Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Middle Age

My son is going through middle age. This is not the typical middle age between birth and death. He is thirteen and going through the middle age between being a child and being an adult. I talked to a friend of mine today and she said, "He doesn't want to go backward, but he isn't ready to go forward." That would describe my teen.

I remember seeing a graph once that described regular middle age as such:


As someone who is in my forties, I can relate. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years.

I feel like this applies to my son in his teen years:

I have read articles about the teenage brain, and how it is in the process of pruning unnecessary synapses, or whatever part of the brain they no longer need. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years. This was also true for my daughter, who is now sixteen. I was at an event with a bunch of parents a few years ago when Claire-Adele was about thirteen. I was complaining about her antagonizing behavior, and how I found it annoying at best and enraging at worst.

"She is in the band, right?" Ron said. "I thought kids in band were good kids."

"She is a good kid," I said, "But she is a horrible person."

They all laughed. Brian was quiet for a minute, and then said, "My brother said there is a reason they call it 'Sweet Sixteen.'" I thought about that comment today. Kids get calmer and kinder as they age, as do their parents. Today Claire-Adele was trying to mock me and be mean about not driving her to school,* but she really lack the power and punch she had a few years ago.

I see the Boy struggle with wanting to be independent, make up his own mind. I remember when he was a little kid and I directed almost everything he saw and did. I would let him choose what clothes to wear, but the clothes were bought by me and my mother-in-law. He could choose which book to read, but I bought all of the books. When he got a half hour of TV time, he could choose which Thomas the Tank Engine he wanted to watch. And on.

Now I have less say over what he listens to, reads and wears. He had a Kindle, and ninety percent of the time, I don't know what he is reading. Once in a while, I check the Amazon account to see what he has bought, but that is it.

I don't want to go backwards in time to when I was the creator of his world, but I miss the time when he was more impressionable, and I could make the impression. I miss saying "This is what we are doing this weekend!" and my kids would happily go along. This weekend, I wanted to see the Sherlock Holmes exhibit at the Pacific Science Center. I thought the Boy would like it, but he didn't want to go. He'd rather rest on the couch. My friend Eleanor suggested giving him chores to do as an alternative option to get him out of the house, but the Boy chose practicing his music for an hour over hanging out with me.

Maybe that is the difference: Jack was working, and the Boy would have to hang out with me. The Boy seems to gravitate towards his father lately, which is good. I am happy for both of them, but I still miss my baby.

* She walks every day unless she has to bring something large or heavy to school. That was not the case today. It wasn't even raining.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Ode to the Zoka Bar

O Zoka Bar, O Zoka Bar!
How you ruined my diet without sugar.
I walk into Zoka, and look in the case.
Last time I was there, you were gone.
Today, you smile at me.
"I don't need a Zoka Bar today," I tell the barista.
"But sometimes you do need a Zoka Bar," she says.
So I take one.

You are big enough to share with my whole family,
but my whole family is not here.
I nibble at your edges, savoring each
chocolate
nutty
peanut butter
condensed sweet milk
coconut
graham cracker crust
bite.

In college, you were the seven layer bar, but now you have grown
into something larger and yummier than before.

I nibble away but keep your rectangular shape so I can't tell
how much I've eaten.

My friends couldn't meet today
so you join me with my gunpowder green tea.
You wipe away all benefits of the antioxidants.

I bring you home.
You are my crack, my meth, my amphetamines.

But you aren't.
You are my sedative, putting me to sleep at two in the afternoon.
I was tired to start, but you shove me over the edge.

I come home, and make truffle popcorn and order Mr. Gyros for dinner--
other delicious foods to distract me from your brilliance.
They fail. I dream about you as I walk the dog.

Jack and the Boy aren't home tonight,
It is just me and Claire-Adele.
I offer her a bite, to share, so I will not
Devour the whole thing.
"It is good, but not good enough for me to eat more."
Damn her self-control!!!
Leaving me with the remaining 3,000 calories.

I cut small bites, mere morsels, to savor.
My stomach bloats, rebels, but my tongue demands more
Though the rest of my body says stop.

O Zoka Bar, O Zoka Bar!
How you ruined my diet without sugar.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Mental Illness, Movies and Bad Guys

[SPOILER ALERT in this post for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them]

I don't know if there is such a thing as Mental Illness Kindness Day, but there ought to be.

One of my favorite people and good friend was recently diagnosed with depression and anxiety. It is taking me a while to figure out what this means. My mother had depression and was on medication for years. Hers didn't kick in until after I was living on my own in a different state, so I didn't see to the day-to-day impacted on her. My father tells me stories of how she would cry for days.

Yesterday, I went to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them with this friend and our kids. After the movie, this friend said she didn't like it: "The bad guy was a psycho bent on destroying the world." This hit her close to the heart.

Having just been diagnosed with a mental illness and starting treatment, she struggles with the loneliness of the disease and understanding how her body impacts her mood in such a way that makes her unmotivated to leave the house. She is functional in some respects of her life because she has to be, but in others, she falls. She tells me of her dark thoughts and wishes them away. "When I get bored, I think. When I think, I get depressed." I can't imagine what it would be like not to want to be inside your own head, wanting to escape your own mind.

In some sense, the answer could be to be distracted to the point of not thinking, but then she introduced a new word to my vocabulary: maladaptive. Maladaptive means using a coping mechanism that doesn't improve mental health, like drinking or giving in to other addictions like video games. Adaptive strategies are exercise, being around friends, exploring nature and getting enough sleep.

Her issue is that bad guys in movies are often disturbed or crazy. I suppose a bad guy can't simply be sane because then perhaps he wouldn't be a bad guy because theoretically he or she would know better than to commit evil acts. That being said, many if not most people with mental illnesses know the difference between right and wrong, likely at the same rate sane people know right from wrong. Some folks with mental illness have a very heightened sense of right and wrong -- they might be more sensitive to injustice than a typical person. My daughter pointed out that Putin is sane and Lincoln was crazy. Does that make having a mental illness a good thing? If you only use those two as an example, I suppose so, but life isn't so simple.

I am asking Hollywood this: can we have more empathetic depictions of people with mental illnesses? Can we have some heroes who suffer from bipolar disorder, or OCD? I googled famous people with depression and it was twelve pages long. How about showing a biopic of Lincoln that includes his depression?

Friday, November 18, 2016

Run, Baby, Run! Part 3 and South Park

If you told me last year at this time that my blog would have a category called "Running," I would have said "You have got to be kidding." I also would have said the same about "Knee" and "ACL." ("What's an ACL?" I would have asked.)

Now, I have become one of those people who writes down their workouts.


This is my running schedule for yesterday which was not March 7. (It was the top sheet of paper from a note pad.) I have a "Return to Running" program sheet given to me by my physical therapist. I am supposed to do a run/walk combination, where I gradually increase the amount I run. There is a fancy schedule for this -- I don't make it up as I go along. Yesterday, I was at the "run for two minutes eight times" phase. I am supposed to warm up for five minutes, run for two, walk for one, and do that four times, walk for another two minutes, repeat the two minute runs and one minute walks four times and have a five minute cool down.

Clear as a bell, right? You can see what I have to mark it out by minutes. It is hard to keep track of what I am supposed to be doing when, so I wrote it out and posted it on the treadmill. It worked.

I brought my headphones to the YMCA yesterday because this was going to be a longer run and I thought music might help to keep me going. When I got to the Y, there was a sign up saying the cardio machines with fancy screens are now connected to cable television and there was a list of channels. That's cool, I thought. Still, I was running right before lunch, and I figured there would be nothing on midday so I listened to my "Physical Therapy" music playlist. As I have mentioned before, watching television during the day makes me suicidal. I am not exaggerating by much. When Claire-Adele was born, I thought I'd pass time by watching television in the morning and afternoon. I would watch great stuff like Regis and Kathy Lee and reruns of The Nanny. Afterwards, I lost my reason to live. Even if I were running and getting endorphins, I thought it might not be a good idea to watch television. It is winter in Seattle, which is grim enough without adding other reasons for the Black Dog of Depression give me a visit.

At the end of my run, I was curious about the cable television. Comedy Central was on, and I figured at least there would be reruns of old comedy shows midday. How bad could it be?

South Park was on. I had never seen an episode before. I had heard it was a little crass, but I figured I was wearing headphones. How bad could it be? I was on a treadmill at the front of the cardio room. The stationary bikes are behind treadmills, and the step machines are behind those. Think of an orchestra or band seating arrangement: the flutes are in front of the clarinets who are in front of the brass section, and behind it all is percussion. I was in the flute position. Half of the people in the cardio room could see what was on my screen.

Maybe those of you have seen South Park know what is coming. I didn't. In the two minutes I watched, there was a cartoon depiction of role play sex where the dad is the UPS guy and the mom is in skimpy underwear. Most of this takes place in the dark, so the couple on the stationary bikes behind me probably couldn't see this. A little boy walks in, sees his mom with the "UPS Guy" and is traumatized. He can't speak, so he draws a picture of the scene with stick figures with very large and accurately drawn genitalia. I am sure the large penis was clearly visible to the folks on the elliptical machines and stationary bikes. You might think I am exaggerating, but I've spent a LOT of time of those bikes and I could see the treadmill screens. I turned off the show, and finished my cool down. I slunk away, not making eye contact with anyone in the cardio room.

That is my embarrassing story about watching cable television in the middle of the day. Nothing good comes of it.

I did have a good run, though, in spite of being mortified for watching a porn cartoon at the Y. Today I was at the grocery store and one of the songs on my "Physical Therapy" playlist and I was like Pavlov's dog. The bell rang and I was ready run.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Potlucks: Love and Hate (but mostly Hate)

My daughter is part of this terrific social justice class at her school. We are grateful that she can be a part of it. She is learning a ton and is gaining poise and eloquence, all of which is good.

I love this program except that it hits me in one area of my life that I absolutely hate: potlucks. The parents and students meet once a month for a potluck dinner and then a meeting about the program. Last Thursday, I found myself making a baked penne dish with Italian sausage and mozzarella cheese on top. I was pissed. Why should I have to cook a fucking meal before I attend a meeting? Is this just a Seattle thing that didn't die in the 1970's like they did in the rest of the U.S. when moms went back to work and didn't have all afternoon to cook for an evening event? This is why caterers and pizza delivery people were invented, along with regular meetings where you don't need to feed people.

I was complaining as I was making the baked penne. "It's a potluck," my daughter said. "You don't need to bring anything. Other people bring stuff, and it all works out." Her cross country team hosts potluck dinners, and she never brings anything. Even though I hate potlucks, I think it is wrong to show up empty handed, which is why I hate them because of the pressure to bring something. The girls'' team and the boys' team usually meet together except for once. At that dinner, the only food there were salads and store bought cookies. The mom who hosted was highly annoyed when she had to make pasta for all of the girls. I can't blame her. The other option is to list what people need to bring, which is also annoying. Why do some people get to bring beverages when others have to bring side dishes? Who makes side dishes anymore these days? Should I bring five pounds of steamed broccoli? My daughter would never be able to show her face at school again. 

(My god, I sound like the late professional curmudgeon, Andy Rooney.)

The potlucks for my daughter's social justice program are about the same as the cross country potlucks: lots of salads and store bought cookies, very few main courses. Fortunately, the parents get to eat first, and the kids get the scraps. 

Thankfully, school potlucks have become more chill as my kids have aged. When my kids were younger, and the parents were just getting to know each other, potlucks were like a fashion show where people cooked into impress.

Seattle has lots of people who consider themselves foodies, thereby raising the stakes of potlucks. Once, The Boy's kindergarten class had a potluck picnic on the last weekend of school. Jack was working, and I had the two kids to myself. I didn't feel like cooking and was feeling passive aggressive about having to cook something fabulous for this event. I went to the grocery store and bought a two-pound vat of yellow potato salad, the kind that comes in a plastic tub with a handle to make it easy to carry. 

"You didn't!" Jack said. "You represented our family with store bought potato salad? And it wasn't even the good, fancy, organic deli kind? It was the kind they make in Cincinnati and ship across the country?"

"Yep," I said. "You were welcome to make your potato salad before you left for work." No comment followed.

I didn't write "McGuire" on the big tub in Sharpie. That would have been bad. One of the dads (who I late became friends with) made baklava and spanakopita. I am not kidding. There must have been a sale on phyllo dough someplace. In short, there was nothing I could have made that would come close to those dishes. Pre-made yellow potato salad was the best I could do. The baklava and spanakopita were awesome. I was glad someone else was willing to spend hours cooking for a kindergarten potluck. The kids didn't eat the baklava or spanakopita. This was purely for the adults. I brought home close to 1.75 pounds of potato salad.

So what do I love about potlucks? The suckers who make stuff like baklava and spanakopita! (Ha! ha! Just kidding, Eric!) Sure, they are showing off their cooking skills and how much free time they have, but I'll take it. 

Even non-foodie potluck have their good points. Eating with people you don't know gives you something to do and talk about. 

"This lentil salad is great! And so is this kale and lemon salad!" 

"Oh, I like it too!" 

And there you are, talking with strangers.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Life vs. Literature

My daughter read Lakota Woman by Mary Crow Dog for her language arts class, Hands for a Bridge. It is a social justice class that sends students to Northern Ireland and South Africa for two weeks to learn about social conflict. They also examine social conflicts here in the U.S.

The Hands for a Bridge group has a family potluck dinner once a month, and last week the kids were asked to talked to their parents about Lakota Woman. When I was in high school in Columbus, Ohio, I took a class called Native American Culture Studies, taught by Tom Molnar, where we learned the history of Native Americans. We had a field trip at the end of my senior year of high school where we spent a week on the Navajo and Hopi Reservations. It was the first time I had ever been west of the Mississippi outside of a family vacation to St. Louis when I was six. I had never been to the Southwest before, and I was blown away by the landscape. I felt like I was on a different planet.

Claire-Adele and her friend Madison talked about the book which I had not read. Both girls had read stories and books by Sherman Alexie, as had I. Lakota Woman was different.

"She was drinking a fifth of vodka by time she was twelve," Claire-Adele said. "Everyone in her family was drunk all of the time."

"There was also the historical trauma they were dealing with in addition to the poverty," said Madison.

I started thinking about this, and then spoke up about my trip out west to the reservations. I had gone in 1987, three years before Lakota Woman was published. I missed reading it when it came out. Lakota Woman takes place in South Dakota instead of Arizona and New Mexico.

"When I was visiting the Navajo and the Hopi, I didn't see the poverty as much as I saw the people," I said. "The kids when to boarding school, not because the goal was to indoctrinate the kids, but because the land was so sparsely populated that the closest school for some of these kids was eighty miles away. They couldn't make the round trip twice a day. They would arrive on Monday and leave on Friday."

I remember we showed up on the night of their prom. They were all dressed up in their gym, and we crashed the party wearing jeans. It was terrible. We had just returned from a hike in the wilderness (I would say woods but there were no trees) and we were covered in red dust. Before that, we stopped at the home of one of the students. It was a small cinderblock house all painted white with a couch and a television set on. Rugs covered the walls and floors. The dad was watching a show. I thought to myself, So this is what poverty looks like. It isn't as bad as I thought it would have been, but then I had no idea what to expect. Everyone was dressed well and there was food. I don't remember where we slept for the night. When we went out to the Hopi Reservation, I stayed with a family in their new pre-fab home. It seemed pretty nice to me, and the kids had a new high school. For other parts of the trip, we camped outside, often without tents, throwing our sleeping bags and pillow on the ground.

"We hung out with these kids for a week," I said. "and we never talked about alcohol, poverty or problems in their families. The kids were super quiet--they hardly ever spoke. They were present, not aloof or distant."

I had always thought that literature was a poor substitute for life, not the other way around. I would have thought that going to see a place and meet people would be more important than reading about them in a book. This conversation with my daughter in front of strangers made me rethink this. Even though I had been to the reservation, I didn't understand it in the same way my daughter who had read about it did. Mary Crow Dog said the things that the girls we traveled with did not say, that they couldn't say.

Friday, November 11, 2016

150% and Slack

My husband Jack is a physician with administrative responsibilities. He works long hours, including nights and weekends on top of his regular 9-to-5 responsibilities. He says he has two or three different jobs with one title, and that is true. He gives 150% of his effort and energy to his job.

This is a problem. I've always known it was a problem for our marriage and family, but this week the light bulb went off that this was not good for his department or good for working women with families.

In his field, they expect everyone to give 150%, and the schedule and workload is assigned as such. But what happens when one of those people can only give 75%? Usually, these people are women. Being a woman myself, I should take their side, right? Even though I am a stay-at-home-mom/recovering volunteer whose husband makes enough money that we can comfortably live on one income? (I need to eradicate the phrase "We don't need the money" from my self-talk.)

Anyhow, what happens if you have a job where you need to give 150% and your child develops a chronic illness that needs to be stabilized? What if you get divorced? What if your parents become ill and can't take care of themselves and you are the only child or responsible offspring? What if you nanny is hospitalized? What if--god forbid--these all happen at the same time? Who picks up the slack?

For a single mom, she takes care of her family and her co-workers pick up the slack. Her former partner might not be part of the picture any more, or might not consider family work a priority.

For some married working women, they take care of their family and their co-workers pick up the slack. Even for women doctors, their husband's job take priority.

"I can't work nights or weekends for three weeks because my husband is out of town" or "I can't give you my schedule until my husband gets his surgery schedule."

The conflict here isn't between husbands and wives, it is between the two people who are responsible for raising children, which is different. Before kids, I used to travel for work and never checked Jack's schedule before I agreed to go. Throw a child into the mix, and everything needs to be negotiated. Someone has to raise the kids, because kids can't raise themselves. Nannies and au pairs are helpful, to a degree. My daughter is sixteen and incredibility independent, but she didn't know how to pump gas until last night. Someone needed to figure out the skill gap and fill it. That was me.

Previously I wrote that the Mommy Wars take place between moms and dads instead of between women. I now think the collateral damage of that conflict extends to the workplace. The workplace suffers when husbands put their jobs before their wives', and then the damage comes back home. It is a whirlpool that keeps going around and around.

Men think their jobs are important, which is fine. Their jobs are important, but so are women's jobs and so are raising children.

Many workplaces have changed so that they bring more family balance into the picture, which is great but not always sufficient. I met one woman consultant at the Change Management conference last month whose firm had a program to encourage women to come back to work after they had a baby. Her child is now four and she is still working. No such programs existed when Claire Adele was born sixteen years ago. Those programs would have been helpful for me to a degree, but it wouldn't have changed my husband's job or the amount he had to work. When I was working, there was a big push for new moms to get paid leave. I thought it was awesome until someone said men should get it, too. The incrementalist that I am thought it was a bad idea because it might take away from women, but I was so wrong. Men need to take parental leave, too, so women don't have to do it alone. Giving men parental leave is an employer's way of saying, "You are a parent, too. Don't dump it all on your wife."

I remember when the Boy was born. He was born the Monday after Easter. I remember sitting in his room on the futon chair breastfeeding him when he was four days old. Claire Adele was two and a half, and was spinning around in circles in the middle of the room. Jack popped in to say goodbye and left for work. I nearly died. Two weeks later, he went to a conference in Italy. It was hell.

My solution: maybe jobs shouldn't require 150%. This might be blasphemous for me to say when I am looking for a job. I am sure some employer might google me and see this and think "She won't be committed." Maybe they are right, but maybe they need to rethink commitment. But the point isn't about commitment, it is about slack and who takes care of things at home or work when the shit hits the fan.

At home, it is women who often pick up the slack when things go bad. At work, it is typically men or women without kids. Again, this is like the whirlpool of reinforcement. The more women pick up at home, the more they pick up at home. The more men pick up at work, the more they pick up at work. The balance continues to get out of proportion. This is what needs to change, and one way to do that is to not to have the basic expectations to be 150%. This is fine when life is perfect and no one has a sick child or parent or no one gets divorced, but the model falls apart when something happens--and it does because it is life--there isn't excess capacity. We need to add slack into our systems and into our lives.

Sidelines Talk and a Shingle Job

Last weekend, I went to two of my son's soccer games. The best part of games is talking to other parents on the sidelines. I am one of those parents who rarely talks about the game. I pay enough attention so when my son discusses various plays on the car ride home, I can nod along like I know what he is talking about. I usually get about 50%.

At Saturday's game, I talked to fellow transplanted Chicagoans about the Cubs victory. We were yucking it up to the point we were unaware an injured player from the other team was being taken off the field. Oops.

Sunday, I talked to another mom, Amanda, about getting a job. I had never met this woman before--our sons had never been on the same team until this year when the league changed the age brackets. She seemed to know I was looking for a job before I said anything, like she had ESP. It was surreal. Or maybe she was at another game and I was too busy blabbing with the moms I already knew and she overheard me say was looking for a job. Either way.

Amanda is an independent compensation consultant who works with a few other people. Years ago, I was in compensation consulting at a large firm. We collected survey data about how various positions were paid, and advised large companies on salary structure for employees. It was interesting to learn, but dreadfully boring after two years when I learned the basics. After that, it was repeating one of a dozen or so reports for different companies. I needed something else, which is when I got into change management.

I told Amanda I had been in compensation consulting, but hadn't done it in decades.

"The field hasn't changed," she said. "It's still comparing median market rate salaries to what a company pays."

I thought about this--maybe I could get a shingle job, like my dad used to say. Lawyers and accountants can work for large organizations or they can put up a shingle, get their own clients and be their own boss. Maybe I could do this for compensation consulting. It wouldn't be thrilling, but it wouldn't be too intellectually or emotionally taxing, either, for my first foray in returning to the paid workforce. I'd have to ramp up, but I already know the basics. This was intriguing...

"I really want to get out of the house and work with other people," I said.

"Oh," she said. This pause was not good. "I don't really connect with the people I work with. We have nothing in common. I rely on my friends in my different communities for social interactions. I mostly work at home part-time, because I am still carpooling my kids before and after school."

I work at home enough. The goal for me would be to get out of the house, not stay in it. Part of what I loved about my volunteer work was working with other people. On the other hand, volunteer work doesn't come with a paycheck.

Monday, November 7, 2016

Yucks and Yums

My daughter is very active in YMCA leadership programs. Last summer, she was a Counselor in Training (CIT) at Camp Orkila on Orcas Island. As such, she fills us with knowledge she shares with campers.

"Don't yuck on someone else's yums," was the gem she came up with this weekend when she and her brother were disagreeing on which board game to play: Bohnanza or Scrabble. Claire Adele and I played one round of Bohnanza and then the Boy and I played Scrabble.

The Boy hasn't been feeling too well lately, and to pick him up, I reminded him the Ski Bus sign up was open. I asked if he wanted to sign up, and he said yes. I told him his father was planning to take him to buy new skis this weekend. The Boy was thrilled. He went to the basement and dug up last year's gear, and tried everything on to see what fit and what didn't. In the past year, the Boy has grown more than four inches taller. He needed new everything except a helmet.

As the Boy was trying on his old gear, I grew wistful. I had only seen him ski once in his new ski jacket last year, and that was when I tore my ACL on the second run of the season.

The Boy, ever sensitive, knew that while his excitement about hitting the slopes hard to suppress, I might be a little sad about not getting the green light to ski this season. My new surgeon said to wait at least a year until after my surgery before I ski again. That would be the end of February for me.

Sigh.

"Hey!" the Boy said as he tried to squeezed his foot into his too small boot. "You could snowboard!"

What? I hate snowboarders. I take that back. I hate bad snowboarders. Bad snowboarders fall into two categories

1. Those who are unaware of their blindspot and run skiers over, and
2. Those who don't know how to snowboard and ride down the hill with the board perpendicular to the fall line and scrape the snow off the slopes.

I know I shouldn't yuck on someone else's yums, but here is a bit of anger poetry from a few years ago, previously posted on my blog:

Snowboarders

Raping the slopes
And pillaging the powder,
You leave an icy trail
Like a snail leaves
Slime.
You can't see me
As your flat board
Irons the corduroy.

"Seriously," the Boy said, amazed at his own brilliant idea. "You wouldn't have skis that could twist your knee. It would be safer."

Evan, my physical therapist, told me the same thing. He is a snowboarder himself, so he might be biased. "Only 2% of snowboarding injuries are torn ACLs. One-fourth of all skiing injuries are torn ACLs."

I ignored Evan when he said this, and here is my son, cheering me on to try something knew, something I previously yucked on, something that would get me safely back on the lift with my family in the winter.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Washing Away

Last week was a rough week. I'll skip the details, but trust me, it was rough.

A few weeks ago, I was at a Change Management Conference in Portland, Connect Change 4. Change Management is an interesting field because you are making people do things they don't want to do, which is change. As someone who helped manage and advocate for change, both in the corporate world and in the public sector, I know change is hard, whatever kind of change it is. The processes have to be right, you need buy-in, you need to make sure people know what the change is, you have to listen to find out where things are and aren't working, and this is all on top of people's moods. Sometimes change can be for the worse (think a corporate downsizing or life after an earthquake), so resiliency is a big part of change management. How can we help people bounce back after the shit hits the fan?

One of the topics at the conference was "How to Have a Good Week After a Bad Weekend." One of the speakers talked about the impact of her divorce on her work life. She tried to hide her failed marriage from her colleagues, bury herself in busyness. Anther speaker, a physical therapist, was a facing financial catastrophe, which kept him pre-occupied during work. Having been through months of physical therapy, I can't imagine having an unhappily distracted therapist cranking on my knee.

This was interesting to me because I am not in the workforce right now, so my weeks and weekends kind of blend together. They take place in the same place, for better or worse.

So what happens when I have a bad weekend at home? It blurs into the rest of my week. After this past rough weekend, Jack went to work and the kids went to school, washing away the challenges. They got back on their horses and had distractions.

I didn't. I stayed at home and metaphorically and literally cleaned up while everyone went on about their lives, escaping the mess. How can I wash away a bad weekend when my weekends don't end?

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Ghosts of Wrigley

The World Series is on right now, and I can't watch. I can't watch. It is too much. I might have a stroke or a heart attack.

My Grandpa Conti was a Cubs fan since he came to the U.S. in 1920 or so. I saw signs at Wrigley that said "This one's for Grandpa!" It wasn't just my grandparents--there are millions of Chicagoans who have never seen the Cubs win a World Series. Millions of ghosts are in that stadium in Cleveland tonight, cheering on the Cubs.

Scott Turow wrote the best thing ever about the Cubs. He had a beautiful essay published in a book, otherwise, I'd have a link here. It was about the meaning of Cubs, and how this transcends generations. Turow was a Cubs fan like his dad, and Turow's son became a Cubs fan like him, all cursed with seeing their team suffer defeat.

Win or lose, here are some great things about the Cubs:
  • They define the meaning of unconditional love. We love Wrigley Field and beautiful days drinking pop or beer and eating hot dogs. I remember Jack and I went to a game in early April with his friends. These seats were the worst seats in the worst weather. We sat in the last row by the fence, and the wind and rain blew right through us the whole game. But I remember it. Outside of Wrigley, Jack remembers my grandfather in the nursing home listening to the Cubs on WGN. He never gave up on his team.
  • Maddon has given us a great phrase: "Try not to suck." This could be the meaning of life. Win or lose, if you try to do a good job, that matters.
  • This season has created something very special: a fourth generation Cubs fan in my family. The Boy would have something to talk about with his great-grandfather, and that to me is amazing. 
  • Maybe someday is today.
Okay, gotta watch the end.

#trynottosuck
#flytheW



Tuesday, November 1, 2016

What I Miss in my Life is Fire

Note: I am in a writing class that is focusing on goddess archetypes. This piece was inspired by St. Bridget, the Irish Hearth Goddess.

What I miss in my life is fire.

I used to have a fireplace. The house I lived in in Ohio when I was a kid had a fireplace. Our house before that in Chicago did not. When we lived in Chicago, we would go camping almost every weekend from late spring through early fall and my mom would satisfy her need to build fires. When we moved to Ohio, one of my mom’s many requirements was that her new house had a fireplace.

My mom knew how to start a fire and how to keep them going with minimal effort. I admired her skill and knowledge. It was like magic how she knew about fires. In Ohio, the fires were decorative and relaxing, not to keep the house warm. The fireplace in Ohio had glass doors, so you could shut them at night before the fire died out, and we could go to sleep.

In college, when Jack and I started dating, I got the flu. He brought me a gift bag filled with trinkets he bought at Walgreen's. In it was a votive and a candle holder. I watch the flame dance and I smelled the vanilla wax. I began to understand my mother's curiosity and interest in fire.

My first apartment in Chicago had a fireplace. I lived there for eight years. We would order a cord of wood from a guy in a truck who would pull up on the corner of Clark and Belden. We kept the wood in the apartment until one year when we found little bugs that bore holes in the wood. I became terrified that I had brought some version of a termite into the apartment, so we moved all of the wood to the wrought iron fire escape in the back of the building.

Our sterile, low ceiling apartment in St. Louis did not have a fireplace. The small, square apartment had no privacy, no beauty. It was in a “nice” neighborhood. While other buildings had character, our apartment was inoffensive, without charm, not of an era.

Our first house on Westminster Place in St. Louis was a manse. It had three floors, and on the first floor were three inert fireplaces, too small to be up to code, the chimney’s closed off like an infertile beast. In the empty fireboxes, I placed large candleholders. One held a dozen votives. Another held three pillar candles. The fireplaces in the upstairs rooms were closed off by drywall, hiding the inner usefulness, hiding beauty and warmth. Even though I haven’t lived in that house for twelve years. I dream of taking a sledgehammer to the drywall and finding the hidden hearths.

Our cozy home in Seattle does not have a fireplace to fight off the damp chill. Instead, our house is a nest tucked in the trees. We have a view of the volcano from my daughter’s room. That is a different fire, boiling deep, deep, deep beneath the mountain and snow, magnificent and terrifying at the same time. But we don’t have a fireplace.

What I miss in my life is fire.