Red Underwear and Limoncello

Last Saturday morning at 6:15 a.m., I got a call from Claire-Adele: "I'm in Rome."

Claire-Adele was supposed to be in Bangkok this week visiting her father's family. She was scheduled to fly from New York through Qatar last Friday. The plane from NYC took off as scheduled. While she was flying, the airspace in the Middle East closed. After eleven hours in the air, the plane landed in Italy. She was even wearing her lucky red underwear, a good luck charm for safe traveling.

According to the Wall Street Journal, 264 flights were in the air on the way to the Middle East when the airspace was closed. The same article said that 10% of global air traffic goes through the Middle East. It is a major hub for flights between Europe, Asia and Africa. I guess that is why it is called the "Middle" East. 

At first when Claire-Adele told me she was wearing her lucky travel underwear, I thought "Well that didn't work." It is the opposite of good luck when your connecting flight gets diverted because of a war. 

But then, it probably was good luck. She is lucky that she wasn't waiting in the Qatar airport for her flight to Bangkok when the airspace closed. She could have been stuck on the edges of a war zone for weeks. 

Qatar airlines didn't have any information about new flights, so Claire-Adele decided to hunker down in Italy for a week, which of course is an awesome Plan B. When life gives you lemons, make limoncello.

Single Ladies

My neighbor Lydia has walked my dog twice a week for about three years. She is almost eighty years old and we live in the same condo building. She used to have an adored pup years ago, but no longer. Her walking my dog has been a blessing to her, me and, of course, Fox.

Lydia has taken a turn. Last week, we walked from our building to a coffee shop on the waterfront. She used to do this walk almost every day. When we got to the shop, she had forgotten her wallet and her phone. When we got back to the condo, she didn't have her key fob to get back into the building. 

I was terrified for her. What would have happened if I wasn't with her and she was alone? How could she have gotten back in to her home? Would she have been able to figure it out? 

I didn't think so.

If she can't remember her keys and doesn't know where her wallet is, I figured she isn't eating. Since then, I've been bringing her breakfast and inviting her over for dinner. Food seems to be the best medication -- she seems more alert now she's getting at least two meals a day.

The scary thing for me is watching someone navigate aging alone. Lydia has never been married and doesn't have kids. She has had a wonderful and exciting life as a single woman. She did it right. She is strong, smart and brave. And yet, she struggles.

I worry about myself, what will happen to me as I age alone? I have kids, but they don't live in the same state, just like I moved away from my family. Am I looking into a crystal ball, seeing my own future? 

My friend Jamie works with seniors, and she said reminded me that even with married couples, men die first and women are left to navigate the aging alone. Even if I was married or partnered, I will likely age alone.

The happy side of the Lydia story is that she is happy. She is content. She smiles and laughs and tells her stories.

Maybe aging has its upsides?

Apple Watch

I’ve always thought Apple Watches were stupid and ugly.

I thought they were for young, tech savvy hipsters who loved the latest gadgets. I had a coworker who was an early adapter for the Apple Watch, being all Dick Tracy and seeing how far away she could get from her phone and still get text messages and phone calls. 

No thank you. If I am far from my phone, I don’t want to get a call or a text. I don’t want to be that connected.

There is a second demographic of Apple Watch users that I now find myself becoming: Geriatric people who want to track every heartbeat and breath, who want to track their sleep and cardiac output. My dad and my aunt--two of my favorite people—wear an Apple Watch to monitor their health statistics.

Yeah, this is me. 

Ugh. 

I like watches. My engagement present from my ex was a fancy watch instead of a diamond ring. I loved this watch until I signed my divorce paperwork. Then, I couldn’t wear it anymore without wanting to barf. I found a beautiful watch made of white ceramic—the same type of industrial ceramic used to make tiles on the space shuttle. I have another watch with a mother of pearl face and simple leather strap.

Why would I want a black glass square that shows fingerprints on my wrist? Why?

Because monitoring my health is more important than beauty. Oh god…is this the meaning of aging? Giving up the ego of beautiful things to focus on preservation? Have I crossed into a new realm?

I ordered the “prettiest” Apple Watch I could find. I am going to wear this thing 24/7 and I want it to look good and be comfortable. It cost an arm and a leg, but I didn’t care. Actually, I did care. I cared a lot and was annoyed I was spending this much money on something I am expecting to hate. So I justified getting the coolest one so I can hate it less? There is a flaw in logic here which I overcame by throwing money at the problem.

I am hoping I don’t hate this new watch, but this one device is supposed to do too much. How can a sleep monitor be something cool that I want to wear to work and out with friends? I want something elegant that I can also wear while doing the dishes. My engagement present was great in that regard, but I never wore it to bed. It was too clunky to sleep with.

The watch will be delivered soon. I’ll keep you posted. 

Colors

I imagine

the women of Paris

put on

yellow

green 

pink

purple

red

sweaters

when they are 

home

alone

Brat

I am going to Paris for New Year's. 

Go me!

I have some friends who are going to be there and asked if I wanted to join them. This trip is crazy short notice, but I thought "Why am I saying no to this?" 

The trip will be a blast, even if more than half of it is a solo trip as my friends connected with their own family and friends in Paris.

Anyway, I was talking to a friend tonight about my trip. She has family in Paris and travels there often. She saw in my Brat green coat, and gently and kindly reminded that women in Paris wear black and neutral. I forgot I was wearing my bright puffer jacket. I bought it last fall. I thought it was garish, but garish was exactly what I wanted. I wanted something that makes people's eye sore when they look at it as I bike to work. The bright color is also useful for crossing the street in the dark relative to my dark gray puffer. I didn't know it was Brat green until a friend told me last week. In the past year, I've gotten a surprising number of compliments on this jacket that I initially thought was ugly.

My friend is right about how Parisian women dress, and of course I want to look like a local. (When I was in Paris in high school, a french person asked me for directions, which--not gonna lie--was a highlight of my life.) 

Nevertheless...

I think I might wear my Brat jacket in Paris. Fuck it neutrals. Fuck black and beige. I've worn dark colors and neutrals my entire life. Who cares what the Parisians think of me? I mean, I'll be wearing my Brat coat over my dark gray dress and black leggings, so the rest of me will be wearing my french uniform. Ironically before the sartorial conversation, my friend and I were talking about embracing the messiness of life. "Life grows in the mud," she said. I'll take a page from our dinner conversation and go with the bold, the messy, the uncertain, the unpredictable. I'll go Brat.

Let's see what happens. If next season all of the Parisian women are wearing bright colors, you'll know where it started.

Tough Love Isn't Love

I heard about Rob Reiner's death where he and his wife were stabbed by his son, which is a horrific tragedy for everyone involved. I feel a special heartbreak for the surviving children who must mourn the loss of their parents and the reconcile the actions of their brother. I can only imagine.

Reiner's son had major mental health issues, and had them since he was a teen. Reiner had said in an interview that he regretted the tough love approach he took with his son, as that was what was advised to him at the time.

Having been deeply involved in mental health issues with my own family members--and my subsequent distress--I've learned that tough love isn't love. It is control.

Tough love is what people do when someone they purport to love isn't doing what they want them to do, so they "lay down the law" and a bunch of "or else's" to get what they want. That is control, and most people don't like to be controlled. The disappointed party manipulates, threatens, cries, screams, and whatnot so they can get the disappointee to break down and as the disappointed person wishes.

I get this is appealing when your kid has gone off the rails, and is completely unhinged, when you feel like there is nothing else you can do to keep the person you love from sliding down into substances, depression, anxiety, anger and depression. 

Instead of trying to control the person, we need to let go and detach with love and set boundaries that are clearly communicated. We can have consequences when our boundaries are violated. No one has to (or should) accept unacceptable behavior, but yelling and screaming and threatening has never cured someone someone with a major mental illness. At least not that I am aware of.

One of the most important thing I have learned is that my own need to control others very often gets me the opposite of what I want. No one wants to be controlled, but everyone wants to be seen and heard.

Jeong

I was reading my horoscope the other day in Free Will Astrology (see: https://freewillastrology.com/) and it talked about jeong, a Korean concept that is the emotional bond between people, places, or things through shared experiences over time. "It is deeper than love and more complex than attachment: the accumulated weight of history together. You can have jeong for a person you don't even like anymore, for a city that broke your heart, for a coffee mug you've used for years."

As my horoscope continues, "As the scar tissue of togetherness, it can be beautiful and poignant. Now is an especially good time to appreciate and honor your jeong. Celebrate and learn from the soulful mysteries your history has bequeathed you."

I read this the day after my water aerobics melt down where I was time travelled back to when I was pregnant with Ada, a golden era of my life and marriage. I think of my ex and the decades of shared experiences we had together. It can be hard to break free from this. How can I find a way forward without spending so much time looking back? How can I not be haunted by my ghosts?

I think the answer is to invite the ghosts in with acceptance, as hard as that is. Let the ghosts sit down and have tea. Ghosts become less scary when we can see them in the light. If Buddha could invite his monsters in for tea, so can I.

I recently had a hard time wondering how I can look back at my life for all of the years since I was nineteen. All of those years were filled with my ex. Sure, I had work and friends and the kids, but Jack was the common denominator. He knows my history, and I know his. I can't pretend that he didn't or doesn't exist.

Maybe the answer isn't so much to look back, but to be here right now, and to look forward. I have a friend who rides horses. Today she told us you are supposed to look at ahead of you, and not look at your hands of the reins. Your hands and the reins won't help you get where you want to go. 

I was talking to a friend about Phase 2 of divorce where the wounds have stopped bleeding and we can start moving forward. We see our exes move forward without us, and that is hard. It can feel like betrayal.

Moving forward without our exes can also feel like betrayal, even the inconsequential stuff that our exes don't know or don't care about. 

I am still figuring all of this out. One day I should get it right.

Happy Days and Waterworks

I went to water aerobics last night at my gym. It was the second time I’ve taken this class. I’ve been in the pool countless times before, doing kick board laps. 

Before the class, I was sobbing. I was crying and crying and I couldn’t stop for about twenty minutes. It was kind of weird. Work has been crazy lately, but not that bad. 

When I got to class, the crying continued. I saw my neighbor in the class, which was nice. It is good to get to know someone in my building. 

Water aerobics. Water aerobics. Water aerobics. 

When I was pregnant with Ada, I was taking water aerobics. It was my first pregnancy and I was clueless. I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant, either. Before I knew I was pregnant, after one class felt like I was having my period but didn’t and what the heck was this about?

Duh.

That was a happy time. I don’t want to sound dramatic about it, but being pregnant with Ada was probably the happiest time of my life. My career was soaring, my marriage was in a peaceful and wonderful place, and I had never been in better shape outside of high school.

Life was good.

Really good.

And the Ada died.

I grieved and I cried and all the things. I was grateful when Claire-Adele and Pedro came along, of course. I love them and I think they are two of the coolest people I know.

And still. 

Jack believes the root cause of our marriage collapsing was Ada’s death. I call bullshit on that, but that is what he believes. It is his truth, and I do believe he probably never properly grieved for Ada and instead kept his sorrow and sadness buried instead exposed to light where things aren’t as scary.

Nevertheless, I am back at water aerobics and damn it is hard. I love water aerobics because it so both cardio and resistance without a lot of pressure on my knees.

Maybe it was the water aerobics twenty seven years ago that made me feel so wonderful. Life can be good at times but sometimes we miss seeing how good it is because we are preoccupied or distracted. Maybe it was water aerobics that helped opened the gates to my well being. 

After Ada died, I stopped going to water aerobics. I couldn’t go. It was too painful to go back to the pool where I felt so relaxed and energized and full of peace.

And happy.

The pool reminded me of when I was happy and I wanted no part of it, even though it was just a pool and water.

Even though I was sobbing last night before the class, I went anyway. The teacher waved and said hello to me. She knows my name somehow, bless her heart.

I still cried at the class. The pool is a salt water pool, so my tears blended right in. 

Accepting where I am right now is a powerful thing, as hard as it is. It is okay to cry at the pool and sob before class. I’ll be okay. It will all be okay. Happy days will come again, but I’m gonna need to slog through some sad ones first.

Scars & The School Board Race

My left knee is a mess.

It is covered in scars from bike crashes and an ACL surgery. The ugliest scar is from when I took a tumble delivering a campaign yard sign to a neighbor when I ran for Seattle School Board ten years ago.

My neighbor, Mr Eckhardt, was an elderly man who lived on Ravenna Blvd. Ravenna Blvd is a beautiful thoroughfare through Northeast Seattle designed by the Olmstead Brothers to connect Green Lake and Ravenna Park. It is one of the most beautiful streets in all of Seattle.

It was mid-afternoon in the late summer. I was going to deliver the yard sign before I truck down to Renton to watch my middle school aged son play in a soccer tournament.

I was wearing a khaki skirt and a navy blue cashmere sweater and I am drinking homemade hot chocolate in a travel mug for my mid-afternoon low-kay caffeine boost. It is summer in Seattle--a little chilly so the sweater and warm drink are fine. I was lowkey dressed up, as I always was during the campaign. I learned the hard way that I always was on stage after I went to pick up my son at school after Rocket Club. I wouldn't say I was technically wearing pajamas, but I was wearing an old t-shirt and ratty sweat pants that I had slept in before. The kids were late, and I had to get out of my car and talk to my base. In my pajamas. My then husband was horrified when I told him about it.

"You are always on stage. All the time."

I thought that was a little extreme. I mean, it was a down ballot, local race. I wasn't running for Senate or Congress or City Council, but he had a point. 

I was the establishment candidate, running for office after a few years as a parent advocate and President of the Seattle Council of PTSA. I wasn't some rabble rouser candidate, lambasting the District and the current Board. I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I had to look and act the part.

My neighbor isn't home, but the eighty year old frail Mrs. Eckhardt is. She is shy and takes the sign. I thank her for their support of my campaign, and head back home. 

About twenty feet from her house, I trip on uneven pavement. If I were skiing, the fall would have been called a yard sale. Everything went flying -- the travel mug and me. I took years of ballet as a kid and I am more graceful than the average bear. Not to brag, but I usually don't fall. Last year, I was walking in Pioneer Square and my foot caught uneven pavement and I went flying, but I defied gravity (Take that, bitch) and avoided the ground and a lamppost. 

I wasn't so lucky in the summer of 2015. I hit the pavement hard. My travel mug popped open and the  hot chocolate burned my hand, but my poor knee took it the worst. Six months before a skiing tumble would lead my to ACL surgery, my knee had a pretty bad scape that my future surgeon and physical therapist would look my knee, grimace, and ask what the hell happened. 

It was ugly. 

The cry and screams I let out were uglier. A burned hand was one thing, and a bloody knee was another, but both? OMG. I let it all out.

I screamed and I cried and I ran back to my neighbor's house to ask for help. The little old lady was terrified at me covered in tears and blood and hot chocolate.

"Can you help me?" I pleaded. She led me into her kitchen. I ran my hand under cold water as she pulled out a clean kitchen towel. I wet the towel and cleaned my knee. The cold water and blood made the blood look worse, like there was way more of it than there actually was.

I was a mess. I walked home crying and blubbering, blood running down my calf.

It was the first time I had an emotional breakdown in public while running for office. Remember, I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I wasn't out protesting, yelling and screaming. I was the one on the sidelines, watching the protests, listening, talking to people on the sidelines. Then I'd go back to the halls of power and get shit done. I likened my political style to State Senator Jamie Pedersen, the rational, logical, reserved and composed politician to who wrote the legislation for marriage equality in the State of Washington. While others were marching in the streets, waving flags and carrying signs promoting gay marriage, I imagine Jamie heads down, locked in the halls of government making those protesters dreams a reality.

That was what I aspired to be--the person who made those collective dreams a reality.

After my fall, it felt good to cry, even if my knee was full of gravel and my hand was toasted. After being buttoned up for months, it felt good to let loose and cry in public, full on with snot bubbles.

Looking back, I wonder why I didn't show my emotions more during the campaign, why I wasn't sad or angry or outraged, why I didn't cry and yell and pound my fist.

I don't know. Maybe if I had, maybe I could have won.

Bigger Than the Whole Sky

If there is a feeling in the world—with the exception of being a parent, Taylor Swift has probably written about it.

“Bigger Than the Whole Sky” is a song about grief, with some theories suggesting it is about a pregnancy loss. 

As many of you know, I had a stillbirth twenty-seven years ago. Each year around this time, I remember Ada. My dad sends me flowers every year on her anniversary, which I am always grateful for. 

This year, the grief hit me harder than it typically does, and I didn’t know why. Maybe I am looking back, and wondering how my life might have been different if she had lived. But why now? Why not when my kids were little? Why now that I am divorced and an empty-nester?

Maybe now I have more space for the grief, more than I did after Claire-Adele and Pedro were born. I was so busy being their mother that I didn’t really have time to miss Ada and wonder how my life might have been different. I was grateful—and am grateful—for my kids. I traveled with each of them this summer and it was great. I would trade them for all of heaven and earth. I am so lucky. 

And I still wonder what direction my life might have taken if Ada had lived. I might have been a working mom. Jack and I might have stayed in Chicago and not moved to St Louis or Seattle. Motherhood might have been easier, and then life might have been easier. I might have had less fear and more confidence and joy. I wonder if my marriage would have not have imploded.

Thankfully, it isn’t every day that I revisit this grief. I am learning not to fear this impending grief. Perhaps I can view it as a visit from Ada. She’s stopping by to say hello and wish me well. Maybe instead of crying about it, maybe I can welcome her in, and we can have a cup of tea.

Unpacking my Bags

The Seattle Mariners have made it to the next round of the Major League Baseball playoffs. Go M's!

I just checked baseball scores, and fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, the Cubs lost today to the Milwaukee Brewers, not advancing.

But what if?

What if the Mariner had to play the Cubs in the World Series? Who would I root for? The baseball team of my childhood and my twenties, or my current hometown team? I've lived in Chicago longer than I've lived in Seattle, but not by much. The gap gets smaller every year.

I was talking to my friend Christie the other day, a Seattle friend who was born and raised in Chicago. She was once called out on rooting for a Chicago team after living in Seattle since she was thirty.

"You haven't unpacked your bags, have you?" he asked her.

Have I unpacked mine? Would I root-root-root for my home team, or my hometown team? 

When the Cubs won the World Series in 2016, I was elated, not just for me, but my grandfather's ghost. He unpacked his bags when he moved from Sicily to the U.S. in his twenties. I think the first thing he did when he arrived in Chicago after finding a job was to become a Cubs fan.

When the M's won last night after a marathon fifteen innings, I heard the fireworks from T-Mobile at my downtown condo before the internet posted the score. I was thrilled, after biting my nails for most of the game. I wanted the M's to win, and I would have been sad if they had lost.

I love Chicago and I love Seattle. They are my two favorite cities in the U.S. Asking me which one I like better is like asking me to pick my favorite child. It isn't fair. 

Nevertheless, these cities aren't my kids. Should I be loyal and root for my hometown team, the Cubs? I saw my first Major League game at Wrigley Field when I was twelve. I attended games there in my twenties with my girls and Jack. Or, should I unpack my bags and root for the team where I live now, the city where I raised my kids, where I ran for School Board? Which city and team would I root for?

After much soul searching and introspection, I realize the answer is simple. I'll root for whichever team is losing.

Thank you for your Service!

I was at work today and one of the women had to leave to attend a PTA event. She is PTA president at her daughter's high school. 

"Thank you for your service," I said. 

Back when I was PTA president, people would say that to me all the time, but I didn't get it. Now I do.

Of course, we thank people for their military service, when then risk their lives and limbs for their country.

PTA, though, is different. People don't get paid for PTA. It is quiet, but it helps schools run. It would be great if schools were funded well enough that they didn't need a flotilla of volunteers to support them, but even well funded schools benefit from parent involvement.

This is service that helps all of our kids grow up and reach their potential. PTA work is often quiet and behind the scenes, like shelving books in the library or putting together a student directory or counting money from a bake sale. Or it is messy, where parents help in the lunch room, art class or on the playground. 

Even if my kids are grown and not in school anymore, they benefited from every parent that helped at their school.

I thank them for their service.