A few weeks ago, I visited my mom in Ohio. As you may know, she is in the very late stages of Alzheimer's. She doesn't talk, but she smiles. She planks--her body become rigid and her bum lifts off the bottom of her wheelchair. When she relaxes, she slumps and needs to be readjusted in her chair by her caretakers. Jack said uncontrolled planking is a type of spasticity caused by neurological problems. He translates her day-to-day behaviors into levels of degradation.
I wondered if she recognized me, even as her brain falls apart. Was she smiling at me because I was someone sitting next to her, or did she smile because her daughter came to visit? I could ask, but I wouldn't get a response.
I was talking to my neighbor, Carol, whose mother also had Alzheimer's. She asked if my mother recognized me, and I said I thought she might, but I couldn't tell. She would look at me while she ate, not at other people or other parts of the room.
"My mother recognized me until the very end," Carol said.
I remember seeing the documentary, Alive Inside. People with dementia were given music from their youth to listen to, and people who were catatonic would then talk or sing along to their favorite music.
I wonder if my voice was like a song to my mother, bringing her back into her past, awakening her mind.
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Writing and Bipolar
Tuesday was a good day. Great, in fact. My rehabbed knee got good marks at my post-surgical and physical therapy appointments. I was fitted for a skiing brace. I made major progress on my novel--the groundbreaking kind of progress where seventy-two pages of chaos finally found its purpose. I had a writing class, and then a job interview. I got called back for a second interview. Yay!
I haven't had too many awesome days like this in the past two and a half years, so allow me to gloat a teeny bit. The downside of my good day is that I have positive news on the job front and the writing front. I write between phases of my job search to keep me productive and having a sense of accomplishment. When my writing starts to flag, I usually approach my job search with renewed vigor.
Here is the deal: I love to write. I also hate to writing. Let me tell a story.
Years ago, I read part of Kay Redfield Jamison's Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. (I read all of her book, An Unquiet Mind, about her battle with what is now called bipolar disorder.) Her thesis in Touched with Fire is that the emotional ups and downs of creative people is really bipolar. From the amazon.com review:
The anguished and volatile intensity associated with the artistic temperament was once thought to be a symptom of genius or eccentricity peculiar to artists, writers, and musicians. Her work, based on her study as a clinical psychologist and researcher in mood disorders, reveals that many artists subject to exalted highs and despairing lows were in fact engaged in a struggle with clinically identifiable manic-depressive illness.
While I have the utmost respect for Jamison, I think there might be another explanation. When I write, I have great days and miserable days. There are days when I get feedback that my topic is fascinating and my writing is clear and interesting. There are days when I think whatever it is I am writing is crap/unpublishable/boring and I should give up and get a real job where I could get dressed up every day, be around other people and get paid. Then I imagine the $2M book/movie deal with Matt Damon in the leading male role. Maybe I could make it big, I imagine. And then I started reading Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff and I think I suck. It isn't fair for me to compare my unfinished first draft to a final product that has been reviewed by professional editors, but I do.
I've been going to writing conferences and taken writing classes for almost ten years. If nothing else, writing is a wonderful hobby, but I wonder if I can make it a job, given what I like to write about. I know that in order for something to be published it needs
I think my novel has an interesting topic and a potential audience, which is great, but not sufficient. The book needs to be well written, and in all of my years of writing, I've never written fiction. It is fun to try, but another thing to succeed.
Unlike math jobs I've had in the past, writing has more ups and downs. Quant jobs have incremental progress, where projects progress one step at a time. Writing happens in fits and starts. Of course, a writer needs good habits. The hardest part of writing is getting your butt in the chair. I have decent (not awesome, but decent) writerly habits. Even with good habits, I find writing fiction full of highs and lows. Some days, I think this novel is the most viable project I've worked on, that this will be the one that gets published and finds an audience. Other days, I talk to writers and am reminded of the slog of finding an agent, editor, and publisher. After that, I'll find an article about agents who need new material and are searching for new talent.
I've never had this much of an emotional roller coaster in any other job, even running for office, as I do with writing, but I don't think I've developed bipolar disorder in the last two months. I think writing and other creative endeavors bring out the highs and the lows. I see my writing in the changing light of morning, noon and dusk. Sometimes the light shows me the value of what I have done, other times the flaws. Perhaps the act of creating and nature of creative work causes these deep mental fluctuations, not the other way around.
I haven't had too many awesome days like this in the past two and a half years, so allow me to gloat a teeny bit. The downside of my good day is that I have positive news on the job front and the writing front. I write between phases of my job search to keep me productive and having a sense of accomplishment. When my writing starts to flag, I usually approach my job search with renewed vigor.
Here is the deal: I love to write. I also hate to writing. Let me tell a story.
Years ago, I read part of Kay Redfield Jamison's Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. (I read all of her book, An Unquiet Mind, about her battle with what is now called bipolar disorder.) Her thesis in Touched with Fire is that the emotional ups and downs of creative people is really bipolar. From the amazon.com review:
The anguished and volatile intensity associated with the artistic temperament was once thought to be a symptom of genius or eccentricity peculiar to artists, writers, and musicians. Her work, based on her study as a clinical psychologist and researcher in mood disorders, reveals that many artists subject to exalted highs and despairing lows were in fact engaged in a struggle with clinically identifiable manic-depressive illness.
While I have the utmost respect for Jamison, I think there might be another explanation. When I write, I have great days and miserable days. There are days when I get feedback that my topic is fascinating and my writing is clear and interesting. There are days when I think whatever it is I am writing is crap/unpublishable/boring and I should give up and get a real job where I could get dressed up every day, be around other people and get paid. Then I imagine the $2M book/movie deal with Matt Damon in the leading male role. Maybe I could make it big, I imagine. And then I started reading Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff and I think I suck. It isn't fair for me to compare my unfinished first draft to a final product that has been reviewed by professional editors, but I do.
I've been going to writing conferences and taken writing classes for almost ten years. If nothing else, writing is a wonderful hobby, but I wonder if I can make it a job, given what I like to write about. I know that in order for something to be published it needs
- an interesting topic (this is the pitch),
- to be well executed (this is the manuscript), and
- a potential audience (this is the marketing plan).
I think my novel has an interesting topic and a potential audience, which is great, but not sufficient. The book needs to be well written, and in all of my years of writing, I've never written fiction. It is fun to try, but another thing to succeed.
Unlike math jobs I've had in the past, writing has more ups and downs. Quant jobs have incremental progress, where projects progress one step at a time. Writing happens in fits and starts. Of course, a writer needs good habits. The hardest part of writing is getting your butt in the chair. I have decent (not awesome, but decent) writerly habits. Even with good habits, I find writing fiction full of highs and lows. Some days, I think this novel is the most viable project I've worked on, that this will be the one that gets published and finds an audience. Other days, I talk to writers and am reminded of the slog of finding an agent, editor, and publisher. After that, I'll find an article about agents who need new material and are searching for new talent.
I've never had this much of an emotional roller coaster in any other job, even running for office, as I do with writing, but I don't think I've developed bipolar disorder in the last two months. I think writing and other creative endeavors bring out the highs and the lows. I see my writing in the changing light of morning, noon and dusk. Sometimes the light shows me the value of what I have done, other times the flaws. Perhaps the act of creating and nature of creative work causes these deep mental fluctuations, not the other way around.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Symmetry and a Brace
I met with my orthopedic surgeon yesterday morning, followed by physical therapy. I sat on the exam table, and he picked up his my foot and shook it about.
"That is a strong leg," he told the medical student while nodding at me. "It seems stable. How do you feel?"
"I feel stronger than I did before the accident," I said. This is probably the strongest my leg has been since before I had the Boy.
"I think you can ski at the end of this season," he said. I didn't even ask. He volunteered it. "Stick to the cruisers and the groomers. No moguls, no black diamonds. Easy stuff."
"What about a brace?" I asked.
"It wouldn't make you bulletproof, but it will help with stability," he said. "Stick to easy runs where you have little chance of falling."
"Should I take a lesson before I go back out?"
He looked at me funny. "How good of a skier were you before?" he asked as if I were a total hack. I paused, and he replied, "I don't think you need a lesson." I thinking a lesson would be like a different version of the physical therapy I've been to in the past year. I'll wait and see.
After my appointment, I went to see Evan for physical therapy. I told him I am feeling fine, but I can still "feel my knee," whatever that means.
"Your brain expects symmetry," Evan said. "When something is off, it sends a message, and your brain starts paying attention. Changes in symmetry alert your brain to possible injury or illness. You will probably keep feeling this until your leg gets all of its strength back."
That explains a lot. It also means I have more work to do. I need to keep lifting weights, stretching, running, and doing the elliptical.
One of the tests for me to ski is to do a jumping test and see if my left leg is close to as strong as my right leg. At home, I put tape on the floor after each jump so I can ballpark if I am close or not. Monday, I jumped further with my left than my right. It was a miracle. I was hoping I would do as well in physical therapy where it counts. Jumping in my kitchen is like saying I can run a four-minute mile while on the jogging path, and then actually doing it in front of real judges with stopwatches and an accurately measured mile. One is not real, and one is. Practice is necessary, but performance counts.
I went to lift weights while he calculated my percentages. "You are at 92% for the triple jump and 88% for the side jumps." This was very good news. It means I am within range of skiing again.
After Evan, I met with the brace guy to get measured for a skiing brace. I am freaking out as I write this. I was measured for a skiing brace.
"What if I gain or lose weight?" I asked. "Will it still fit?"
"There is a two-inch margin so you will be fine," he said. "If you build more muscle, the brace will fit better." I am assuming he meant that the brace squishes and slides against pudginess.
"When will it be ready?" I asked. I was stalling, thinking maybe I could wait a week or a month or year or two to think about if I really wanted to ski again.
"Two weeks," he said. "Come in after your next physical therapy appointment, and you can try on the brace, and we can make all of the adjustments."
Wow. As the Boy would say, the shit is getting real. Do I really want to ski again? To get back on the horse that bucked me off, kicked me to the ground and tore my ACL? Am I crazy? I can hear my dad tease me when I was a kid and had to make a decision: "Do you really really really really really want to do this?" It is one thing to think about skiing in the distant future, and another thing to think about skiing in five weeks.
I told the Boy during dinner that I can ski this season, and he gave me a high five. Later that night, he asked me again if I was really going to try to ski in March. The Boy has a teenage memory, which means he is highly annoyed if he is told anything twice.
"Really?" he said. "You'll be skiing this year?" double-checking to make sure he heard right and wasn't hallucinating.
"It depends on the snow, but I am going to try," I said. Am I going on auto-pilot, skiing just because it is a goal, something to mark off the list in my recovery so I can say that I am done, healed, finished? Do I need an ending, closure, and is getting back on the mountain it? What about cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing? Those are snow sports that could substitute for skiing like whitefish and red dye stands in from crab sometimes. I didn't ask those questions when Don measured my thigh.
This is getting real.
"That is a strong leg," he told the medical student while nodding at me. "It seems stable. How do you feel?"
"I feel stronger than I did before the accident," I said. This is probably the strongest my leg has been since before I had the Boy.
"I think you can ski at the end of this season," he said. I didn't even ask. He volunteered it. "Stick to the cruisers and the groomers. No moguls, no black diamonds. Easy stuff."
"What about a brace?" I asked.
"It wouldn't make you bulletproof, but it will help with stability," he said. "Stick to easy runs where you have little chance of falling."
"Should I take a lesson before I go back out?"
He looked at me funny. "How good of a skier were you before?" he asked as if I were a total hack. I paused, and he replied, "I don't think you need a lesson." I thinking a lesson would be like a different version of the physical therapy I've been to in the past year. I'll wait and see.
After my appointment, I went to see Evan for physical therapy. I told him I am feeling fine, but I can still "feel my knee," whatever that means.
"Your brain expects symmetry," Evan said. "When something is off, it sends a message, and your brain starts paying attention. Changes in symmetry alert your brain to possible injury or illness. You will probably keep feeling this until your leg gets all of its strength back."
That explains a lot. It also means I have more work to do. I need to keep lifting weights, stretching, running, and doing the elliptical.
One of the tests for me to ski is to do a jumping test and see if my left leg is close to as strong as my right leg. At home, I put tape on the floor after each jump so I can ballpark if I am close or not. Monday, I jumped further with my left than my right. It was a miracle. I was hoping I would do as well in physical therapy where it counts. Jumping in my kitchen is like saying I can run a four-minute mile while on the jogging path, and then actually doing it in front of real judges with stopwatches and an accurately measured mile. One is not real, and one is. Practice is necessary, but performance counts.
I went to lift weights while he calculated my percentages. "You are at 92% for the triple jump and 88% for the side jumps." This was very good news. It means I am within range of skiing again.
After Evan, I met with the brace guy to get measured for a skiing brace. I am freaking out as I write this. I was measured for a skiing brace.
"What if I gain or lose weight?" I asked. "Will it still fit?"
"There is a two-inch margin so you will be fine," he said. "If you build more muscle, the brace will fit better." I am assuming he meant that the brace squishes and slides against pudginess.
"When will it be ready?" I asked. I was stalling, thinking maybe I could wait a week or a month or year or two to think about if I really wanted to ski again.
"Two weeks," he said. "Come in after your next physical therapy appointment, and you can try on the brace, and we can make all of the adjustments."
Wow. As the Boy would say, the shit is getting real. Do I really want to ski again? To get back on the horse that bucked me off, kicked me to the ground and tore my ACL? Am I crazy? I can hear my dad tease me when I was a kid and had to make a decision: "Do you really really really really really want to do this?" It is one thing to think about skiing in the distant future, and another thing to think about skiing in five weeks.
I told the Boy during dinner that I can ski this season, and he gave me a high five. Later that night, he asked me again if I was really going to try to ski in March. The Boy has a teenage memory, which means he is highly annoyed if he is told anything twice.
"Really?" he said. "You'll be skiing this year?" double-checking to make sure he heard right and wasn't hallucinating.
"It depends on the snow, but I am going to try," I said. Am I going on auto-pilot, skiing just because it is a goal, something to mark off the list in my recovery so I can say that I am done, healed, finished? Do I need an ending, closure, and is getting back on the mountain it? What about cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing? Those are snow sports that could substitute for skiing like whitefish and red dye stands in from crab sometimes. I didn't ask those questions when Don measured my thigh.
This is getting real.
Monday, January 23, 2017
Yoga
This Thursday, I went back to yoga for the first time since I tore my ACL more than a year ago. My friend, Karb, teaches yoga in her home. I was signed up for her class last winter but had to cancel after my skiing accident.
This was the hardest yoga class I have ever been to. I had always thought I had been flexible, but I never realized how much that was true until I became inflexible. I could have gone back to yoga earlier, that wasn’t the reason I stalled in going back. Instead, I was too busy working on my cardio and strength that I didn’t have time for yoga and still ride the exercise bike forty-five minutes a day.
Before when I did yoga, I never felt much strain on my muscles except during the endurance poses. I could hold the plank pose for fifteen seconds without my body talking back. After a minute or two, my arms, back, and belly would ask when they could stop. Other than that, I was fine. Now, child’s pose takes work, and that is an easy, relaxing, chill position you are supposed to take when you are tired from holding Downward Dog. The easiest pose is Corpse pose, where you pretend you are dead.
It wasn’t just my injured leg that was a problem, it was the rest of me. My left leg was stronger than it was before. I could hold a one-legged standing pose for longer than I could before I tore my ACL. What surprised me was my arms got tired in Downward Dog. This was unusual.
I realized I had become lopsided since my injury, and not only between the right side of my body and the left, but between my legs and everything else: my back, arms, and core. Now is the time to regain balance between the rest of my body and my legs.
It is interesting to look back on an injury and see repercussions that we didn't know were there. I suppose that is true for other parts of life, not just the physical part. I became more introverted, sitting at home reading books and quilting instead of socializing. I exercised alone, not going to yoga classes or walking Green Lake with a friend. As I've been healing, my social life and my inner life have been rebalancing, too. After the injury, I pulled into my head and had to learn to come back out.
It is interesting to look back on an injury and see repercussions that we didn't know were there. I suppose that is true for other parts of life, not just the physical part. I became more introverted, sitting at home reading books and quilting instead of socializing. I exercised alone, not going to yoga classes or walking Green Lake with a friend. As I've been healing, my social life and my inner life have been rebalancing, too. After the injury, I pulled into my head and had to learn to come back out.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Scene of the Accident
I took the Boy and one of his friends skiing today at Silver Fir, the place where I tore my ACL a little more than a year ago. I could have hooked the Boy up with a different friend whose dad was driving up, but the Boy had made plans with this other friend to ski today. These two boys talked amongst themselves and decided they could sucker one of out of four of their parents to drive them to the mountain. Since the friend’s parents are out of town and Jack was working, I drew the short straw and got to drive. (I didn't know I was the only one drawing a straw.) I could be sitting at home, drinking tea while working on a jigsaw puzzle or finishing a quilt.
Not that I mind sitting in the ski lodge. Skiing is a better use of the Boy’s time and a small investment in his mental health. Otherwise, he’d park his butt on the couch and surf the internet for hours. Skiing is nature and exercise therapy, plus social hour. It gives the teenage boy brain all sort of controlled experiences—the need for speed, taking risks, trying new and dangerous things, plus part of being part of a group of like-minded boys.
The last time I was at Silver Fir, I was dragged down the hill in a sled, unable to stand without my leg buckling. I am sitting in the lodge, looking at the lift line. I see the bench where I tried to stand after the Ski Patrol brought me to the bottom. The bottom of the hill looks steeper than I remember. I had thought the bottom of the Silver Fir run was practically flat. Now it looks too steep.
When we first arrived at the Silver Fir parking lot, I was excited, as excited as I might have been if I were skiing myself. I am glad I wasn’t tempted to bring my own skis today, but being here inspires me to try on my boots when I get home and practice walking around in the heavy footwear.
I am inspired to continue my physical therapy and work on my strength. In some ways, my legs feel stronger now than they have in the past ten years, perhaps since I’ve had kids. I might have had some residual strength in my thighs after Claire Adele was born. Before I had kids, Jack and I would bicycle as a hobby, taking long-distance rides. Two years ago, we brought our bikes to Victoria, British Columbia, and rode from the town up the Galloping Goose Trail to Sook. My legs were in decent shape after that weekend.
Most importantly, this trip to Silver Fir inspires me to try on my ski pants, the scariest part of starting ski season: will they fit, or will I need to go up a size?
I was talking to the boy and his friend that I might be psychologically if not physically ready to ski in the next month. “I won’t do Silver Fir as my first run,” I said. “I’ll probably want to start at Holiday or at West. Maybe I’ll even start on the magic carpet before I ride a lift.” The subtext of this conversation was when I start again, I will not be on the most challenging parts of the mountain. He should be glad I am driving him up now, and gracious when I start skiing again.
“Of course,” said the Boy. He seemed to understand.
 |
| The bench by the ski rack was where they brought the sled when I came down the mountain. |
Saturday, January 21, 2017
Skills & Rocket Girls
Today, I decided not to participate in the Women's March in Seattle. My son had a soccer game in Tacoma in the early morning and a rocket club launch in Kirkland in the late morning. I decided to go to both the game and the rocket launch. My daughter attended the march, so I figured we had one member representing our family there.
I didn't go to the rocket launch to support my son. This fall, there was an uptick in the number of girls who joined my son's middle school rocket club. In years past, there were two or three girls and twenty boys. This year, about one-third of the team is girls. Were they inspired to take on new challenges because a woman was running for president? Who knows, but I think there might be a correlation.
After watching Hidden Figures two weeks ago, I decided to go to the launch and cheer on the young women rocketeers. These girls weren't going to the march. They were working on their science extra-curricular activity and testing their rocket for the Team America Rocketry Competition (TARC). Go them!
This is important. We need to make sure our collective daughters have skills. Lots of skills. Skills that help them compete in male-dominated fields or whatever field they want. Skills that give them a voice. Skills that help them learn from failure, get back up and try again.
One girl was in my son's fourth-grade class. Last year, she was on the rocket team Inferno. Their rocket became notorious when it burst into flames in mid-air, thereby earning its name. This morning, the same girl's rocket earned 14 points. On its first launch. In rocketry, closer the score is to zero, the better. Most rockets on the first launch are so far off the target altitudes and flight lengths, it isn't worth counting the points. This girl was giddy, and rightfully so. The other kids--boys and girls--graciously congratulated her, sincerely happy for her success, especially after Inferno became an inferno last year.
I was googling TARC and I found the winner of the essay, "Why I do TARC" by Ava Badii, a senior at an all-girls school. I was tearing up as I read it. Here is a team of girls with skills.
While some of us were marching for protecting your rights, others were cheering you on as you learned some skills. Brava, Rocket Girls! Brava!
I didn't go to the rocket launch to support my son. This fall, there was an uptick in the number of girls who joined my son's middle school rocket club. In years past, there were two or three girls and twenty boys. This year, about one-third of the team is girls. Were they inspired to take on new challenges because a woman was running for president? Who knows, but I think there might be a correlation.
After watching Hidden Figures two weeks ago, I decided to go to the launch and cheer on the young women rocketeers. These girls weren't going to the march. They were working on their science extra-curricular activity and testing their rocket for the Team America Rocketry Competition (TARC). Go them!
This is important. We need to make sure our collective daughters have skills. Lots of skills. Skills that help them compete in male-dominated fields or whatever field they want. Skills that give them a voice. Skills that help them learn from failure, get back up and try again.
One girl was in my son's fourth-grade class. Last year, she was on the rocket team Inferno. Their rocket became notorious when it burst into flames in mid-air, thereby earning its name. This morning, the same girl's rocket earned 14 points. On its first launch. In rocketry, closer the score is to zero, the better. Most rockets on the first launch are so far off the target altitudes and flight lengths, it isn't worth counting the points. This girl was giddy, and rightfully so. The other kids--boys and girls--graciously congratulated her, sincerely happy for her success, especially after Inferno became an inferno last year.
I was googling TARC and I found the winner of the essay, "Why I do TARC" by Ava Badii, a senior at an all-girls school. I was tearing up as I read it. Here is a team of girls with skills.
While some of us were marching for protecting your rights, others were cheering you on as you learned some skills. Brava, Rocket Girls! Brava!
Friday, January 20, 2017
Therapist, Out of Africa and the Sh*t Sandwich
I was visiting my dad this weekend in Ohio. My mom is in a memory care unit where her Alzheimer's is being managed. I was going to say treated, but they stopped treatment about nine months ago and are now trying to keep her comfortable.
My dad has been through a lot. My brother has schizophrenia, and my parents watched him fall apart for years. My mother had depression where she would lie in bed and cry for weeks until she found the right medication. My first daughter, Ada, died, and now my mom has Alzheimer's. I hurt my knee and was laid up for a year when my mother's illness became a crisis. My dad couldn't help me and I couldn't help him as much as we both would have liked. There is other stuff, too.
"We sure have had our own bite out the shit sandwich," he has said.
Sometimes when I list it out, it doesn't seem that bad. Other people have gone through worse. Other times, it seems overwhelming, too much.
I started meeting with a new therapist a few weeks ago to help me better understand some of the issues my teenagers are going through. When I was pregnant with Claire Adele, I saw a therapist who specialized in women's health issues. Shellie was great. Now I have this new guy who works with parents and teens. When I give him by bio and list off all of the stuff that has happened to me, he looks bewildered, as if he doesn't know where to start or what is the most important. I can't blame him.
Last week before I went to Ohio, I was reading Out of Africa, a memoir by Isak Dinesen about her years on a coffee plantation in Kenya. She writes
"The Natives have, far less than the white people, the sense of risks in life... It made me reflect that perhaps, they were, in life itself, within their own element, such as we can never be, like fishes in deep water which for the life of them they cannot understand our fear of drowning. This assurance, this art of swimming, they had, I thought, because they had preserved a knowledge that was lost to us by our first parents; Africa, amongst the continents, will teach you: that God and the Devil are one, the majesty co-eternal, not two uncreated but one uncreated..."
God and the Devil are one. This is such an interesting concept. It fits with the story of Job from the Bible, the one where God and the Devil together torture Job (kill his crops, family, etc.) to see if Job loses faith. He doesn't. He keeps believing in goodness, even when faced with extreme distress.
I was reading Ordinary People and I found a comment on how Americans try so hard to have nothing bad happen to them, but what for? Difficult things--disease, injury, mental illness--happens whether or not we want it to. This sometimes is hard to see when I am in the thick of it--visiting my mom in a nursing home, wondering if she remembers me or not, watching my dad spoon-feed her because she can't feed herself. At times like this, I'd like to believe in good and evil, but then it makes more sense that God and the Devil are one.
My dad has been through a lot. My brother has schizophrenia, and my parents watched him fall apart for years. My mother had depression where she would lie in bed and cry for weeks until she found the right medication. My first daughter, Ada, died, and now my mom has Alzheimer's. I hurt my knee and was laid up for a year when my mother's illness became a crisis. My dad couldn't help me and I couldn't help him as much as we both would have liked. There is other stuff, too.
"We sure have had our own bite out the shit sandwich," he has said.
Sometimes when I list it out, it doesn't seem that bad. Other people have gone through worse. Other times, it seems overwhelming, too much.
I started meeting with a new therapist a few weeks ago to help me better understand some of the issues my teenagers are going through. When I was pregnant with Claire Adele, I saw a therapist who specialized in women's health issues. Shellie was great. Now I have this new guy who works with parents and teens. When I give him by bio and list off all of the stuff that has happened to me, he looks bewildered, as if he doesn't know where to start or what is the most important. I can't blame him.
Last week before I went to Ohio, I was reading Out of Africa, a memoir by Isak Dinesen about her years on a coffee plantation in Kenya. She writes
"The Natives have, far less than the white people, the sense of risks in life... It made me reflect that perhaps, they were, in life itself, within their own element, such as we can never be, like fishes in deep water which for the life of them they cannot understand our fear of drowning. This assurance, this art of swimming, they had, I thought, because they had preserved a knowledge that was lost to us by our first parents; Africa, amongst the continents, will teach you: that God and the Devil are one, the majesty co-eternal, not two uncreated but one uncreated..."
God and the Devil are one. This is such an interesting concept. It fits with the story of Job from the Bible, the one where God and the Devil together torture Job (kill his crops, family, etc.) to see if Job loses faith. He doesn't. He keeps believing in goodness, even when faced with extreme distress.
I was reading Ordinary People and I found a comment on how Americans try so hard to have nothing bad happen to them, but what for? Difficult things--disease, injury, mental illness--happens whether or not we want it to. This sometimes is hard to see when I am in the thick of it--visiting my mom in a nursing home, wondering if she remembers me or not, watching my dad spoon-feed her because she can't feed herself. At times like this, I'd like to believe in good and evil, but then it makes more sense that God and the Devil are one.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
Parents' Voices v. Kids' Voices
I am taking a novel writing class at the Hugo House taught by Sonora Jha. She has an older son, and she says his comments haunt her now instead of her parents' words. As my kids would say, #relatable. When I was younger, I would hang on the words of my mom. Now, I hang on to the words of my daughter. When my mother would harangue me, I would often bite my tongue and not respond to her. Instead, I would go off and complain to my father, friends, and brother about how I was wronged.
Last week, Claire-Adele and I went to see Hidden Figures. As much I as I enjoyed taking the time to see the movie with her, there were times that I was annoyed at her rudeness towards me. We were running a little bit late as I was talking to my father right before we left. There was a power outage, and Claire-Adele ran to Starbucks to get lunch, only to find their power was out, too, and were not serving food.
We got to the theater after that drama, and I am jogging up the steps, a major accomplishment for me considering that last year at the same time I was learning to walk without a brace or crutch. Jogging and going upstairs were out of the question, let alone trying them together.
"You are the most embarrassing person in the world!" Claire-Adele scolded me as I moved quickly up the stairs. She didn't consider yelling at me in the middle of a crowded movie theater embarrassing, but whatever. I am sure she didn't want to be seen with me at all, but none of her friends wanted to see this movie.
After we had found our seats, Claire-Adele wanted some popcorn because she missed lunch.
"Can you get it for me? I want to see the previews," she said. After being told I was the most embarrassing person in the world two minutes earlier, I told her to get her own popcorn. I gave her money, but I had no desire to stand in line and miss the previews for someone who had been rude to me.
This Christmas, she told the family that she had no plans of coming back to visit after she graduates from college during the holidays. Of course, she wants to be invited on vacations, but God forbid she has to spend a holiday with us.
If another friend talked to me like this, I'd probably drop them--unfriend them on Facebook, block their phone number, etc. Instead, she is my daughter. I don't have the luxury of writing her off. This weekend, I went to visit my dad and my mom in Ohio. I got home around 11:00 p.m. last night, and the kids were in bed. This morning, Claire Adele was sniffling, and I asked how she was doing.
"There is nothing wrong with me," she yelled. "Why do you think there is something wrong with me?"
Good morning to you, too, I should have said. Later, I went to wake up the Boy. As I passed her room, she asked me for the fabric scissors.
"Why do you need them?" I asked.
"To cut my head off," she said as she rolled her eyes. "I need them to cut fabric. Can you get them for me?" She had blue fleece spread out over her floor. She is part of a group that is making blankets for homeless men and women.
"I need to get your brother up, and then I can get them," I replied.
When I went to get the Boy, he was excited to see me. "How was your trip?" he asked. I told him, and we talked about how his friend got his remote control airplane out of a tree. This was big news, as the plane had been stuck forty feet up in a Port Orford cedar since the end of winter break.
"Are you going to get me the scissors?" Claire-Adele barked. "I need the scissors."
"Shut up," I said frustrated with this person who has said nothing nice to me in weeks. "I am talking to your brother." I was so tired of the world revolving around her. "You are interrupting my conversation. Just wait."
"You know," she said. "You say I am rude to you but spoiler alert -- you are ruder to me."
I could let those words haunt me, like the words of my mother stuck with me as a kid. Instead, I look at the millions of micro-aggressions and insults she has hurled at me for the past few years. I know I am the grown-up here and she is the kid. I should be the example of the right way to behave.
Yet, it is so hurtful to be constantly told how wrong and awful and embarrassing I am, and I need to respond. How is it that I am rude when I call my daughter on her rudeness to me? Why? I wish I had Michelle Obama's grace of "When they go low, we go high." This is different. I am living with this lowness, and it is in my face when I wake up, when she comes home from school and before she goes to bed. She directs her sass at not just me, but to her brother as well. I shouldn't defend him because that makes him look defenseless. She has no awareness of the link between yelling at her brother and then his yelling back at her.
"Dad didn't yell at us all weekend," she said after I told her to shut-up. Argh. Jack was probably in "Distracted Parent Mode" all weekend, squeezing in work, looking at his phone, and generally ignoring the kids. He probably didn't notice them enough to yell at them.
"Where is my water bottle? I've been looking for it for two days!" Claire Adele continued to rant.
"I put it in the drawer with the other water bottles. It was in the dishwasher. You should yell at your dad about that. I wasn't home this weekend," I said. She glared at me and stomped away.
Claire Adele will be leaving for college in a year and a half. I've talked to other parents about life as an empty nester. I've always imagined it being so hard and lonely. I always wondered how moms coped with the person they raised for eighteen years leaves to go off on their own. Why aren't all of these women crying and crying? Why aren't there support groups for moms when their kids go to college and leave home? When Claire-Adele was six, I talked to one mom who had what I thought was a nice and lovely daughter say she was sad for about a day when her daughter left for school, and then she was fine. I tried to push out of my mind how I'd feel when Claire Adele leaves the house, my firstborn, my baby. I couldn't imagine.
Now I get it. Claire Adele needs to leave me as much as I need her to leave. We need a separation, time apart. Hopefully, someday, we can be friendly to each other. She might need to push me away to make her own departure easier for all of us. She is succeeding, I have to say. She is succeeding.
Last week, Claire-Adele and I went to see Hidden Figures. As much I as I enjoyed taking the time to see the movie with her, there were times that I was annoyed at her rudeness towards me. We were running a little bit late as I was talking to my father right before we left. There was a power outage, and Claire-Adele ran to Starbucks to get lunch, only to find their power was out, too, and were not serving food.
We got to the theater after that drama, and I am jogging up the steps, a major accomplishment for me considering that last year at the same time I was learning to walk without a brace or crutch. Jogging and going upstairs were out of the question, let alone trying them together.
"You are the most embarrassing person in the world!" Claire-Adele scolded me as I moved quickly up the stairs. She didn't consider yelling at me in the middle of a crowded movie theater embarrassing, but whatever. I am sure she didn't want to be seen with me at all, but none of her friends wanted to see this movie.
After we had found our seats, Claire-Adele wanted some popcorn because she missed lunch.
"Can you get it for me? I want to see the previews," she said. After being told I was the most embarrassing person in the world two minutes earlier, I told her to get her own popcorn. I gave her money, but I had no desire to stand in line and miss the previews for someone who had been rude to me.
This Christmas, she told the family that she had no plans of coming back to visit after she graduates from college during the holidays. Of course, she wants to be invited on vacations, but God forbid she has to spend a holiday with us.
If another friend talked to me like this, I'd probably drop them--unfriend them on Facebook, block their phone number, etc. Instead, she is my daughter. I don't have the luxury of writing her off. This weekend, I went to visit my dad and my mom in Ohio. I got home around 11:00 p.m. last night, and the kids were in bed. This morning, Claire Adele was sniffling, and I asked how she was doing.
"There is nothing wrong with me," she yelled. "Why do you think there is something wrong with me?"
Good morning to you, too, I should have said. Later, I went to wake up the Boy. As I passed her room, she asked me for the fabric scissors.
"Why do you need them?" I asked.
"To cut my head off," she said as she rolled her eyes. "I need them to cut fabric. Can you get them for me?" She had blue fleece spread out over her floor. She is part of a group that is making blankets for homeless men and women.
"I need to get your brother up, and then I can get them," I replied.
When I went to get the Boy, he was excited to see me. "How was your trip?" he asked. I told him, and we talked about how his friend got his remote control airplane out of a tree. This was big news, as the plane had been stuck forty feet up in a Port Orford cedar since the end of winter break.
"Are you going to get me the scissors?" Claire-Adele barked. "I need the scissors."
"Shut up," I said frustrated with this person who has said nothing nice to me in weeks. "I am talking to your brother." I was so tired of the world revolving around her. "You are interrupting my conversation. Just wait."
"You know," she said. "You say I am rude to you but spoiler alert -- you are ruder to me."
I could let those words haunt me, like the words of my mother stuck with me as a kid. Instead, I look at the millions of micro-aggressions and insults she has hurled at me for the past few years. I know I am the grown-up here and she is the kid. I should be the example of the right way to behave.
Yet, it is so hurtful to be constantly told how wrong and awful and embarrassing I am, and I need to respond. How is it that I am rude when I call my daughter on her rudeness to me? Why? I wish I had Michelle Obama's grace of "When they go low, we go high." This is different. I am living with this lowness, and it is in my face when I wake up, when she comes home from school and before she goes to bed. She directs her sass at not just me, but to her brother as well. I shouldn't defend him because that makes him look defenseless. She has no awareness of the link between yelling at her brother and then his yelling back at her.
"Dad didn't yell at us all weekend," she said after I told her to shut-up. Argh. Jack was probably in "Distracted Parent Mode" all weekend, squeezing in work, looking at his phone, and generally ignoring the kids. He probably didn't notice them enough to yell at them.
"Where is my water bottle? I've been looking for it for two days!" Claire Adele continued to rant.
"I put it in the drawer with the other water bottles. It was in the dishwasher. You should yell at your dad about that. I wasn't home this weekend," I said. She glared at me and stomped away.
Claire Adele will be leaving for college in a year and a half. I've talked to other parents about life as an empty nester. I've always imagined it being so hard and lonely. I always wondered how moms coped with the person they raised for eighteen years leaves to go off on their own. Why aren't all of these women crying and crying? Why aren't there support groups for moms when their kids go to college and leave home? When Claire-Adele was six, I talked to one mom who had what I thought was a nice and lovely daughter say she was sad for about a day when her daughter left for school, and then she was fine. I tried to push out of my mind how I'd feel when Claire Adele leaves the house, my firstborn, my baby. I couldn't imagine.
Now I get it. Claire Adele needs to leave me as much as I need her to leave. We need a separation, time apart. Hopefully, someday, we can be friendly to each other. She might need to push me away to make her own departure easier for all of us. She is succeeding, I have to say. She is succeeding.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Hidden Figures & Hidden Happiness
Claire Adele and I went to see Hidden Figures this weekend. This is the movie about three African American women who worked at NASA in the 1960's. She wanted to see it. She wasn't sure if any of her friends wanted to see it as they are mostly interested in "chick-flicks," so she asked me to go with her. Jack was working and the Boy was off skiing with friends. He wants to see this movie but plans on going with a group of kids from his Rocket Club.
The movie was pretty good. I talked to a friend who saw it and thought it was inspirational. I saw it and was kind of pissed off. Not only did these women have to deal with the prejudices and biases of being a black in segregated Virginia, they also dealt with the prejudices and biases of being women. Argh.
Argh. Argh. Argh.
My friend Julia published an article on LinkedIn about how the working world is "designed by men for men." There are scenes of rooms full of white men all wearing white dress shirts. Of the two women in the room, one was a secretary and the other was beyond brilliant. What about plain old regular competent women? Where were they? While things better for women and people of color than they were in 1960, we still have a long way to go.
I digress. My movie was a success because it made me think and feel, even though my thoughts and feelings were not happy or cheerful. Claire Adele liked it, too.
I was talking to a friend who saw it this weekend with a group of her friends. Another friend posted on FB that she was going with a group of work colleagues to see the movie. After I saw those comments, I was kind of bummed that I didn't go with a group of women friends. Most of my friends are busy on the weekends with their families, so I often don't reach out.
Then I thought about it. Eighteen years ago today, I would have given anything for my Sunday afternoon, taking my teenage daughter to a movie. Eighteen years ago, I was grieving the loss of my daughter, Ada, a full-term stillbirth. I was terrified that I might not ever become a mother. As much as I lament my career situation, I would never have traded it for my kids. The women who went with their friends have sons. I am lucky to have both a son and a daughter.
Sometimes we don't recognize our happiness, hiding in plain sight.
The movie was pretty good. I talked to a friend who saw it and thought it was inspirational. I saw it and was kind of pissed off. Not only did these women have to deal with the prejudices and biases of being a black in segregated Virginia, they also dealt with the prejudices and biases of being women. Argh.
Argh. Argh. Argh.
My friend Julia published an article on LinkedIn about how the working world is "designed by men for men." There are scenes of rooms full of white men all wearing white dress shirts. Of the two women in the room, one was a secretary and the other was beyond brilliant. What about plain old regular competent women? Where were they? While things better for women and people of color than they were in 1960, we still have a long way to go.
I digress. My movie was a success because it made me think and feel, even though my thoughts and feelings were not happy or cheerful. Claire Adele liked it, too.
I was talking to a friend who saw it this weekend with a group of her friends. Another friend posted on FB that she was going with a group of work colleagues to see the movie. After I saw those comments, I was kind of bummed that I didn't go with a group of women friends. Most of my friends are busy on the weekends with their families, so I often don't reach out.
Then I thought about it. Eighteen years ago today, I would have given anything for my Sunday afternoon, taking my teenage daughter to a movie. Eighteen years ago, I was grieving the loss of my daughter, Ada, a full-term stillbirth. I was terrified that I might not ever become a mother. As much as I lament my career situation, I would never have traded it for my kids. The women who went with their friends have sons. I am lucky to have both a son and a daughter.
Sometimes we don't recognize our happiness, hiding in plain sight.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Job or Not A Job?
Back in the 1990's when I lived in Chicago, there was a play called Late Nite Catechism. It was a comedy about a nun, Sister, who was reviewing the lives of saints and determining which ones were really saints and which ones weren't. She would present a saint from the encyclopedia of saints and asked the audience, "Saint, or not a saint?"
Real saints were like St. Athanasius, who as a little boy risked his life so people could have communion. Others were sinners, thieves or/and violent nuts who somehow slipped in. When Sister saw this, she would yell, "Not! A! Saint!" as she slammed her ruler against her desk. The audience would crack up.
Earlier this week as I was applying for a job, I remembered that line and thought, "Is this a job, or 'Not! A! Job!'?"
Last week I applied for a job with an organization where I know some of the people and it is in my old advocacy line of work. The organization is small--about a dozen people, but it serves several larger organizations in the area. This position is Director of Communication, which sounds cool and very interesting. I used to work in communications before I became an advocate.
Real saints were like St. Athanasius, who as a little boy risked his life so people could have communion. Others were sinners, thieves or/and violent nuts who somehow slipped in. When Sister saw this, she would yell, "Not! A! Saint!" as she slammed her ruler against her desk. The audience would crack up.
Earlier this week as I was applying for a job, I remembered that line and thought, "Is this a job, or 'Not! A! Job!'?"
Last week I applied for a job with an organization where I know some of the people and it is in my old advocacy line of work. The organization is small--about a dozen people, but it serves several larger organizations in the area. This position is Director of Communication, which sounds cool and very interesting. I used to work in communications before I became an advocate.
As with any job I look at, I think about whether or not I'd want to a) work for that group, b) do what they are asking me to so, and c) does it pay enough to make me give up writing my blog, which I do for free. This job was a yes on all counts, which is good. It would make a serious dent in Claire Adele's college tuition bill in a year and a half. I was already planning what I could do with the money. Would I be the best or most qualified person for the job? I don't know--that depends on who else is applying for it.
Two days ago, I woke with a start thinking about the position. "This isn't a job," I thought. The group already has a Communication Manager, yet nowhere in the job description does it say the Communication Director manages the Communication Manager, which makes me think this posting might, in fact, be a way to promote the Communication Manager and give her a raise. In other words, this job "opening" might not be open and already be filled by an internal candidate.
Also, this is a small group. The likelihood of them adding an additional upper-level position given the funding crunch is probably very low.
This group gets money from various government groups: they are required by law to post the open position. It is considered a new position because it is at a higher level. In a large organization, multiple people might want to compete for a newly opened, higher level job. In this organization, there is really only one position that would be reasonable to move into the Director role. It is not like they have ten accountants and need one new manager. Suppose they want to expand the responsibilities of the current manager job to this new level. Are they going to make this person apply for the new role and fire her if they find someone better? That would be cruel.
It is possible that the Manager is leaving the organization, and if they are going to replace her, they might want to re-create her position.
I applied for another job a few months ago, this one with the government. I called a friend to tell him I'd be using him as a reference. When we spoke a few weeks later, he asked about that job, and I told him I hadn't heard anything.
"Don't be surprised," he said. "Many government jobs that are posted aren't really open. They are already filled but need to post it because they have to."
Why am I fretting about this? It is disheartening to be actively looking for a job and put your thoughts and energy into applying for a position that doesn't exist. Is there a way for the government or government funded groups to get around this, so they don't waste the time of people applying for the job? Can we get a little signal or sign on the application so we know it isn't a real opening? I applied for another job which gave the opposite feel. "This is a new position!" the description read, telling all of the applicants this is real.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
Prestigious v. Competitive and Apprenti
This morning I picked up tiny beautiful things: Advice on love and life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed. It is overdue at the library, but I am willing to pay the $.15 a day for a few days instead of buying it. I flipped it open, and miraculously I found exactly what I needed to find, even though I wasn't looking for anything specific.
In the novel I am attempting to write, I am pondering the idea of privilege and what do people do with theirs. Strayed gave me a nice definition of privilege when she responds to a thirty-one-year-old woman novelist who is jealous anytime one of her friends gets a book deal. The letter writer can't understand why she isn't published after she went to a prestigious college. Strayed responds on page 262: "Privilege has a way of fucking with our heads the same way a lack of it does...possibly...you've been given a tremendous amount of things that you did not earn or deserve, but rather received for the sole reason that you happen to be born into a family who had the money and wherewithal to fund your education at two colleges to which you feel compelled to attach the word 'prestigious.'" Sugar/Strayed then asks the letter writer to consider what it means to attend a "prestigious" college.
It got me thinking because it hit a little close to home. I went to a college some might call "prestigious," but I call "competitive." I had to work my butt off to qualify to get in, I had to work my butt off to get through it, and I learned a lot in the process. As I wrote in my last blog post, I became the master of getting things done whether or not I wanted to do them. That isn't a bad thing. In fairness, in college I got to choose my major and classes, so I did enjoy most of what I was doing, but that isn't the point. I am a plugger. I can plug, I have plugged. I am now deciding what to do next with my life. Will I continue to plug? What does plugging look like in the future?
I recently applied for two jobs, one of which I am probably overqualified for but it is with a group that I firmly believe in its mission. The second job I might be not perfectly qualified for or have enough experience. It is with a different group, and I firmly believe in its mission, as well. Even though I went to a prestigious or competitive college twenty-five years ago, that doesn't mean job offers are falling at my feet now. I have to reconcile what all of this means, especially taking into consideration what I might want to do relative to who wants me to do it for them. I'd love to be president of a bank, let's say, but not many banks want me to be their president given my current range of experience.
So what next? I should take something interesting that could add to my current range of experience. If I want to be a bank president, I should try to get a job in a bank that will lead to being bank president someday. While I might be overqualified for the one job, it might give me interesting experience just working for the organization.
In the meantime, I need to keep plugging along in my job search in case neither of these materializes, which is very possible, even likely. I went to a panel discussion a few weeks back about women's work/life balance and returning to the workforce after raising a family. One of the groups who passed out information sheets was the Washington Technology Industry Association (WTIA). They sponsor a group called Apprenti, which is a technology apprenticeship program for Database Administrators, Project Managers, Network Security Administrators, Software Developers, and Web Developers. I put the card on my desk underneath my clear desk protector. Last week while the boy was trying to write a story, he was trying to distract himself with anything, including random pieces of paper on my desk. He found the card, read it and went to the website.
When he saw there was a math test, he said, "I could probably do this!" and he is probably right. He is two years ahead in math, so he is basically doing 10th-grade math now, and doing it fairly well. I found that most math in non-science or engineering jobs doesn't really extend beyond 10th-grade math. I never used trig or calc in my days in market research or when I was working at the accounting firm. I had to be good at math, be precise and enjoy it, but I didn't have to solve long or complex equations. I am not saying it was easy, but it wasn't super complex.
The Boy wanted to take the math test to see how he would do. At the time I said, "Sure, give it a shot!" not having read one word about it. I would have promised him rainbows and unicorns to finish the story, but he wanted to take a math test. I figured why not. I was desperate to have him finish the story.
Today after the kids went back to school, I decided to poke around this website a bit. There is an assessment test that takes about three hours, and then they call people with high enough scores for an interview. The organization takes only women, veterans, and people of color, and people over the age of 18. The Boy struck out on all four.
"I am one-fourth Asian!" he declared. "Why can't white guys be in the program?"
"Because tech is almost all white men," I said. "They are looking to diversify."
"Seems fair," he said. "Maybe it is because more men choose to be in that than women."
"That would be true, which is why that is the way it is now, and why they created this program," I said.
My son was fine with all of this, but it made me unsettled. The reality is my son might do better on the test than I would, and I majored in math at a "prestigious" and "competitive" college. I did all kinds of math and analysis in my before-kids life, but I skills aren't as sharp as they used to be.
But then I think about it: do I really want to be a database administrator? I don't even know what one is, but I suppose that is the point of this program--to help people who don't know. Maybe I could get a job as a project manager, and work my way into different positions. This could be a starting point. I am starting to look at this job search differently than I used to. Before I would try to figure out what I wanted to do and see what the world had to offer. Now I am seeing what is out in the world, and trying to find a place to fit.
In the novel I am attempting to write, I am pondering the idea of privilege and what do people do with theirs. Strayed gave me a nice definition of privilege when she responds to a thirty-one-year-old woman novelist who is jealous anytime one of her friends gets a book deal. The letter writer can't understand why she isn't published after she went to a prestigious college. Strayed responds on page 262: "Privilege has a way of fucking with our heads the same way a lack of it does...possibly...you've been given a tremendous amount of things that you did not earn or deserve, but rather received for the sole reason that you happen to be born into a family who had the money and wherewithal to fund your education at two colleges to which you feel compelled to attach the word 'prestigious.'" Sugar/Strayed then asks the letter writer to consider what it means to attend a "prestigious" college.
It got me thinking because it hit a little close to home. I went to a college some might call "prestigious," but I call "competitive." I had to work my butt off to qualify to get in, I had to work my butt off to get through it, and I learned a lot in the process. As I wrote in my last blog post, I became the master of getting things done whether or not I wanted to do them. That isn't a bad thing. In fairness, in college I got to choose my major and classes, so I did enjoy most of what I was doing, but that isn't the point. I am a plugger. I can plug, I have plugged. I am now deciding what to do next with my life. Will I continue to plug? What does plugging look like in the future?
I recently applied for two jobs, one of which I am probably overqualified for but it is with a group that I firmly believe in its mission. The second job I might be not perfectly qualified for or have enough experience. It is with a different group, and I firmly believe in its mission, as well. Even though I went to a prestigious or competitive college twenty-five years ago, that doesn't mean job offers are falling at my feet now. I have to reconcile what all of this means, especially taking into consideration what I might want to do relative to who wants me to do it for them. I'd love to be president of a bank, let's say, but not many banks want me to be their president given my current range of experience.
So what next? I should take something interesting that could add to my current range of experience. If I want to be a bank president, I should try to get a job in a bank that will lead to being bank president someday. While I might be overqualified for the one job, it might give me interesting experience just working for the organization.
In the meantime, I need to keep plugging along in my job search in case neither of these materializes, which is very possible, even likely. I went to a panel discussion a few weeks back about women's work/life balance and returning to the workforce after raising a family. One of the groups who passed out information sheets was the Washington Technology Industry Association (WTIA). They sponsor a group called Apprenti, which is a technology apprenticeship program for Database Administrators, Project Managers, Network Security Administrators, Software Developers, and Web Developers. I put the card on my desk underneath my clear desk protector. Last week while the boy was trying to write a story, he was trying to distract himself with anything, including random pieces of paper on my desk. He found the card, read it and went to the website.
When he saw there was a math test, he said, "I could probably do this!" and he is probably right. He is two years ahead in math, so he is basically doing 10th-grade math now, and doing it fairly well. I found that most math in non-science or engineering jobs doesn't really extend beyond 10th-grade math. I never used trig or calc in my days in market research or when I was working at the accounting firm. I had to be good at math, be precise and enjoy it, but I didn't have to solve long or complex equations. I am not saying it was easy, but it wasn't super complex.
The Boy wanted to take the math test to see how he would do. At the time I said, "Sure, give it a shot!" not having read one word about it. I would have promised him rainbows and unicorns to finish the story, but he wanted to take a math test. I figured why not. I was desperate to have him finish the story.
Today after the kids went back to school, I decided to poke around this website a bit. There is an assessment test that takes about three hours, and then they call people with high enough scores for an interview. The organization takes only women, veterans, and people of color, and people over the age of 18. The Boy struck out on all four.
"I am one-fourth Asian!" he declared. "Why can't white guys be in the program?"
"Because tech is almost all white men," I said. "They are looking to diversify."
"Seems fair," he said. "Maybe it is because more men choose to be in that than women."
"That would be true, which is why that is the way it is now, and why they created this program," I said.
My son was fine with all of this, but it made me unsettled. The reality is my son might do better on the test than I would, and I majored in math at a "prestigious" and "competitive" college. I did all kinds of math and analysis in my before-kids life, but I skills aren't as sharp as they used to be.
But then I think about it: do I really want to be a database administrator? I don't even know what one is, but I suppose that is the point of this program--to help people who don't know. Maybe I could get a job as a project manager, and work my way into different positions. This could be a starting point. I am starting to look at this job search differently than I used to. Before I would try to figure out what I wanted to do and see what the world had to offer. Now I am seeing what is out in the world, and trying to find a place to fit.
Bad Break?
A friend of mine who is a teacher just posted on Facebook a note about returning to school after a long break. Some kids might have had a terrible time, with unpredictable food availability, instability within their home, fighting, lack of a set schedule and sleep, and so forth. Some kids might not have gotten presents, so best not ask what their favorite gift was.
While my break wasn't nearly as challenging, it wasn't one for the record books. Was it better than last year when I couldn't walk without crutches and a brace or go up and down the twenty-three steps to our house? Yes, but it was still tough.
I live 2,000 miles away from my family, and Jack lives even more. Traveling to the Ohio and Atlanta over the holidays is challenging. There is no direct flight from Seattle to Columbus, so we have to connect through Chicago or Minneapolis, which is always dicey in December. My mom has Alzheimer's and Jack's mom has a heart arrhythmia. Jack's mom can travel but it is hard on her. My mom can't leave the nursing home let alone the state. It has reached the point where it is up to us to travel, not them. Last year, I had a good excuse because I couldn't walk.
My husband doesn't like visiting people in general, but is it even worse when he has to visit people in winter for days when there aren't outdoor activities to keep him and the kids (but mostly him) occupied. It is tough to have to spend three days in a row with people you have't seen in a while on their turf. Jack can't putter on his bike, or do the crossword puzzle for hours. He can't replace missing light bulbs or fix other broken parts of our home.
For the past two years, we were out of town on vacation, but they were trips just the four of us took. We went to Bend, OR, last year for a few days. The year before Jack took two weeks off and we had a trip of a lifetime in New Zealand. Other years, Jack has had to work, which limited our travel options significantly.
This year, we stayed at home for the whole two weeks and I got a little blue. It is cool to take a vacation over break, but this year I was a little sad I wasn't spending the holidays with my extended family, not that there is much family left to visit. I can't go back to the good old days and see all four of my grandparents, as they have all passed on. For several weeks before the break, the Boy had been under the weather. I wasn't sure how he'd be feeling over the holiday, so we decided to stay home instead of traveling.
Last January, my father put my mom in a long-term care facility. One of Jack's colleagues at the hospital says that studies show gravely ill people live longer when they are getting palliative care. My mother was so far along in her illness, it was better to make her comfortable than aggressively try to treat her disease. We are coming up on the one year anniversary of her living not with my dad, and I got to think she might not live to see another Christmas. I started to feel bad that I wasn't there. She wouldn't know if I was there or not, but I would know.
In mid-December while my family was off skiing and I was running on the treadmill at the YMCA, I got kind of lonely. I thought about buying a plane ticket and flying off to Ohio to spend Christmas with my parents. I figured my family could ski the whole time I was gone and they wouldn't miss me. I got over my bout of snitty-ness, and decided to stay in Seattle. On Christmas Day, I began to regret my decision. Perhaps I should have taken time off during the holiday to visit my parents and trust that Jack could have taken care of the Boy.
Aside from my own guilt, there is another side effect of not visiting family over break: my daughter has no expectations of visiting us in the future during the holidays. She assumes she will be living far away and won't travel to see us. Every year since my kids were born, our Christmases and New Year's Days were different, unlike mine growing up which were the same down to every dish served and the time we ate. What did my kids learn about tradition? That it doesn't exist? I can't say that. The four of us have always been together each year, even if we have been in different places.
Or is the problem with my view of tradition? Is it better to have floating and varying expectations for holidays, rather than fixed ones? Just because a holiday break is different, does it mean it is bad?
While my break wasn't nearly as challenging, it wasn't one for the record books. Was it better than last year when I couldn't walk without crutches and a brace or go up and down the twenty-three steps to our house? Yes, but it was still tough.
I live 2,000 miles away from my family, and Jack lives even more. Traveling to the Ohio and Atlanta over the holidays is challenging. There is no direct flight from Seattle to Columbus, so we have to connect through Chicago or Minneapolis, which is always dicey in December. My mom has Alzheimer's and Jack's mom has a heart arrhythmia. Jack's mom can travel but it is hard on her. My mom can't leave the nursing home let alone the state. It has reached the point where it is up to us to travel, not them. Last year, I had a good excuse because I couldn't walk.
My husband doesn't like visiting people in general, but is it even worse when he has to visit people in winter for days when there aren't outdoor activities to keep him and the kids (but mostly him) occupied. It is tough to have to spend three days in a row with people you have't seen in a while on their turf. Jack can't putter on his bike, or do the crossword puzzle for hours. He can't replace missing light bulbs or fix other broken parts of our home.
For the past two years, we were out of town on vacation, but they were trips just the four of us took. We went to Bend, OR, last year for a few days. The year before Jack took two weeks off and we had a trip of a lifetime in New Zealand. Other years, Jack has had to work, which limited our travel options significantly.
This year, we stayed at home for the whole two weeks and I got a little blue. It is cool to take a vacation over break, but this year I was a little sad I wasn't spending the holidays with my extended family, not that there is much family left to visit. I can't go back to the good old days and see all four of my grandparents, as they have all passed on. For several weeks before the break, the Boy had been under the weather. I wasn't sure how he'd be feeling over the holiday, so we decided to stay home instead of traveling.
Last January, my father put my mom in a long-term care facility. One of Jack's colleagues at the hospital says that studies show gravely ill people live longer when they are getting palliative care. My mother was so far along in her illness, it was better to make her comfortable than aggressively try to treat her disease. We are coming up on the one year anniversary of her living not with my dad, and I got to think she might not live to see another Christmas. I started to feel bad that I wasn't there. She wouldn't know if I was there or not, but I would know.
In mid-December while my family was off skiing and I was running on the treadmill at the YMCA, I got kind of lonely. I thought about buying a plane ticket and flying off to Ohio to spend Christmas with my parents. I figured my family could ski the whole time I was gone and they wouldn't miss me. I got over my bout of snitty-ness, and decided to stay in Seattle. On Christmas Day, I began to regret my decision. Perhaps I should have taken time off during the holiday to visit my parents and trust that Jack could have taken care of the Boy.
Aside from my own guilt, there is another side effect of not visiting family over break: my daughter has no expectations of visiting us in the future during the holidays. She assumes she will be living far away and won't travel to see us. Every year since my kids were born, our Christmases and New Year's Days were different, unlike mine growing up which were the same down to every dish served and the time we ate. What did my kids learn about tradition? That it doesn't exist? I can't say that. The four of us have always been together each year, even if we have been in different places.
Or is the problem with my view of tradition? Is it better to have floating and varying expectations for holidays, rather than fixed ones? Just because a holiday break is different, does it mean it is bad?
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Stuff We Don't Want to Do & Blank Pages
The Boy was recently kvetching about his homework.
"Why do I need to learn to write fiction if I want to be an engineer?" he said. "How will this help me?"
I had a hard time coming up with a response that he would believe. He is fairly smart, so getting past his bullshit detector is much harder than smothering broccoli in cheese sauce. Metaphorically speaking, he often finds the broccoli and refuses to eat it. It is one of his magic powers. At least I don't have to worry too much about him getting sucked into a cult.
"Part of this is learning to write," I said.
"I can write essays fine and I get that. But why should I write I story?"
"It is supposed to be fun," I said.
(Eye roll.)
"Maybe you will be a good writer and just don't know it yet," I said. "You are a decent writer." This is true. He isn't a bad writer. Both of my kids are better writers than I was at their ages.
"Everything I write makes me cringe," he said. "I suck at this."
"Part of writing is learning how to write," I said. "J.K. Rowling didn't publish the stories she wrote as an eighth grader."
"I bet her stories were better than mine," he said. I was running out of cheese sauce. All he could see and smell was the broccoli.
I went to coffee with a friend and explained my situation. How can I persuade my very persuasive son to write a story?
"Part of school at this age is learning how to do things you don't want to do," she said. "Kids who succeed at school, especially in high school, are the kids who can gut through what sees unappealing." I never had a problem with that at school. I was internally motivated and naturally curious. I did work because it was there.
I understood her point. I thought the purpose of chores was to actually get my kids to help so I wouldn't have as much work to do around the house. Now I understand the purpose is something completely different. Very few people* want to clean a toilet, empty a dishwasher, or vacuum. My son would rather google random crap than write a story. Who wouldn't? But life isn't about vegging out on a computer to escape reality.
Then I think about the opposite of learning to do things you don't want to do. Sure, I get everyone needs to take care of themselves. But why is learning how to do things you don't want to do such a prized skill in our society? Why do college admissions want kids who succeed in all subjects? Poets don't need to know engineering. Why make engineers learn to write poetry? I can see that for kids: their parents and teachers don't know who will grow up to be an architect and who will grow up to be an accountant, and it is beneficial to expose all kids to all kinds of possibilities. And I know that there are somethings everyone needs to know. We all need to know the basic principles of how government works, principles of science, how to read, how to read a bank statement, and so on.
Here is my quandary: I am really good at doing things I don't want to do. I am excellent at it, in fact. I can also find a reason to get stuff done that I don't want to do, and make it mildly interesting or entertaining. I am rarely bored. Some of this is good.
Some of it isn't. If I am good at doing what I don't want to do, how can I know what I will like to do? How will I know when I find it?
In the end, my son gutted through the story, and it wasn't "cringe-worthy." Before he wrote it, his sister gave him some crazy ideas, one of which stuck and he ran with. He got out my copy of Spoiled Brats by Simon Rich, a wickedly funny anthology of humorous and very crude essays. While the Boy was scared by the blank page before him, he started to have fun with where he could go with it. He got over the ditch and into the fun part. Finally. He realized his broccoli wasn't so bad.
Happy New Year! May your blank page this year be filled with wonder and joy!
* My grandmother and uncle, who probably both had/have a mild case of OCD, enjoy housework. Rather, they so strongly dislike mess and prefer order that their urge to clean is strong.
"Why do I need to learn to write fiction if I want to be an engineer?" he said. "How will this help me?"
I had a hard time coming up with a response that he would believe. He is fairly smart, so getting past his bullshit detector is much harder than smothering broccoli in cheese sauce. Metaphorically speaking, he often finds the broccoli and refuses to eat it. It is one of his magic powers. At least I don't have to worry too much about him getting sucked into a cult.
"Part of this is learning to write," I said.
"I can write essays fine and I get that. But why should I write I story?"
(Eye roll.)
"Maybe you will be a good writer and just don't know it yet," I said. "You are a decent writer." This is true. He isn't a bad writer. Both of my kids are better writers than I was at their ages.
"Everything I write makes me cringe," he said. "I suck at this."
"Part of writing is learning how to write," I said. "J.K. Rowling didn't publish the stories she wrote as an eighth grader."
"I bet her stories were better than mine," he said. I was running out of cheese sauce. All he could see and smell was the broccoli.
I went to coffee with a friend and explained my situation. How can I persuade my very persuasive son to write a story?
"Part of school at this age is learning how to do things you don't want to do," she said. "Kids who succeed at school, especially in high school, are the kids who can gut through what sees unappealing." I never had a problem with that at school. I was internally motivated and naturally curious. I did work because it was there.
I understood her point. I thought the purpose of chores was to actually get my kids to help so I wouldn't have as much work to do around the house. Now I understand the purpose is something completely different. Very few people* want to clean a toilet, empty a dishwasher, or vacuum. My son would rather google random crap than write a story. Who wouldn't? But life isn't about vegging out on a computer to escape reality.
Then I think about the opposite of learning to do things you don't want to do. Sure, I get everyone needs to take care of themselves. But why is learning how to do things you don't want to do such a prized skill in our society? Why do college admissions want kids who succeed in all subjects? Poets don't need to know engineering. Why make engineers learn to write poetry? I can see that for kids: their parents and teachers don't know who will grow up to be an architect and who will grow up to be an accountant, and it is beneficial to expose all kids to all kinds of possibilities. And I know that there are somethings everyone needs to know. We all need to know the basic principles of how government works, principles of science, how to read, how to read a bank statement, and so on.
Here is my quandary: I am really good at doing things I don't want to do. I am excellent at it, in fact. I can also find a reason to get stuff done that I don't want to do, and make it mildly interesting or entertaining. I am rarely bored. Some of this is good.
Some of it isn't. If I am good at doing what I don't want to do, how can I know what I will like to do? How will I know when I find it?
In the end, my son gutted through the story, and it wasn't "cringe-worthy." Before he wrote it, his sister gave him some crazy ideas, one of which stuck and he ran with. He got out my copy of Spoiled Brats by Simon Rich, a wickedly funny anthology of humorous and very crude essays. While the Boy was scared by the blank page before him, he started to have fun with where he could go with it. He got over the ditch and into the fun part. Finally. He realized his broccoli wasn't so bad.
Happy New Year! May your blank page this year be filled with wonder and joy!
* My grandmother and uncle, who probably both had/have a mild case of OCD, enjoy housework. Rather, they so strongly dislike mess and prefer order that their urge to clean is strong.
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