Scars & The School Board Race

My left knee is a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was ugly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bigger Than the Whole Sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unpacking my Bags

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

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

But what if?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your Service!

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

"Thank you for your service," I said. 

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

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

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

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

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

I thank them for their service.