nervous when I pulled up because the car at the pump ahead of me was running, its owner was standing by the pump. Just standing—not pumping gas or doing much of anything. I paid my $4 (again) and went back out to the pump to hear him talking to a woman who had just pulled up, explaining how his keys got locked inside. Whew! Not my problem.

My $4 got me to a quarter tank of gas, and the rest of the day passed uneventfully.

Once I calmed down, I kept thinking more and more about how the morning only became such a disaster because I was unprepared. I had known for the past week that I needed to get gas, but I kept putting it off because I felt like I really didn't have enough time to stop. I consciously decided to leave the house that morning with neither cell phone nor wallet, because I thought I wouldn't need them. My WTF moment was completely of my own making.

And it reminded me again of an article I had read almost 3 years ago over at a personal finance website called The Simple Dollar. The article was actually a book review about Margin by Richard Swenson. I had even blogged about it in "3 Jobs Too Many" when I first read it.

At that time, I said:

My understanding of the concept is that people function best when they have margin in their lives—space and time that is unaccounted for. This way, when something takes more of your time and effort than you had expected, you have some leeway in which to deal with it. Minor catastrophes and time-sucks can be dealt with.

On the other hand, many people today schedule their lives without any margin at all. (Can you see me raising my hand?) No margin in time, so I'm always racing from one activity to the next. And no margin in mental tasks, so I get worn down because I'm constantly thinking and evaluating and planning something else. When you're living with no margin, the smallest glitch can cause a ripple effect and suddenly it feels like you've completely lost control.

It drives me crazy that I still feel the same way. I absolutely think that I would be calmer and happier if I had margin, but it is still a foreign notion to me. I'd like to blame it on being the parent of a toddler, but the reality check is that I originally wrote it in March 2008—several months before Eleanor was even born.

What's it going to take to get a little bit of breathing room in my life? So I'm not stuck at the gas station at 6:30am with $4 in my hand, no gas in the tank, and a rock of anxiety and fear in my chest?

I might need to actually read the book.

Letters to Eleanor

I'm always hesitant to make a resolution that involves the word "daily." I'm much more likely to stick to something like "average per month." But I've been kicking around an idea that is a daily thing ... we'll see how it goes.

I want to write letters to Eleanor. To the grown Eleanor, explaining a little bit about what it is to be her mother, a mother, a wife, a hopefully useful member of society. How I'm dealing with trying to be a mother and a teacher and find time for myself, too. I would like to think that it won't feel so incredibly difficult by the time she contemplates being a mother, but I would imagine that she'll face many of the same issues in one form or another.

So I've started writing letters. I'm thinking of ending them all with an "I hope" statement about something I've learned/still am learning about life, and something I hope she finds in her own life.

Of course, whenever I write, the idea of publication is always in the back of my mind. I would love to gather together these letters and publication them as a collection for ... anyone, I guess. I figure that mothers of toddlers would be most likely to feel that these issues and thoughts relate directly to them, but I think they could also relate to anyone who is trying to find some balance in life and figure out who they are and where they want to be.

Here's the rough draft from yesterday. Let me know what you think!

January 3, 2011

Dearest Eleanor,

I love you with all my heart, but I honestly don't understand how you, the center of my world, can drive me so crazy in 5 seconds flat.

You and I are having some boundary issues. You don't see why we need any, and get frustrated when I don't immediately cater to your every whim. I, as I always do, feel guilty for all of the many, many, MANY times throughout the day that I tell you "no." Do I really need to wash this dish right now instead of playing dollhouse? Do I really need to finish one more thing rather than cuddling up with you on the couch and reading together?

What I feel most conflicted about is that I need time for myself. I can accept that meals must be made and cleaned up, shopping must be done, etc. But I feel guilty because the more you hold onto me crying, "Mommy! Mommy!" the more I long for my own time to recharge my energy and patience.

It's the worst when there's someone else around who loves you and wants to be with you, like your Daddy after a long day at work, and you refuse, insisting that I read this book for the 12th time or the doll talks in my hand.

What is this overwhelming need for me? Is it love? Or is it something less noble than that? Am I a piece of furniture, a slave who has no rights of her own, who must always be at her master's beck and call? When you cling to me so vehemently, I never know whether to see you as an extension of my own self, to be embraced, or an emotional vampire who would use me up and suck me dry with no remorse? Your father insists that it's because you love me so much, and we have an amazing relationship, and I am a wonderful mother.

In reality, I think it's a little less than pure love and more than mere vampirism, and I'm okay with that. You do love me and we do have a wonderful relationship and I try very hard to be a wonderful mother to you every day. But also, you are a toddler and then world can be a scary place and I am the anchor you cling to. Sometimes I am your beloved Mommy and sometimes I am a familiar object, a comfortable port in a storm of new sights and overwhelming sensations.

This is good because I don't have to feel guilty that my 2-year-old daughter loves me more / better / more purely than I can possibly love her. It's okay that I occasionally need to put down the weight of your entire world, take it off my shoulders and hand it to someone else so I can replenish my strength.

I hope someday you will also find the joy to be had in solitary pursuits, and you'll understand that I needed time to refill my soul so I could continue being the best mother I could be.

Christmas Ornament 2005

This ornament represents kind of a best and worst moment in my life. It was purchased in November or December 2005, from the Ten Thousand Villages store in the O'Bryanville area of Cincinnati. This ornament might look quite familiar to some, because we bought a lot of them and tied them onto everyone's gifts that year.

We were living in Cincinnati at the time. Since February, I had been working at a job that made me completely miserable. I was so depressed, actually, that I was taking antidepressants for the first (and still only, up to this point anyway) time in my life. I cried all the time. When I tried to enter the work building, I could feel the tears building up. My boss was horrible, there was too much work to do, not enough time to do it in, and no recognition that I was given an impossible task, with an impossible manager, and doing the best I could with hardly any training or support.

I stuck it out for as long as I could—much longer than was reasonable, because I'm stubborn like that. But I finally handed in an ultimatum at the end of November to the department head: You've been promising me for months that you would remedy all of these complaints, which you have agreed are an issue. I'm tired of promises, so either fix it or consider this my two weeks' notice.

She called me in for a meeting the next day and said she accepted my resignation and it was effective immediately. She gave no acknowledgement that the situation was in any way her fault or responsibility. I was unreliable and a quitter was the undercurrent in the room. I had the rest of the day to clean out my desk and get everything in order.

I started crying because I was so shocked, even though I shouldn't have been. I was not treated well the whole time I was there—why should it start now? But I got myself together and went back to my desk. I only told one co-worker what happened and asked her to keep it quiet, and then spent the rest of the afternoon working away on my computer and pretending like nothing had happened. I hung around until after 6, when most people had already left. This wasn't unusual, since I had regularly been working 50-60 hour weeks ever since I started. I cleaned out my desk, said "good-bye" to a couple of people who were still there, and left.

I went home and told Keith and cried. I had no idea if I was relieved or upset or which way was up. This horrible job had been consuming my thoughts and emotions for months—many days it felt like it was consuming me—and suddenly it was gone. What next?

What does one do after essentially getting fired? Go shopping, of course! Keith took the following day off work and we went Christmas shopping. We had a really nice day together, because every time we are together we enjoy it, and we bought most of our presents from small shops close to our apartment. We walked, we talked, we shopped, we ate.

Slowly, the anxiety that had been squeezing my chest into a knot 24/7 started to ease. I began to think that there would be life after this horrible job. Something would work out .... and no matter what it was or how long it took, it would be worth it because I wouldn't be at that place anymore!

This ornament reminds me of just how dark that time was for me, but how far I've come since. I learned a valuable lesson that if the whole situation seems bad from the beginning, it probably is. I should trust my instincts and move on! And I should also know that I'm a good, hard worker. If I'm trying my hardest and I can't meet someone's expectations, those expectations just might be unreasonable. So instead of working myself into the ground to meet them, I should take a step back and think about what's feasible, and recognize that I need a work/life balance (emphasis on the "life" part) to be content.

Breaking the Internet with Uploads

It feels like we've been breaking the Internet lately. First, due to the oft-mentioned hard drive blow-up, we've been uploading our entire lives to Mozy for the past 3 weeks. THREE WEEKS. I had no idea we had that much data, but apparently we do, and it takes forever to back up. It should be done today or tomorrow, though, which is pretty exciting. Now, if our house burns down, I'll still have an electronic copy of my to-do lists and debt repayment plan. Yippee!

We would be done with that already, except we paused it over the weekend for a different uploading project. We've been printing our photos with Snapfish for a few years now. They do a good job, they're quick, and it's 9cents per 4x6 print. Even though the shipping ALWAYS ends up to be so much more than I expect, every time I've compared the cost to somewhere else, Snapfish ends up the winner. Especially because we usually prepay credits, which knocks the price down to 8cents/print.

At first, we opted to do the highest resolution upload to Snapfish, but at the rate we were going, it would have taken us another 3 weeks to upload all of our photos. We changed to a faster upload option, which still gave us enough resolution to print enlargements up to 8x10 (and I certainly don't need to see pictures of myself any bigger than that), and finished uploading by Sunday afternoon. THEN, I threw together a photo Christmas card and we uploaded that to Snapfish, too.

So later this week, we should be receiving about 9 pounds of pictures. Did I mention that we printed over 1,000 4x6 prints?

This rambling story does have a point, I swear. Keith and I were marvelling at how many photos we take and print, and how that wouldn't have been possible in the days of actual film. I don't even want to think about how much it would have cost to print that many photos from film—plus the cost of buying the film in the first place. And what about all of the pictures we take that we don't even end up printing? We wanted a picture of my entire family at Eleanor's birthday party, and with two toddlers in the picture I think we took at least 20 shots to make sure one was usable. Can you imagine using almost a whole roll of film at once?

And likewise with the computer files. A lot of them are photos, but not everything. We also store a significant amount of music in iTunes. At this point, most of the albums are ones of which we also own the physical CD, but lately we've done a lot more simply downloading MP3 files. At some point in the not-so-distant future, I imagine that the majority of our music will all be files instead of CDs. Flash drives these days have more memory than the computer I had 10 years ago. Can you imagine if I tried to physically store all of the electronic information that we have? There's no way it would happen. Or if I tried to do by hand all of the things that are accomplished by programs like Word and Photoshop?

Realizing how much digital information we have also makes me realize how much our lives have changed since 20 years ago. I would say that Keith and I have jumped into the digital age with both feet, yet I'm still on the fence about whether it's made our lives better or not. Am I happy about digital photography quality and price? Yes. Am I happy to have constant access to new music, news, and information? Yes.

Is my life any easier? I don't really know. But is that the goal?

The Maternal Is Political

I think I've mentioned this book to quite a few people, but I've been reading The Maternal Is Political and loving it. It's a book of essays by women such as Ann Lamott, Nancy Pelosi, Benazir Bhutto, Cindy Sheehan, and many other wonderful writers whom I hadn't heard of before, but write with great purpose and clarity.

They are expressing many of the same frustrations and surprises I've been encountering as a new mother, but much more eloquently and with greater insight than I've been able to do. I know that I get frustrated, and I know there's some deeper reason for many of my minor, daily irritations, but I have a hard time even stopping to think long enough to get to the real reason. With this book, in some sense, these writers have revealed the reasons to me.

Many of the writers also have written columns or pieces for Literary Mama: Reading for the Maternally Inclined. My sister Amy told me about the site awhile ago. I thought it looked interesting, bookmarked it, and never went back. It might become one of my homepages now, though.

Enjoy!

A Mother's Confession About This Old House

If you were looking carefully at the landscaping, you might have noticed some other changes around the house.

When buying an older home, we knew that lead paint could be an issue. But what did that mean, exactly? Where was the lead paint? How much of an issue? Since lead has been outlawed in paint since 1978, surely it had been resolved by now, right?

And then, when we were painting the nursery, we used an at-home lead paint tester and discovered that all of the old windows were testing positive. This completely threw me off balance. At this point, I think I was already 7 months pregnant. There was no way we could figure out a solution and have it implemented before the baby was born.

We did our best, but I felt completely overwhelmed. No matter how much research I did, I still didn't feel like I really understand what was needed. I kept trying to get companies out to test everything around the house and tell us our options, but it didn't go well. Some refused to do any residential work. Many just didn't call me back. One company sent a guy out who looked around, told me we should probably replace all of the windows, took a soil sample, and never called back.

I felt underinformed, in over my head, and like I was swimming in a sea of knowledge and experts without actually having a clue about what was useful, relevant information.

We did the best we could. We found a local contractor to replace the majority of the windows, and took out two loans to do it.

He was horrible. I've already blogged bitterly about this experience here and here. It was just such an awful experience, and it dragged on for over a year .... which was, of course, the first year of Eleanor's life.

And then, after Eleanor's one-year well visit, we found out that she had an elevated lead level.

When we got the phone call with the results, I was so shocked and horrified. And, instantaneously, so very, very guilty. This was my innocent baby that, through shoddy, ineffective parenting, I had allowed to ingest poison. I think I spent the next week in tears. It was constantly weighing on me. Everyone knows that lead is a hazard; how could I not have known exactly what to do to protect her? How could I let this happen? What kind of defective mother am I?

So yeah, you can understand why it's taken me nearly a year to admit it publicly, that my daughter had an elevated lead level (ELL). It's been this deep, dark secret that I carry around with me, that I think about every time someone compliments me as a mother. I smile and nod, but inside I'm thinking, "You might think I'm a good mother now, but if only you knew the truth ..."

Here's the good news: Eleanor is okay now. A normal blood lead level is <3 micrograms of lead/deciliter of blood. What is concerned the "Action Level" by the CDC is 10mg/L or more. At it's peak (that we know of), Eleanor's was a 7. So she was in the "warning" stage, and wasn't actually considered poisoned. A month later, she was down to a 4, and by her 15-month appt, she was back at the normal level.

The bad news, and what I will always have to live with, is that we are not meant to have any lead in our systems at all, and there is no safe level. We will never know how even that brief exposure has affected her brain's development. If she ever has a learning disability or even is a particularly unruly teenager, it could be caused by the lead. I'll never know.

And we'll never know what caused the elevated lead level. Were the original windows the culprit? Or did replacing them make things even worse? Even though we made it clear to the degenerate window contractor that we were doing this because of lead paint concerns, I know now that he didn't take any of the precautions he should have to prevent lead dust from contaminating the work environment. You know: Eleanor's nursery, playroom, living room--all the rooms where she spends the most time. Is it his fault? Or is it our fault, because we didn't replace all of the windows? Did she just chew on some defective toy from China? We have no idea.

All we do know for certain is that her level was elevated, and there will always be a risk with that. We didn't do enough before she was born. We've done everything we could since to remedy the situation (but I'll get more into that in the next post). I am now fully aware of how impossible it is to be the perfect parent. No matter how hard we try, I have to believe that some failure is inevitable. A letting down of the guard here or a misstep there. I can only hope that I do enough things right to make up for that.

Getting Better All the Time

Becoming a parent is a frightening thing. No matter what age, or how parenthood comes about, nearly everyone I know is awed and scared of the responsibilities involved.

Now that Eleanor's 21 months old, it's hard to even remember what I was thinking when I was pregnant. Particularly because all of my preconceptions went out the window after, oh, maybe 24 hours of being a parent. Whatever I was thinking, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I do know that I was a little worried about how I would relate to a newborn. I've worked with school-aged children from 5 up to high school, so I knew that I would be okay once the child was reading and counting. But such a tiny baby? What do you do? What is required?

Eleanor's first 6 months were really, really rough. I didn't feel like a very good mom at all. I was tired, frustrated, and depressed all the time. I couldn't handle constantly being at her beck and call ... when even she didn't know what she needed! I felt like every time I learned how to do something, the situation would change. I was never getting ahead, always doing everything wrong.

I felt like a terrible mother, even though I was trying my best. And to be a terrible mother is the worst failure of all. Because this was the first time that I wouldn't just be disappointing myself, but also a small, helpless creature who was completely dependent on my abilities and compassion to keep her alive.

This sounds really depressing, doesn't it? Because it was, at the time. It was really difficult, because I felt like I was always going to be a terrible mother. I would constantly be doubting my abilities and whether Eleanor was getting all of the love and attention that she needed and deserved.

But things slowly changed. We'd had a really difficult time with breastfeeding, and we phased that out by 8 months. Eleanor was eating better, sleeping through the night, and developing her own personality. She started calling me "Mama," and actually seemed to be a relatively happy, well-adjusted baby.

Finally, as we get closer to Eleanor's 2nd birthday, I can accept that I'm really a very good mom. I'm not a very good mother of a newborn, and I'm okay with that. There's a lot about such a small baby that stresses me out, from the lack of sleep to the complete unpredictability of every day. With that obviously being the first experience as a parent, I was worried. Would it all be like this?

But it's not. I wasn't a particularly happy mother of a newborn, but I'm a kick-ass toddler mom. And just wait until she's reading! We're going to have so much fun.

Who Am I?

A few weeks ago, I read the "Just a Mom" post at the Clover Lane blog. She talks about whether she calls herself a Stay At Home Mom versus "just a Mom" versus talking about working "outside the home." It's about the whole idea of what is the "right" term, and what do each of these phrases convey about being a mother.

It raised the question for me, once again: What do I consider myself?

Then, while I was already mulling this over, Keith and I watched a recent episode of the new show "Parenthood" (which we are really enjoying), and it came up again. It's a story about four grown siblings with their own families. One of the siblings is a woman who is constantly working overtime as a lawyer, while her husband is the Stay at Home Dad to their elementary school-aged daughter. Every week, I go back and forth as to whether I like the workaholic lawyer or not. Is she a workaholic or is she just doing what she needs to, to support her family?

In this particular episode, everyone is at an auction to benefit the school. She is bidding on a prize against another mother and, as the bidding escalates, one of her siblings questions who the other woman is. Lawyer Mom whispers back, "I know! It's not even like she works!" ... forgetting that she was holding a microphone for the bidding process. It was a well-directed, excruciating moment. And I couldn't decide who I empathized with.

I realized that my gut reaction was actually on the side of Lawyer Mom. But that realization gave me a moment's pause. Hadn't I always said that I wanted to be a SAHM? If we could have afforded it, I wouldn't be working at all?

Of course, that isn't how it went. Luckily, I had a very understanding boss and had the opportunity to work from home for awhile and then only work part-time in the office. Once she left, I got lucky a second time and was hired as a part-time English professor at a community college. In some ways, I feel lucky that I never had to make that black and white choice of "working mom" or "stay at home mom," because I'm a bit of both.

And now that I've spent time living in the gray area, having whole days home with Eleanor, and also having 8-hour workdays, I don't think that I could give up either one. It's very important to me that I'm Eleanor's main caregiver. We're together every morning, for at least a few hours, and I usually tuck her into bed 6 nights a week. I know what foods she likes, what is her current favorite book or activity, and what she's asking for when she wants to go to the "yado" (window). We go to music class, and the store, and sometimes we don't go anywhere at all. I cherish our time together, and watching her grow up in front of my eyes.

But. I will be the first person to acknowledge that I think being a SAHM is really hard work. Not having 5 minutes to myself all day, should Eleanor decide to go without her nap. Making food, cleaning up the kitchen, entertaining Eleanor, changing diapers, doing laundry, picking up toys ... over and over and over again. Nothing is ever done because it's undone as soon as I turn my back. Trying to get anything done and keeping Eleanor occupied at the same time is usually impossible and an exercise in frustration. Wondering, at the end of the day, what I've actually accomplished?

On the other hand, it's always so much easier to see the light at the end of the tunnel with paid employment. For starters, you get a paycheck! And with teaching, it's even more pronounced. A semester starts with a fresh syllabus of readings and writing assignments and lesson plans. At the end of the semester, readings have been discussed, writing has been graded, lessons have been taught. Students either pass or fail, and it's time for a fresh, new syllabus. I appreciate being seen as a professional with expertise and the ability to impart useful knowledge. My students may not always be convinced that it's useful or necessary, but I try to convince them of that, too.

The path used to be so clear. Working outside the home, for many women, just wasn't an option. But then feminism questioned the wisdom of such a forced lifepath, and other options opened up. For awhile, it seems that every woman was expected to work outside the home and bring home a paycheck, just like the men.

I feel like we've arrived at a place where either, or both, option seems equally valid and yet incomplete. I don't know yet what the right answer is. The only conclusion I've been able to draw is that the right answer is different for every mother. In real life, I've met very few women who are either all Lawyer Mom or SAHM. Most of us are trying to find the right balance of mothering and professional work to make us feel like good mothers, valued workers, and balanced women. It's a balance that can change on a daily basis, often seeming just out of reach.

I am very grateful to have the opportunity to even ask the question: Who am I? What do I want? At times, I just wish the answer were a little easier to define.

The Possibilities of Dreams

I heard a very interesting interview with James Cameron on NPR's "Fresh Air" the other week. He was talking about how many of his best ideas for Avatar came to him in dreams. He then mentioned in passing that many children can fly in their dreams, but adults typically can't.

What does this say about the infinite possibilities of childhood, and the restraints we, or circumstances, place on us as adults? To a child that believes in Santa Claus, Harry Potter, and the monster under the bed, it's an easy thing to dream of flying off to Neverneverland or on her own personal adventures. Anything could happen at any point in time.

It makes me wonder what I dream about these days, if I even know. Do I dream about work? Sometimes I know I do. Do I dream about cleaning? Or walking the dog? Surely I dream up unusual situations too, right? I might not fly, but maybe I am side-by-side with Matt Damon, destroying our enemies with nothing other than hardened ninja fists and razor-sharp minds. If I kept a dream journal, would I find it elucidating or depressing?

The comparison also makes me think about why we get nostalgic, particularly as Keith and I are coming up on our 10-year college reunion. I loved being a college student, and almost everything about being on a college campus. I loved taking classes, learning new things, eating from the cafeteria and not having to cook or wash dishes. I loved meeting new people and, really, the newness of everything—knowing that new experiences were always just around the corner.

But I am very content with my life now, too. I have a wonderful husband, daughter, and extended family. I feel incredibly blessed and fulfilled. So why do I get so nostalgic, thinking about the good old days?

I've decided that, for me personally, sometimes it's hard to admit that the possibilities of our lives are dwindling as we get older. When I was 22 and a senior in college, I could do ANYTHING, and I could do it by age 30. When was I going to get married and have kids? Where would I settle down? What kind of adventures would I have? Just like in dreams, the possibilities were endless. One day, I would imagine myself as a world traveler with no permanent home, just a duffel bag on my back. The next, I would sit in class and imagine my dream house, right down to the kitchen cabinet hardware and workout room paint color. I could see diametrically opposed possibilities as equally appealing, because they each appealed to a different side of me.

But now I have a house, and a career, and a family. I don't get to wonder about whether I'll travel or marry or have kids, because it's all been done. I feel like my daydreams now revolve around paying off students loans or the home equity line of credit. Sometimes I feel like my dreams are smaller, because many of the big questions in my life already have answers.

So I don't think I feel nostalgic for the actual college years. I miss the possibility inherent in the years after college. Much of which has been replaced by actual fact.

How do I recapture that sense of possibility? Maybe I'm too short-sighted. Maybe I need to be thinking more about Maslow's Hierarchy of needs, and instead of looking at concrete, external milestones (marriage, children, house, career), I need to focus on the internal milestones. There's still PLENTY of potential for personal growth. Maybe I should be fantasizing about finally writing (and getting published!) a novel. Being happy with myself on a regular basis. More traveling, to further reaches of the Earth. Learning a new language, or picking up a new hobby.

Maybe I will learn to fly in my dreams.

Chill Out

I think the universe is telling me to chill out. In the past week, I have heard several Bob Marley songs—at least 4, I think?—on different radio stations. It seems like every time I get in the car or listen to Woxy, Bob is there. And Dooce even posted about the therapeutic effects of Bob Marley just the other day! Such synchronicity.

I have been thinking about and dealing with anxiety a lot lately. I absolutely agree with the universe that I need to chill out more. I let every little thing get to me, and I'm always trying to do too much in too little time. I can't ever tune out the To Do List and just have a good time.

But I need a bit more guidance, cosmos. HOW do I chill out?!? How do I stop letting the anxiety rule my life? Is the key really just to listen to Bob Marley?

I'm off to Lala for some Bob Marley relaxation, day one .... if you notice my posts become more rambling and relaxed, you'll know why!

Photo credit: Wikipedia.org

My Brain Is Old

I went to the optometrist the other week. I was pretty excited to go, because my contacts have been giving me headaches ever since Eleanor was born. And now, 6 months later, I'm finally getting around to doing something about it.

After the eye exam, the doctor asked me whether I had any interest in switching from my usual, day-wear contacts to contacts that you can leave in day and night. I said "no," and explained how I don't wear my contacts all the time, they're mostly for sporting activities, etc .....

As I'm listening to the words coming out of my mouth, I am silently acknowledging to myself that it's all a load of crap. I mean, technically it may be true. But the real reason I'm not even considering overnight contacts is that I think they're unnatural. Contacts that you can wear at night?!? That's crazy!

I am completely okay with the general concept of contacts, because they've been around for most of my formative years. But wearing them for extra long periods of time, especially at night, was definitely against the rules. So even though an optometrist is recommending them as a viable option, I can't wrap my head around the idea.

And this is one way that I know I'm getting older. Because scientific advances are starting to seem too far out there for me to really believe. I can almost feel my synapses slowing down, my gray matter hardening into the well-traveled paths of thinking.

Next thing I know, you'll probably be trying to tell me that information can be transmitted through the air, and that any qualified individual can become President of the United States. I may nod and smile, but I probably won't believe you, though.