Creating Space v Being Alone

It has been almost three months since I moved out of the house and into the condo, and two months since the Boy started Wilderness.

Many of my friends and my therapist therapist think I need to spend time alone instead of spending 90% of my free time spinning about Jack and the Boy.

Alone.

Hmmm. I looked at my friend group and thought they are a bunch of introverts, so being alone is fine for them. But me, I'm kind of on the bubble between introvert and extrovert. I like being around people, and my job is kind of introverty, so when I go home I want to be around people. Jack's job is the opposite--he is around people all day, and needs to recharge alone when he gets home.

"You need solitude," my therapist said.

"Solitude sucks," I said. "It isn't that I don't like myself. I like the company of other people. Humans were not meant to be alone." (I generally like my therapist, so don't think I'm ragging on him.) I remember when I was in college my senior year. I was in a sorority and I had a single room for a quarter. It was a little bit larger than the walk-in closet in my condo. Maybe it was about the size of the master bathroom in my condo. And my condo was build in the late 1980's so it has conservative sized bathrooms. Anyway, that room was bliss. I loved having my own room in the house because it was in a sorority house so I could walk out at any time and talk to one of the other forty women who lived there. Compare that to the Foster-Walker dorm which was all single rooms (plus a few quads). That dorm had the highest suicide rate of any dorm in the country at one point. They probably should have torn it down.

My therapist (who again, I generally like) suggested I look at my childhood to see why I don't like living alone.

IT IS NOT MY CHILDHOOD! IT IS MOTHERHOOD!

Three months ago, I had been a mom for nineteen years non-stop, and then the daily activity around that ground to a halt somewhat unexpectedly. It was like when I lost the campaign for school board. I had my foot to the floor on the gas pedal, and then it all stopped suddenly. It is hard to shift gears that fast, but at least with an election you know the outcome will be known soon enough.

Also, my job is well suited to my life as a mom. I could work alone a decent amount of time, and then I'd go home to the busyness of my other job, mom. Now I come home from work and all I have to do is feed myself, walk the dog and make sure my clothes are clean. That is it.

My therapist tried again, poor guy. I must be a terrible patient.

"You need to create space for yourself, where you can lead the life you want that isn't about Jack or the Boy or work," he said. "You need to get out of the drama of everyone else's life and lead your own."

And then the light went on.

Create space for myself. What does that mean?

It means I am in charge of my own time and I can do whatever I want.

If I want to watch that Nanette Netflix special or her new one, I can.
If I want to write at 10:30 at night, I can.
If I want to listen to music, I can.
If I want to hang out with friends or go for a bike ride or poke around the library, I can.

The idea of creating my own space was much more powerful than the idea of being alone. Being alone implies there is a void that needs to be filled. Creating my own space means I am making room for myself in my own life. It doesn't mean I plan to live on my own forever, but to take this time to restore, recover and heal. And then hopefully, the rest will fall into place in time.

Good Things

Last night, I wrote about some of the harder parts of the trip to see the Boy. Tonight, I will write about the positives.

• The Boy knows how to make a fire from wood and kindling. Kids in "Wildie" (as they call it) learn how to make a base, a spindle, a bow and a top rock to create a coal which is then added to a bed of dried leaves (or nest). The tied the spindle to the bow and then connected the spindle to the base. He held the spindle in place using the top rock, and pull the bow back and forth until a little coal formed. "It isn't really about strength, but more about technique," said the Boy.  The Boy put the coal in the mest and blew on the coal until there was a flame. He put the flaming nest in the fire pit and then added twigs and branches. The Boy didn't know that I used to be a pyro until I had kids. My mom was a queen firemaker when we went camping. Now that I think about it, we might have gone camping a lot when I was a kid just so she could make fires.
• The Boy carved a spoon from a twig. He soaked it in oil overnight and then the colors popped out. He sanded it so it is very smooth. Jack's father is a woodworker as a hobby. Wilderness therapy seems to be connecting the Boy to his family roots.

• I asked the Boy if he is making friends with the kids in his group. "They are more like family," he said after thinking about it for a few minutes. This is so different than when the Boy was in the hospital for a few days a few years ago when the staff actively discouraged kids from making friends with other kids. At Wilderness therapy, the guides encourage the kids making friends and connections with the other kids. From the mundane tasks of making dinner and digging latrines to practicing yoga, meditation and reading their impact letters from their parents in front of the group, these guys bond.
• I got to see the quiet, reserved, confident and humble Boy. He is growing. I saw him communicate with us in a mature and emotionally connected way that some people never learn to do as adults.

Knock in the Engine and Off the Grid

Tomorrow, Jack and I leave for Colorado to see the Boy. Friday, Jack and I talked to our guide for the weekend, Hector. When the call started, I asked Hector how is was doing, he went through the Four Feelings check -- how are you feeling emotionally, physically, intellectually and spiritually. I had to laugh (more of a nervous laugh), "You mean I can't say 'Fine'?"

Hector led the family wellness weekend for our group. He is a tall, lean, powerful and charismatic guy. This guy is able to connect with people. I wrote to the Boy the Hector reminds me of Obama if Obama taught yoga. I kind of wonder if this is the reason we were assigned to Hector, because I wrote in my letter that he reminds me of Obama. Jack initially thought it might be because Hector and I are both originally from Chicago. Hector said on the call Friday that he is assigned the hard cases and then he laughed. Yeah--who wants to spend the weekend with a separated couple and their messed up kid?

I am supposed to bring a list of the "4 Rs"

• Resentments
• Regrets
• Respect
• Requests

I need to work on this today. Hector said this exercise is done in hospice before people die so they can clear the slate before they pass on. Oy. I get tired thinking about this. Maybe I'll take a bath and ponder. A bath might be a good idea today as I will be off the grid starting Monday morning. No phone, no watch, no running water.

I was talking to one of my colleagues at work about the Boy, wilderness and some of the challenges the Boy has been facing. He's been having meltdowns at camp after about four weeks, which has been hard to hear about. 

"It is like when you have a knock in the engine of your car, and you take it to the mechanic," my friend said. "You don't want them to start the car twenty times and not hear the knock. You want them to hear it so they can fix it."

Part of this weekend will mean hearing the knock, except in a safe and supported environment where everyone--including me--will be coached.

This is going to suck.

I should be optimistic, and say this will be all good. Instead, this is like going into surgery. Sure, in the long run we all will be better for it, but the middle steps are scary as shit. Yes, I am terrified. I know the engine knocks and I want it to get better, but taking it all apart and putting it back together will be hard.

There. I've named my fear. As Hector says, you've got to "Name it to tame it."

Push, Part 2 and My Life Doesn't Suck

I was thinking more about pushing after I wrote yesterday's post.

I think one of the things that makes pushing work is when it is a two way street: when someone pushes their friend, co-worker, significant other, it helps that they accept being pushed back. Likewise, after someone has been pushed themselves, they feel safe to push back to the original pusher.

I am still not a big fan of the word "push." It is such an ugly word. I think of pushing someone of a train platform, Sisyphus pushing his rock up hill. Let's replace push with influence.

But perhaps this mutual pushing is what makes it hard to push our children. The pushing or influencing kids is a one way street. How often do we as parents accept influence from our children? How often do our parents accept our influence? I think of my teenage son. That pushing was pretty much in one direction. He pushed me to ski more difficult terrain, but that is different than me pushing him to get out of bed in the morning to go to school.

Which bring me to another point. My new manager (I need to think up a fake name for him) was teasing me the other day about something, but instead of finding it cute and funny, I was annoyed. The joke hit a raw nerve, and I told him so. (It wasn't anything major or offensive, just bugged me because of the spot I am in.)

"I was just trying to make you feel better. You have so many friends that can listen to your negative thoughts. I want to try to cheer you up."

Oh.

I took that totally the wrong way. I thought about it, as I think about everything. After work, I had a phone call with the psychologist who did the Boy's evaluation and then out for dinner with a friend who is a mom from the Boy's old soccer team. We went to the Old Stove Brewery, which has an amazing view of the Puget Sound. After dinner, we walked Fox along my usual loop through Victor Steinbruck Park, then down Lenora and along Alaskan Way. I thanked her for listening to me to be Debbie Downer.

"You aren't complaining, and your life doesn't suck. You are just having a hard time," she said. She was right. I have my health. I have a good job that I like and I like my co-workers. My daughter is doing well. Yes, the Boy and Jack are challenging to me right now. But overall, my life doesn't suck.

One of the things the Boy is learning at Wilderness is to accept negative feelings, to not stuff them down and bury them, but sit with them and let them be. I am learning the same thing, but can I also learn to be cheerful and upbeat at the same time? Can I learn to hold both the positive and the negative, the good and the bad, in my mind at the same time?

Right now, I feel like I am on a roller coaster with lots of ups and lots of downs, with not much in between. This weekend, I went to a party at my friend's beach house which was awesome. Monday, I read a 44 page psych report on my kid, which was not awesome. I am not sure I could have handled the report as well as I did if I hadn't been to the party or if I didn't talk to Ellen in the middle of reading it.

I need to feel these things, the awful, so I can make a change for my life for the better. Before I moved out and before the Boy went to Wilderness, I was stressed and anxious and worried. When I moved out and when the Boy started Wilderness, my first reaction was relief: pure, sweet, simple relief. When the relief wore off, something else filled in: worry, dread, loneliness. If I ignore these negative feelings, they will sit and stew and never quite go away. Likewise, I need the joy, the cheerful, the hope, to keep going.

Here is a funny thing that made me laugh today. I read my horoscope in The Stranger. They are both such different takes for two weeks apart. I don't belive my fate is determined by the stars, but it is still fun to read. And the Boy is a Taurus, too.

Oh yeah. And one of my cars hit a 100K miles this week. I thought this was cool.

Push

Note: I've been struggling with the idea of this post for a few weeks. Time to live up to the name of this blog and just get something out there.

Since the Boy has been at Wilderness therapy, I've thinking a lot about what it means to mentally or emotionally push someone. When someone we love or care about may be stuck--how do we help them get unstuck? Do they see themselves as stuck? Do they want to get unstuck? What are the lines and limits? What about a parent pushing a child? A spouse pushing a spouse? A friend or co-worker pushing one of the same?

I've been pushed and have done some pushing. I was talking to my friend Kerrie about is, and she asked why I thought "pushing" had a negative connotation. I wasn't sure. Was it because sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between nagging and pushing?  I mainly think about it in the context of the Boy who wouldn't get out of bed for sixth months. I could have pushed him, but if he couldn't get out of bed, how much would pushing him have damaged my relationship with him? Would it have been pushing, nagging or cajoling? Or, worse, being a bully? "Hey ya big loser! Get out of bed!" That sounds abusive.

Let me think of a few examples from my work and personal life. I had suggested to my former peer that he apply for the role of manager for our team.

"No, no, no, not me," he said. "I have to move back to Seattle and here are the twenty reasons I can't do it blah blah blah." None of those reasons had to do with whether or not he could do the job or if he wanted to do the job. It was all extraneous. I ranted and marched around the condo yelling into my phone. I got another co-worker on the line to listen and bear witness to my rant. My co-worker ranted right back at me as to why he couldn't do it.

This went on for two hours.

Somewhat surprisingly, he called the next morning and said, "You are right. I should apply for the manager job." Not surprisingly, he got the job.

Turnabout is fair play, and then he pushed me back about getting the Boy into treatment and then later about getting out of town on the Fourth of July. At both, I bristled at the first suggestion, as he did when I suggested he apply to be the manager. When I thought about getting the Boy into treatment and taking a trip, I realized he was right. In these three cases, pushing worked.

Then I think about pushing the Boy. Should I have pushed him harder? How would he have responded? My fear is that he would have not reacted positively to pushing, that it would have made in worse, not better. I think I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.

Perhaps part of the art of pushing is knowing when to push and when to back off. Part of pushing is knowing the pushee and knowing their willingness to be influenced by the person who is pushing. Also involved is knowing why the person is pushing: are they pushing for their own self-gain or because they will benefit, or are they acting in the best interest of the other person? Let's say a parent wants their kid to get good grades in school. Is this in the kid's best interest? Of course. Good grades open doors and provide options. Is getting good grades in the best interest of the parent? Sure. They might want their kid to get a good job and not sleep on their couch and smoke weed for the next twenty years. Or, the parent may want to brag to their friends that Billy got into Yale...

Sometimes the messenger can be the problem, not in a bad way, but because of complexity. When a parent pushes a child, there are a million moving parts to the relationship. I am the Boy's caretaker and the source of maternal love. I could have pushed, but the internal challenges he faced are more than I could adequately respond to and manage. Sending the Boy to Wilderness allowed someone else to do the pushing, not me. Is that pushing by proxy? Perhaps. I pushed to get him to a place where he could be pushed.

Ellen & Onward!

We just got the Boy's psych evaluation. Forty-four pages of 12 point Times New Roman font. It is a PDF so I didn't do a word count but it was long. I took several breaks reading it.

I called my friend Ellen in the middle. Her daughter did the Wilderness/therapeutic boarding school routine.

"This is a psych evaluation! Of course it is going to be awful!" she said.

"But it covered every shitty parenting thing we've ever done," I said.

"Of course!" she said. "Having a kid with problems causes problems with the family, which then causes more problems with the kid! This is normal."

She didn't mean normal like regular, happy family kind of normal, but more like normal for families with kids in wilderness therapy. As in, this it to be expected.

Still, the whole thing is depressing, but that is why I talked to Ellen. She has been through it and made it to the other side in one piece, and so did her daughter. They both made it to the other side. I am so grateful for her grace and support. I think of all of the small and giant steps Ellen and her daughter made to get her where she is today.

Thinking of those steps and going to the School Board election fundraiser the other night brought back memories of my campaign, which perhaps I need to reflect on now. During my campaign, I called a friend who was deep in with the Seattle political establishment. I can't remember I called her about something good or bad, but I remember her response after we discussed the issue at hand.

Onward!

I might have won an endorsement, I might have lost an endorsement. In any case, I needed to move on to the next thing. Onward means when things go well, keep moving forward. When things crash and burn, keep moving forward.

In the campaign, I also learned that every day is going to be different and you are going to learn something hard. This is a campaign to get my son's mental health to a palce of stability. This campaign is intense and hopefully, unlike a political campaign, there will be more than one winner at the end for all of the kids in Wilderness.

The Future Empty Nest & Out and About

Today, I further explored my social horizons. I was invited to a party at my friend's "cabin" on Vashon Island. When she saw my condo in April, she offered that we could trade weekends. I was like "Yeah sure okay..." thinking I'd need to see the cabin before I'd offer a trade.

Well, the "cabin" is really a "beach house" and it is magnificent. Like most of Seattle, the place isn't luxurious or overly posh, but is it very comfortable in an incredibly beautiful setting. If we were to trade, I'd be getting the better deal. Grace decorated the place with stuff from Craigslist. I thought Jack had mad skills for finding used furniture online. Grace is really good, too. (She's also good at finding used clothes. "Oh this cashmere sweater? Value Village." I don't know which Value Village she shops at but holy cow she finds great stuff.)

One of the cross country parents at the beach house bar-b-que asked about the Boy. I told the crowd he is in Wilderness Therapy for depression and anxiety. Since it is summer and since this was a party on the beach, not everyone heard right away. Grace thought was an emotional growth summer camp, not a proxy for the loony bin. Even still, it was good to be out and about.

Sitting with these families, I had a slight sense of dread for the fall. While all of these families are going to be sending their kids off to school, so will we, but not at all in the way I had expected this fall to go. In the summer, I can live in denial, and like Grace thought, sort of imagine that Wilderness is a fancy YMCA camp versus a Hail Mary pass to help the Boy's mental health. Already this summer, the Boy is missing summer cross country training. In the fall, we will miss the cross country meets and orchestra concerts. We will miss the college prep activities we marched through with Claire-Adele her junior year.

I have a good friend, Sarah, whose son has profound autism. Sarah has a hard time being around parents of typically developing kids because those kids milestones are the ones that are missing for her son, and that is a loss for her with its associated grief. I understand her perspective, but that doesn't mean it is easy to figure this all out. Intellectually, I know the Boy needs to be on this path. He knows, too, and because it is his path, he probably already has a great acceptance of what that means to him. He can only see what he is doing. I can also see what he's not doing.

But for me, I am still trying to sort it out. I've traded off the temporary empty nest-phase so I don't have to permanently have the boy living under my roof because he hasn't had sufficient or adequate mental health care.

"What do poor people do?"

Earlier this year when the Boy was in the middle of his mental health crisis, we would throw money at the problem to support him. He needs to get outside for exercise and a sense of accomplishment? Buy him a ski pass and new skis. No snow? Get hime a mountain bike, plus we needed a new all-wheel drive to schlep the bike around after the first SUV was in a crash. He wants to practice jumps for skiing? We got him a trampoline for the back yard. None of this stuff was over-the-top luxury stuff. This was sporting equipment and passes so he could get exercise which would elevate his mood. And he used one of the three--ski equipment, mountain bike, and trampoline--practically every day for a while there. Nothing was gathering dust.

One morning as I was letting the dog out to pee in the backyard, I saw the trampoline and wondered, "What strategy would I take to get the Boy help if we had far fewer resources?" Or, "What would I do if I were poor?" When I told my dad what I was thinking, he blanched as he was embarrassed by what appeared to be my arrogant attitude. But that wasn't the point: was I missing an obvious or easy strategy that other people used who didn't have money, but perhaps found effective? Was it possible the Boy had affluenza, where he got everything he needed handed to him on a platter without having to work for it? Did he need to get a job to get a sense of what the real world is like? Did we need to force him to do some manual labor around the house--maybe have him build a new deck in the backyard--to break him out of his spell?

Last night at the end of the political fundraiser, I was discussing how expensive Wilderness therapy was, and how we were using money we had set aside for the Boy's college to pay for this. "We are really lucky we can pay for this," I said. Again, the question arose, "What do poor people do?" I was serious, and my friends were equally serious in the their replies.

"They encounter the criminal justice system," said one friend. She was right. Rage, anger and violence are signs of depression in male teens. Sounds like a one way trip to juvie, if you ask me.

"They don't get out of bed for five years," said the hostess, whose previous life work was helping settle refugees. She told me of an immigrant family's daughter who got stuck in bed in high school, never graduated and was still in bed years later. I can't imagine.

"They rely on their community, whether it is their family or whatever," said another friend who was born in India but raised in the U.S.. "I grew up calling a dozen people 'Auntie' who were not actually my aunt. Whenever I see a homeless person, I wonder 'Where are their people? Where is their community?' I have crazy people in my family, but my family takes care of them." I think of another family I know where the adult daughter and her husband live with her parents. The son-in-law doesn't come out of his room except for Christmas and New Year's, and the daughter stays home to raise the kids. Between the two of them, they held one part-time job. Yet, they were not homeless or stuck in the tangled web of bureaucracy for mental health support. The in-laws took care of everything.

One major disadvantage we have--like many other people we know in Northeast Seattle--is that we do not have our extended family nearby for support. People move out here from great job opportunities and very often the extended family stays wherever they came from. Jack, the Boy and I live out here more or less by ourselves. Jack's cousin lives nearby, but she has four kids so she is busy. Would the Boy have been better off if he had family here, like grandparents and aunts and uncles?

Narrow & "All Better" v Better

Jack and I talked to the Boy on Monday for the first time since he has been at wilderness, five weeks after we dropped him off. It was great to hear his voice and hear how he is managing. I remember when I was a kid and I scraped my knee, my mom would clean it up and say "All better!" The Boy is doing better, but like a mom, I want him to be "all better," not just "some better."

Back before I started my day job two years ago, I took a writing class at North Seattle College where we discussed feminine archetypes. We learned about the three phases on womanhood:

• The focused, and directed virgin represented by Diana the hunter; 
• The diffuse-focused mother who has her eyes and ears constantly open represented by Demeter; and 
• The queen who basks in wisdom, represented by the late stages of Hera.

Ironically, right now I feel like I am living all three stages at once. I am like Diana the Hunter, with a direct and narrow focus on supporting Peter. My friend circle shrunk in numbers but increased in intensity, with me calling the same friends once or twice a week, not counting how much I talk to my friends at work. I still feel like Demeter the mother, paying attention and worrying about the Boy. Now that I am living alone in my little downtown nest, I feel like Hera, the queen.

My life has become very narrow, but tonight I broke out of the constrained pipeline I had been living in. A guy I know from back in my public education advocacy days is running for Seattle School Board and I attended a fundraiser for him hosted by a few of my friends, a group that had not been part of my small circle of six people who knew all of the ins and outs of the shitstorm that is my life. When I got to the party, the candidate who I already know and respect, was talking. Instead of having to vicariously relive my school board campaign memories, I snuck away to get some dessert when the hostess caught me.

"Lauren! It is so good to see you! How are you?"

I blanched. Oh shit, I thought. It is one thing to be transparent and open, but I don't need to tell everyone everything. Instead of talking about the Boy, I told her all about my job and the Apprenti program.

"How's Claire-Adele?" she asked. That's easy. I might get out of here without having to mention the Boy at all, and that would be cool.

The candidate finished his speech, and came back to the kitchen. We talked more about elections. The candidate left, and I was getting ready to go back to walk Fox.

"How's the Boy?" the hostess said. Other friends were there, including a couple who heard the Boy's story on the flight back from New York over Spring Break. They hadn't heard the latest installment, so I really couldn't just bullshit my way through this and say he was fine, because this couple would be like "Wow! I am sooo glad to hear the Boy is doing well! That is AMAZING!" I can't be transparent in March and then lie like a sack of shit in July. (It is late. I'm tired. My "colorful vernacular" is coming out, as the Boy has said about his swearing.) 

So I told the story. The Boy is in Wilderness. Then off to boarding school. 

Welcome to Northeast Seattle. No one was shocked. Everybody already knew somebody who knew somebody who had a kid who went to wilderness.

So I am branching out. I didn't lead with the Boy and Jack, like I do with my little tiny inner circle. I lead with my job and with Claire-Adele, two things in my life that are going well. I wasn't trying to put forth a good face--I was recognizing that everything in my life isn't so difficult or challenging or in crisis. This weekend, I have another party with a small group of friends. We will see how it goes.

But much has changed since earlier today. At lunch, I sat with my new manager.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked. This wasn't a small talk question. He wanted to know how I was doing. He was the one who pushed me to take the holiday weekend off and go on a trip. I talked about all of stuff coming up with the Boy, and all of the decisions that will need to be made in the next month. I admitted I was stressed.

"Are you feeling better?" I think he asked twice because perhaps I didn't answer. I didn't answer because I didn't really know what to say. Was I feeling better? It was hard to know. Plus, I really can't bullshit this guy. He is too smart for that.

"Grief comes in waves," I said. "You feel bad, then you feel better, then you feel bad again, but this time you feel bad about something different."

It wasn't until I got home tonight that I realized that sometimes feeling better means actually feeling like shit. Or, that feeling like shit means that you actually are starting to feel better.

At the campaign party, a friend said "Sometimes you are afraid to feel bad because you are afraid you might never come out of feeling that way."

I fear migraine headaches. What I get one and it doesn't go away? Fear of being sad is kind of like that.

Am I "All Better"? No. But I am better.

Regular Maintenance v High Maintence

I am sitting in Dulles waiting for my flight to leave in a much better place than when I left Seattle. I did shed a few tears while I was eating breakfast, but I was far less a mess than I was Thursday morning. I visited my friend Melissa and last night we were in a Spanish tapas bar laughing, eating paella and drinking sangria. It was awesome but I am tired from staying up late talking to Melissa. I am planning to sleep on the plane. I can barely keep my eyes open right now. In one sense, you are lucky I am happy tired. This will be a very short post.

As I was eating breakfast at the airport, I started thinking about my marriage and relationship as a car.   Men (and women) have this bad habit of defining partners and potential partners as "high maintenance" or "low maintenance." It is assumed that one is need to too much attention, the other needs too little.

I had a little epiphany while eating my scrambled eggs. "High Maintenance" and "Low Maintenance" put the burden on the woman for having needs, which is bullshit. What I want in a relationship is "Regular Maintenance." I want regular care and attention from my partner. I don't want a Hail Mary pass when the clock is running out, trying to save it because he finally realizes I am upset.

Crying & Peace

Thursday morning, I was sitting in Seatac crying my eyes out. I was exhausted and kind of cold as I have dressed for the 85 degree weather there is supposed to be in DC and the airport is about 65.

Walking through the airport was a bitch. While I was excited to see Claire-Adele, I was devastated that I was taking this trip because I was alone. In the line for security, I started to tear up when I saw a young woman wearing a shirt that said "Have the Courage to Live." (I accidentally typed "Courage to Love." I suppose they are the same thing.) I saw new parents cuddling babies. I saw moms traveling alone with kids. At the Starbucks, I saw a sixteen year old boy traveling alone, ordering coffee before his flight. By the time I got to the gate, I was full on sobbing. When I got on the plane, I sat next to a woman in her mid-twenties who it turns out is a new kindergarten teacher.

"Are you okay? I saw you crying at the gate," she said. It was very kind of her to ask. I am not sure I would have done the same her her situation. I realized I am mourning the loss of my old jobs--mom and wife.

The thing that struck me as odd was that I felt better after crying. I am not saying I love feeling pain, but I felt better letting it all out.

"Are you at peace with where you are at and what you want to do next?" she asked me.

"I haven't really thought about it," I said. Am I at peace? Clearly not otherwise I wouldn't be sobbing at the airport. But could this be a worthy goal? Yes.

"Have you tried praying about it?" she asked.

I was a little worried about getting into a conversation on prayer at the beginning of a six hour flight with someone I didn't know. Later, I thought about it: No, I don't pray to god about this situation. Instead, I talk to my friends. Same thing as praying? If not, it is pretty close.

I think Alcoholics Anonymous has an expression "Let go and let god." I am not a big fan of blind faith, yet I think this phrase means that we have to accept a certain amount of uncertainty in our lives, which is really, really hard for me. Perhaps I just need to be at peace with uncertainty.

Clean All the THINGS!!! and Retro

I talked to my friend Ellen today. I sent her a text.

LM: Call me when you get a chance. I'm cleaning.

I am hosting a work gathering at the condo tomorrow. My new manager has been in his role for about two months and we all deserve a nice celebration for all of the progress we've made since he's been here. Yay! Go team! Which meant tonight I got to navigate the GIANT Metropolitan Market on Queen Anne to buy food for the party. And dinner. And other cool stuff like frozen cioppino base and ice cream that was on sale. Oh...now I get it. MetMarket sells awesome cioppino, so they are selling just their own magical soup base and I get to add the seafood. Sweet.

I told Ellen I was cleaning for this party.

"I don't know why I feel the need to dust under the bed for this party or sweep under my desk," I said.

"When my daughter went to wilderness, I cleaned everything, like stuff that hadn't been cleaned in years," she said.

"You mean like how last week when I cleaned the grease trap on the fume hood above the stove?"

"Exactly!"

It is good to know I am not alone in my manic cleaning while the Boy is in wilderness. It reminded me of Allie Brosh's brilliant blog, Hyperbole and a Half, where she writes about why she will never become an adult. You are welcome for me introducing you to Hyperbole and a Half. "The Party" is my favorite post of hers, followed by "The God of Cake". You just have to promise that you will come back to reading my blog after reading hers. It is like introducing a boyfriend to a much hotter, smarter, and funnier friend, but he is not allowed to hit on her, capiche? You can still like Allie's blog, but don't abandon me.

Now for a funny story, which have seriously been missing from my blog lately. (I really should be reconciling my Visa bill instead of writing, but hey #selfcare.) When I go out to dinner--either with friends or alone--I have lately been using the "Restaurants Near Me" feature on Google Maps on my phone. Last night, I tried The Retro Restaurant and Lounge, a dive bar on Stewart, with heavy emphasis on bar. The Yelp reviews said they have great hamburgers, and on their website it says they get their meat from Don and Joe's butcher shop in Pike Place Market. I've been to Don and Joe's. The bacon is awesome and the guys there are super sweet. Don called me "Doll," which if I were younger, would offend me but now meh. Anyhow, I wanted a good burger because Seattle has a paucity, nay, a dearth of good burgers.

The place is empty except for a tourist couple at a table and three guys at the bar drinking Coors Light. The background music was so bad it was offensive. It was "retro," but like whatever retro was in 1982. When has Yelp ever been wrong? So what if my kids would write brazenly horrific reviews for places on Yelp when they were twelve?

The bartender came to the table to take my order.

"What would you like to drink?" the bartender asked.

"An iced tea with lemon," I said.

"We don't have iced tea, just soda from the soda gun," he said. "Those are the only non-alcoholic drinks we have."

Oy.

He started to list the high fructose corn syrup selections when I cut him off.

This was a real bar. Nothing but booze. I'd rather drink beer than pop, though.

"I'll have a Manny's," I said and ordered my burger. Manny's from Georgetown brewery in Seattle is my favorite beer.

The burger arrived.

It was the best hamburger I've had in Seattle. It rivaled a burger from John Barleycorn, which had the best burgers in Chicago.

It might even be better than Barleycorn, but maybe the Manny's helped pushed it over the edge from awesome to sublime.

Homework or Second Job

If the emotional toll of having a kid in wilderness therapy isn't enough, the paperwork involved is like having a second job. There is so much and it takes so much time. When I get home from my job, I have homework, just like college or high school, except I don't get off of work at three in the afternoon. It is exhausting.

I have a friend who was on the PTSA Board with me a few years ago. She was a single mom with a high skilled but low paying job. Think something like social work. She worked with low income students. She said while there are lots of scholarships for summer camps and after school activities for these families, the volume of paperwork was a major hurdle these parents had to overcome to access these programs. Imagine not speaking much English, holding two jobs, and having three kids. There were pages and pages these families had to fill out to prove they were broke.

My friend Sarah has a son with profound autism. He is turning eighteen soon and she needs to transition him from being a child with a major disability to an adult with a major disability. She has to work numerous government agencies to get her son the support he will need. Sarah is super smart, college educated, and can afford to be a stay-at-home mom, which is good because managing all of this for her son is an unpaid part-time job. She was talking about the pages and pages of forms she had to fill out to prove her son was disabled.

(You can see where this is going.)

With the Boy, we had to fill out the paperwork to apply for the Education Consultant, the woman whose firms serves a a matchmaker for kids and programs. Then we had to apply directly to the selected wilderness therapy program, even though the Education Consultant had 97% got the Boy a spot in the program. The program might have had a few extra questions not covered by the EC, so we had to fill out almost exactly--but not identical questions. Once he got in, we had to fill out enrollment forms, which had different questions, like details about his meds. Then there are health insurance forms and the forms for the psych evaluation. We are paying for the privilege of filling out mounds of paperwork to prove our son is depressed and anxious.

Why? Why does our society place this huge administrative and bureaucratic burden on families who have the most to take of at home? The upside of this is at least we are empty nesters and don't have other kids to take of right now. Some families have two or more kids at home that need attention. I can barely keep up. How do they?