The other day, Jack had a young patient who was dying. (As he is a pediatrician, all of his patients are young.) While I can't talk about the kid as it would violate HIPPA (not that I would), I can talk about the dad since he was not the patient.
The man was a younger dad, and kind of rough. Some of the nurses were afraid of this guy. Jack was in the middle of rounds on the ICU floor, when this father caught Jack's attention when Jack entered his daughter's room.
"If you want to talk to me, sit your ass in the chair and look me in the eye," said the dad. The mom knew what was coming, and scurried out of the room.
Jack did as he was told. He sat in the chair and looked the dad in the eye.
"Five years ago," the father said, "I nearly died. I was riding in the backseat of a car, and when I woke up, I was in Harborview hooked up to a bunch of tubes. I was shot five times."
Jack listened.
"I was dead. The surgeons took out the bullets and put me back together," the dad said. The man opened his shirt and showed Jack a large scar that ran from his neck down past his belly.
"That's impressive," said Jack, a guy who has seen thousands of incisions in his life.
"I've seen death. I've seen other people die," the dad continued. "I am not afraid of it. Look me in the eye and tell me: Is my daughter going to die?"
Jack came home from work and told me the story.
"He wanted me to understand what he had experienced. He needed me to know what he had been through so he could trust me," Jack said. "He needed me to see the scar."
He also realized something else. "You need me to see your scar."
A few years ago, Jack had been guilty of some very bad husbanding. I understand that people screw up and make mistakes, but it is nearly impossible to heal when the person who has hurt you doesn't want to admit that they did. In addition to screwing up, Jack had been reluctant to embrace my suffering from his bad husbanding. I still need an apology, an apology that acknowledges the pain and anguish that he has caused me.
"You need me to see your scar," Jack said. I was just about to give up, throw in the towel, call it a hopeless cause, when he comes through with this. Why did it take an interaction with one of his patient's parent for him to get the message I had been trying to deliver for the past few years? Will this insight stick? Will he remember and adhere to this when he finally does see my scar? Do I want to even bother after banging my head against the wall for the past few years? Can I trust that he will truly see and accept it?
Perhaps the timing of Jack's insight correlated with a conversation I had with my manager the day before, a conversation where we discussed my future role and position, and a forthcoming job offer. Perhaps as I grow more financially independent, inspiration was easier for Jack to find.
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.
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Jack's Work Dinners and Focus on the Food
I might get divorced after I post this, but oh well. Four people read my blog, so it’s not like this is going to make the front page of the Seattle Times. The trade-off I make for not publicizing my blog is that I have more freedom to publish my more bitchy thoughts.
Here’s the deal: I had to attend a recruiting dinner for my husband’s job this week. This is a recruiting dinner where he is trying to woo someone to work for him and I get to go along as the wife. At best, these dinners are pleasant as people are generally polite and on their best behavior.
At worst, they are a fresh slice of Hell.
As the wife, I have to be exceptionally well behaved, which generally is not a problem. Since these are recruiting dinners, I can’t openly talk about my kids or complain about Trump or bitch about how much my husband works like I could at other of his work events where I know the crowd. Because of these high expectations, I usually skip the wine course. When I drink, my tolerance for bullshit reaches zero. The last thing that Jack needs is me corking off on something to a recruit. Instead, if they have kids, I talk about schools. If they don’t have kids, I talk about neighborhoods. Five years ago, neighborhoods were a safe topic. Now, not so much given the exorbitant cost of Seattle real estate, especially close to the hospital.
Me: "Can you drop a mil or more on a house that needs $250k worth of work?"
Them: "No."
Me: "Sucks for you. You should have moved here 2008."
Just as I am expected to be on good behavior, there is an assumption that everyone else is on their best behavior, too. That is not always the case, however. Like I said, the bad dinners are horrid. I almost got divorced after one a few years ago. Jack was recruiting a woman who I will call "The University Bitch." I've dropped the university name, as it might "out" her. The likelihood of her knowing my name and reading my blog is zero, so theoretically, I can say whatever I want. But that would be mean. Nevertheless, the University Bitch and her husband were on exceptionally bad behavior. I don't expect people to kowtow to me, but I hoped they would be reasonably civil. I was seated next to this woman so I could talk to her about schools and neighborhoods. I tried to make small talk:
"Jack did his training in Chicago," I said. "We lived there for a long time."
"I considered training in Chicago," the University Bitch said "but it was too cold. I visited when it was 20 degrees outside. I am so glad I went to ---- University instead. It was so much better."
After she insulted the town where I was born and raised, she never looked at me again for the rest of the meal. Which lasted three plus fucking hours. While her husband did talk to me, everything I said was met with a case of one upsmanship. They had three kids, all of whom were born since she was a fellow.
Me: My son is on a Lego robotics team. It is really cool.
Him: My kids built a computer from scratch.
Me: What do your kids like to read?
Him: <Listed a million books until he found one my kids hadn't yet read and talked about it like I was an idiot parent whose kids were going to end up on welfare because they didn't read The Pilot and the Pirate or whatever.>
If this were a blind date, I would have left. But this wasn't a blind date--it was for my husband's job so I sat there for three hell filled hours. I started this little mantra Focus on the food, which got me through most of the meal. If the company is bad, I thought, at least the food here is something to be experienced. The only good thing that came out of the dinner was that I tasted raw oysters for the first time, a win out of what was otherwise the worst dinner experience I've ever had.
We finished eating and the meal continued to drag on. At that point, I got up to pee and didn't come back to the table for fifteen minutes. No one noticed I was gone. When Jack got up to pee, the waiter came and the rest of the table ordered dessert. I ordered bread pudding. They ordered Baked Alaska which is a ten minute spectacle where the waiter sets the ice cream on fire in the middle of the dining room.
Jack and I got back to the car at the end of the marathon meal. As soon as the door thwumped shut, I said, "That was a fresh slice of hell."
"What do you mean? I thought it was great. She is top recruit. I need to hire her," he said.
"She and her husband were both horrid," I said. "If she treats me like shit, how is she going to treat respiratory therapists and nurses?"
"They all love her," he said. "I checked with them."
"Do they really want to move to Seattle?" I asked. "I know her husband has a job that requires him to be here three days a week, but something was off about the whole thing. They never asked about schools or neighborhoods."
"The husband already knows Seattle, so he probably didn't need to ask. I really need to hire her," Jack said. "She has a specialty that no one else in the division has."
"While was developing all of these magical skills that you so badly need, I've been at home taking care of your kids," I said. "And this woman is so awesome? What does that make me? Chopped liver?"
"I really need to hire her," Jack said. "You don't understand."
I was dumbfounded. He was right. I didn't understand. It was slowly becoming clear that I perhaps had made a mistake in placing all of my eggs in this basket that was being carried by someone else who didn't care about or consider my opinion.
"If you don't want or care about my opinion, why did you invite me to dinner?" I said. He did not reply.
Jack offered the University Bitch the sun, moon and stars. She sat on the offer for a long time.
"I think she using this as leverage to get a raise or promotion where she is at now," I said.
When she came back to Jack, she told him --- University had offered her the sun, the stars, the moon and all of the planets. Jack who made another offer which was then re-upped by her current employer. Jack's offer was the best he could do.
"You were right," Jack said. "She used my job offer to get a promotion where she is working."
So after a few year hiatus/ban from these events, I am back on the circuit, much to my dismay. How do I cope? My secret again is to focus on the food. Like a zen archer, I block out most of the other stimuli and drive all my attention on the menu. I prepare days in advance, visiting the website and imaging what I might eat. I figure out how I will get there from work and meet Jack there. I usually try to remember a few facts about the person ahead of time, like their name, where they are from, and if they have kids.
The day of the event, I was happy to be at work where I could focus on other stuff and not get stressed about the dinner. Before I left for work, though, I had to decide--should I drive to work so I would have a car at dinner so I could leave early if I needed to, or should I take the bus, which is far simpler? I decide to take the bus. I figured I could hijack Jack's car to drive home and he could catch a ride with someone else.
I was dreading this event before I got there. One of the women in attendance from Jack's group openly hates me. At dinner she dropped details about my husband that I didn't even know or bother to remember, like his marathon pace time which she announced to the table. She told the group stories she heard from Jack about my daughter whom she has met only a handful of times. Why was his real wife there when this other woman could fill in?
The only non-physicians in the group of seven were me and the recruit's husband, Bert. Bert and I got along swimmingly. It was great. This dinner greatly exceeded my extremely low expections. Bert is a mental health worker with a focus on kids, which I found fascinating. He asked me about running for School Board and was genuinely interested in what I had to say.
That was when I realized why I get invited to these events--I am not there to add to the conversation or offer an opinion. I am there so I can make the other non-physician comfortable, so he or she will have one other person to relate to at the table. Sometimes it doesn't work, but other times it does.
Here’s the deal: I had to attend a recruiting dinner for my husband’s job this week. This is a recruiting dinner where he is trying to woo someone to work for him and I get to go along as the wife. At best, these dinners are pleasant as people are generally polite and on their best behavior.
At worst, they are a fresh slice of Hell.
As the wife, I have to be exceptionally well behaved, which generally is not a problem. Since these are recruiting dinners, I can’t openly talk about my kids or complain about Trump or bitch about how much my husband works like I could at other of his work events where I know the crowd. Because of these high expectations, I usually skip the wine course. When I drink, my tolerance for bullshit reaches zero. The last thing that Jack needs is me corking off on something to a recruit. Instead, if they have kids, I talk about schools. If they don’t have kids, I talk about neighborhoods. Five years ago, neighborhoods were a safe topic. Now, not so much given the exorbitant cost of Seattle real estate, especially close to the hospital.
Me: "Can you drop a mil or more on a house that needs $250k worth of work?"
Them: "No."
Me: "Sucks for you. You should have moved here 2008."
Just as I am expected to be on good behavior, there is an assumption that everyone else is on their best behavior, too. That is not always the case, however. Like I said, the bad dinners are horrid. I almost got divorced after one a few years ago. Jack was recruiting a woman who I will call "The University Bitch." I've dropped the university name, as it might "out" her. The likelihood of her knowing my name and reading my blog is zero, so theoretically, I can say whatever I want. But that would be mean. Nevertheless, the University Bitch and her husband were on exceptionally bad behavior. I don't expect people to kowtow to me, but I hoped they would be reasonably civil. I was seated next to this woman so I could talk to her about schools and neighborhoods. I tried to make small talk:
"Jack did his training in Chicago," I said. "We lived there for a long time."
"I considered training in Chicago," the University Bitch said "but it was too cold. I visited when it was 20 degrees outside. I am so glad I went to ---- University instead. It was so much better."
After she insulted the town where I was born and raised, she never looked at me again for the rest of the meal. Which lasted three plus fucking hours. While her husband did talk to me, everything I said was met with a case of one upsmanship. They had three kids, all of whom were born since she was a fellow.
Me: My son is on a Lego robotics team. It is really cool.
Him: My kids built a computer from scratch.
Me: What do your kids like to read?
Him: <Listed a million books until he found one my kids hadn't yet read and talked about it like I was an idiot parent whose kids were going to end up on welfare because they didn't read The Pilot and the Pirate or whatever.>
If this were a blind date, I would have left. But this wasn't a blind date--it was for my husband's job so I sat there for three hell filled hours. I started this little mantra Focus on the food, which got me through most of the meal. If the company is bad, I thought, at least the food here is something to be experienced. The only good thing that came out of the dinner was that I tasted raw oysters for the first time, a win out of what was otherwise the worst dinner experience I've ever had.
We finished eating and the meal continued to drag on. At that point, I got up to pee and didn't come back to the table for fifteen minutes. No one noticed I was gone. When Jack got up to pee, the waiter came and the rest of the table ordered dessert. I ordered bread pudding. They ordered Baked Alaska which is a ten minute spectacle where the waiter sets the ice cream on fire in the middle of the dining room.
Jack and I got back to the car at the end of the marathon meal. As soon as the door thwumped shut, I said, "That was a fresh slice of hell."
"What do you mean? I thought it was great. She is top recruit. I need to hire her," he said.
"She and her husband were both horrid," I said. "If she treats me like shit, how is she going to treat respiratory therapists and nurses?"
"They all love her," he said. "I checked with them."
"Do they really want to move to Seattle?" I asked. "I know her husband has a job that requires him to be here three days a week, but something was off about the whole thing. They never asked about schools or neighborhoods."
"The husband already knows Seattle, so he probably didn't need to ask. I really need to hire her," Jack said. "She has a specialty that no one else in the division has."
"While was developing all of these magical skills that you so badly need, I've been at home taking care of your kids," I said. "And this woman is so awesome? What does that make me? Chopped liver?"
"I really need to hire her," Jack said. "You don't understand."
I was dumbfounded. He was right. I didn't understand. It was slowly becoming clear that I perhaps had made a mistake in placing all of my eggs in this basket that was being carried by someone else who didn't care about or consider my opinion.
"If you don't want or care about my opinion, why did you invite me to dinner?" I said. He did not reply.
Jack offered the University Bitch the sun, moon and stars. She sat on the offer for a long time.
"I think she using this as leverage to get a raise or promotion where she is at now," I said.
When she came back to Jack, she told him --- University had offered her the sun, the stars, the moon and all of the planets. Jack who made another offer which was then re-upped by her current employer. Jack's offer was the best he could do.
"You were right," Jack said. "She used my job offer to get a promotion where she is working."
So after a few year hiatus/ban from these events, I am back on the circuit, much to my dismay. How do I cope? My secret again is to focus on the food. Like a zen archer, I block out most of the other stimuli and drive all my attention on the menu. I prepare days in advance, visiting the website and imaging what I might eat. I figure out how I will get there from work and meet Jack there. I usually try to remember a few facts about the person ahead of time, like their name, where they are from, and if they have kids.
The day of the event, I was happy to be at work where I could focus on other stuff and not get stressed about the dinner. Before I left for work, though, I had to decide--should I drive to work so I would have a car at dinner so I could leave early if I needed to, or should I take the bus, which is far simpler? I decide to take the bus. I figured I could hijack Jack's car to drive home and he could catch a ride with someone else.
I was dreading this event before I got there. One of the women in attendance from Jack's group openly hates me. At dinner she dropped details about my husband that I didn't even know or bother to remember, like his marathon pace time which she announced to the table. She told the group stories she heard from Jack about my daughter whom she has met only a handful of times. Why was his real wife there when this other woman could fill in?
The only non-physicians in the group of seven were me and the recruit's husband, Bert. Bert and I got along swimmingly. It was great. This dinner greatly exceeded my extremely low expections. Bert is a mental health worker with a focus on kids, which I found fascinating. He asked me about running for School Board and was genuinely interested in what I had to say.
That was when I realized why I get invited to these events--I am not there to add to the conversation or offer an opinion. I am there so I can make the other non-physician comfortable, so he or she will have one other person to relate to at the table. Sometimes it doesn't work, but other times it does.
Saturday, March 3, 2018
"50 Candles" and Dishwasher Soap
Last week, my husband took off work as the kids were on Mid-Winter Break. Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele were going to ski while I was at work. Plans changed when the Boy broke his collarbone, but Jack already had the time off scheduled. While he was home, he attempted to do more around the house, like vaccumming. One morning before I left for work, he asked--verbatim--
"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"
I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.
"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"
Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.
"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.
"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."
"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."
Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.
Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."
The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.
* aka Kroger
"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"
I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.
"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"
Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.
"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.
"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."
"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."
Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.
Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."
The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.
* aka Kroger
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Trash Talking Mom
Since Claire Adele is out of town on a school trip, it is much easier for me to prepare meals for the family. Claire Adele is a vegetarian, whereas Jack, the Boy and I like to eat meat. In honor of Valentine's Day, I made bar-b-que ribs. It might have been a mistake to make ribs on the day of my "Writing into Wisdom: Exploring Feminine Archetypes" class where we discuss Greek goddesses and taking down the patriarchy, but I digress. I made cornbread as a side dish. Jack usually makes the cornbread while I make the ribs. The Boy was at a friend's house after school, and I didn't know when he was coming home. Jack was working at the trauma center, and I didn't know when he would be home, either. I tried to get everything prepped so that if they came home earlier, dinner would be in progress, but I could stall it if they were coming home later. Aren't I nice?
All of which is my excuse to why I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread. It came out looking like this.
Normally, it would have been twice as puffy. Jack saw it, decided it wasn't worth eating, and re-made it.
"Did you add baking powder?" he asked.
"I must have forgotten," I said. I bake all of the time, and I never leave out baking powder.
"No," he said, "I'll do it" when I said I would restart it. I was annoyed. Very annoyed.
The Boy came rushing in from doing his homework.
"You forgot to add baking powder?" he said. He brought his phone into the kitchen, looked at the cornbread, and started texting. Never had he been interested in my cooking failures before. He then went back to doing his homework.
This morning, the Boy told me he and his friend made mug cakes yesterday at his house, and they couldn't remember if they needed baking powder or baking soda.
"I thought you used baking powder, so that was what we used," he said.
"Did you texted you friend that I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "I sent him a picture, too."
Great. Not only is my husband critical of my baking skills, but my son is also trash talking me to his friends. The Boy, who used to be a Momma's Boy, now thinks I am a daft old cow who can't bake. My inner Athena is telling to let the boys make their own dinner from now on.
All of which is my excuse to why I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread. It came out looking like this.
Normally, it would have been twice as puffy. Jack saw it, decided it wasn't worth eating, and re-made it.
"Did you add baking powder?" he asked.
"I must have forgotten," I said. I bake all of the time, and I never leave out baking powder.
"No," he said, "I'll do it" when I said I would restart it. I was annoyed. Very annoyed.
The Boy came rushing in from doing his homework.
"You forgot to add baking powder?" he said. He brought his phone into the kitchen, looked at the cornbread, and started texting. Never had he been interested in my cooking failures before. He then went back to doing his homework.
This morning, the Boy told me he and his friend made mug cakes yesterday at his house, and they couldn't remember if they needed baking powder or baking soda.
"I thought you used baking powder, so that was what we used," he said.
"Did you texted you friend that I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "I sent him a picture, too."
Great. Not only is my husband critical of my baking skills, but my son is also trash talking me to his friends. The Boy, who used to be a Momma's Boy, now thinks I am a daft old cow who can't bake. My inner Athena is telling to let the boys make their own dinner from now on.
Monday, December 12, 2016
The Black Dog and the Bubble
I mentioned in a previous post that I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with depression. I have other friends who have depression but I met them after they were diagnosed and already into treatment. For a variety of reasons, this friend can't take medication for her depression. She has to rely on psychotherapy and maintaining a healthy lifestyle to minimize her symptoms. She is discovering the before and after of her diagnosis. What used to be perceived as tiredness and lethargy she now recognizes as depression.
I have another friend with type I diabetes. This friend can prick her finger and get a quantitive read on her blood sugar levels. She then has to figure out what to do next to adjust so her blood levels return to normal. People with depression don't have something that concrete to tell them something is off or amiss. Plus, your mind thinks what it thinks, and it often thinks it is find, even when it is not.
I remember when I was consulting, there was an expression "You can't manage what you can't measure." There was a strong emphasis on trying to quantify things that might not necessarily be quantifiable. How can we quantify a mood like depression? I wish it were easy to measure so then it more easily be managed.
My son's elementary and middle school used to use the Mood Meter created at Yale to help kids label their emotions, but I am not sure how it can capture fuzzier emotions, like "I want to sit on the coach and watch YouTube videos for hours instead of going outside" or "I don't really have any feelings right now. Everything is gray."
I wish there was a depression simulator, where you could go into it for fifteen minutes or so and experience depression. Not that I really want to go there, but I want to know what it is like inside her head so I can be a better friend and support her. Depression are migraine headaches are the two illnesses I fear the most. I don't want to take a drug to give me the feeling of depression; I would fear the drug might be permanent, and that would suck. J. K. Rowling gives a great description of depression with the Dementors in the Harry Potter series.
And then I wonder how much of the Black Dog has visited me, and perhaps I have been unaware of it. I wonder if Jack has a mild case of it, too. Maybe both of us live on the bubble, and have managed to keep it at bay with exercise, socialization and getting good sleep. Maybe the Black Dog would have a more permanent part in our lives, but so far we have managed it.
When I was a kid, I used to ride my bike everyday after school except for days when I had extra-curricular activities, like Drill Team. I needed a full night's sleep to feel normal. Now I also need a fistful of vitamins to feel perky: cod liver oil, folic acid, and Vitamin D and B, plus magnesium to ward off Alzheimer's. Jack runs or rides his bike to work everyday. When he goes three or four days without exercise, he is grumpy and short-tempered.
"I need to go for a run," he said the other night after dinner. Yes you do, I thought. I no longer think of exercise as a luxury. My campaign manager for when I ran for School Board would occasionally ask for a few hours off to lift weighs.
"No problem," I told him. If he needed to exercise to feel normal, I needed him to exercise.
I was recently talking to a group of moms and it came up that almost all of them were on anti-depressants. I was one of the only ones in the group not to need them. (Yet.) After my ACL tear and surgery, I needed to exercise everyday for forty-five minutes to build strength in my legs. What should have been a perfect excuse to sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself ended up being not that bad. I was almost surprised that I wasn't more miserable that I was. Part of me I wanted to be miserable so I could figure out what to do next with my life. I couldn't possibly be happy or content when I was in such a sorry state.
But I kind of was content. I wasn't euphoric or ecstatic, but I wasn't as miserable or painfully bored as I thought I'd be. I somehow managed to keep off the bubble. I am a firm believer of listening to your body and mind "Pain is your body's way of staying 'Stop!'" is one of my favorite expressions as it applies to so much more that physical pain. Boredom serves a purpose: it forces me to find something new and meaningful to do. Misery tells me I need to change. I look at these feelings as a gift telling me to move, not something I need to dread.
I can say that but then I still have a healthy fear of the Black Dog approaching as I age. I don't want to live where I have to be so diligent to keep my sanity. My dad manages his type II diabetes with diet and exercise, and as long as that works for him, he isn't on medication. I plan to do the same to keep my mood in place.
What if I get injured again or become ill and can't exercise? My mom had a bad case of depression after my brother and I were both out of the house. This time also coincided with menopause. Is this something I have to look forward to? Will depression be an accessory that comes with the change of life? I pray not. I read somewhere the estrogen protects women's brains from mental illnesses like schizophrenia. Some women are sane until they hit menopause, and then they become certifiable. If this happens to me, I will hopefully gracefully submit to medication, therapy, and whatever else I might need to keep my mind.
I have another friend with type I diabetes. This friend can prick her finger and get a quantitive read on her blood sugar levels. She then has to figure out what to do next to adjust so her blood levels return to normal. People with depression don't have something that concrete to tell them something is off or amiss. Plus, your mind thinks what it thinks, and it often thinks it is find, even when it is not.
I remember when I was consulting, there was an expression "You can't manage what you can't measure." There was a strong emphasis on trying to quantify things that might not necessarily be quantifiable. How can we quantify a mood like depression? I wish it were easy to measure so then it more easily be managed.
My son's elementary and middle school used to use the Mood Meter created at Yale to help kids label their emotions, but I am not sure how it can capture fuzzier emotions, like "I want to sit on the coach and watch YouTube videos for hours instead of going outside" or "I don't really have any feelings right now. Everything is gray."
I wish there was a depression simulator, where you could go into it for fifteen minutes or so and experience depression. Not that I really want to go there, but I want to know what it is like inside her head so I can be a better friend and support her. Depression are migraine headaches are the two illnesses I fear the most. I don't want to take a drug to give me the feeling of depression; I would fear the drug might be permanent, and that would suck. J. K. Rowling gives a great description of depression with the Dementors in the Harry Potter series.
And then I wonder how much of the Black Dog has visited me, and perhaps I have been unaware of it. I wonder if Jack has a mild case of it, too. Maybe both of us live on the bubble, and have managed to keep it at bay with exercise, socialization and getting good sleep. Maybe the Black Dog would have a more permanent part in our lives, but so far we have managed it.
When I was a kid, I used to ride my bike everyday after school except for days when I had extra-curricular activities, like Drill Team. I needed a full night's sleep to feel normal. Now I also need a fistful of vitamins to feel perky: cod liver oil, folic acid, and Vitamin D and B, plus magnesium to ward off Alzheimer's. Jack runs or rides his bike to work everyday. When he goes three or four days without exercise, he is grumpy and short-tempered.
"I need to go for a run," he said the other night after dinner. Yes you do, I thought. I no longer think of exercise as a luxury. My campaign manager for when I ran for School Board would occasionally ask for a few hours off to lift weighs.
"No problem," I told him. If he needed to exercise to feel normal, I needed him to exercise.
I was recently talking to a group of moms and it came up that almost all of them were on anti-depressants. I was one of the only ones in the group not to need them. (Yet.) After my ACL tear and surgery, I needed to exercise everyday for forty-five minutes to build strength in my legs. What should have been a perfect excuse to sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself ended up being not that bad. I was almost surprised that I wasn't more miserable that I was. Part of me I wanted to be miserable so I could figure out what to do next with my life. I couldn't possibly be happy or content when I was in such a sorry state.
But I kind of was content. I wasn't euphoric or ecstatic, but I wasn't as miserable or painfully bored as I thought I'd be. I somehow managed to keep off the bubble. I am a firm believer of listening to your body and mind "Pain is your body's way of staying 'Stop!'" is one of my favorite expressions as it applies to so much more that physical pain. Boredom serves a purpose: it forces me to find something new and meaningful to do. Misery tells me I need to change. I look at these feelings as a gift telling me to move, not something I need to dread.
What if I get injured again or become ill and can't exercise? My mom had a bad case of depression after my brother and I were both out of the house. This time also coincided with menopause. Is this something I have to look forward to? Will depression be an accessory that comes with the change of life? I pray not. I read somewhere the estrogen protects women's brains from mental illnesses like schizophrenia. Some women are sane until they hit menopause, and then they become certifiable. If this happens to me, I will hopefully gracefully submit to medication, therapy, and whatever else I might need to keep my mind.
Monday, June 20, 2016
thighs
i remember when your thighs
used to be all muscular
he tells me
i vacillate between
oh thats sweet
and
fuck you
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Surface Tension
While I was in Ohio, I visited one of my closet friends from high school, Betty. We went to a coffee shop after dinner and talked for about two hours. I saw her in January when I visited Ohio, but we hadn't really talked since then. Betty has a job, two young children and a husband who travels. Between her limited time and a three hour time difference, it isn't simple to keep in touch.
I talked about my life; she talked about hers. Betty is everything you could want in a friend: funny, empathetic, a good listener, caring, and intelligent. She asked me how I was doing with my mom's illness, my knee, and losing the School Board election last fall. She asked how my dad was coping with my mom's illness and his subsequent loneliness. She asked about Jack and how we were recovering from his betrayal that I first learned about two years ago. She asked about Claire Adele and the Boy. I talked about dealing with the Boy's reorganization of his teenage brain and his frustrations with friends. While the Boy is generally pleasant, he is capable of epic mood swings. As my friend Sarah says, "The Boy has a large emotional range." Yeah. And it is awful to be on the receiving end of his tantrums.
As we were talking, I didn't think I was being excessively whiny or complaining. I was more or less giving her an inventory of my life, as we commonly do when we haven't seen each other in a while.
"How is the job search?" Betty asked.
"It has been on hold since the knee injury," I said. My daughter's piano reminded me of the emotional and physical energy required for healing. It is one thing to continue to work at a job you already have when you are injured; it is another thing to look for a new one while recovering.
"What about getting back into education?" she asked.
"The entire new School Board except one director campaigned against me," I said. "I have no clout with that group. I can't return to advocacy in the current environment. Nor do I want to. I decided to go big or go home when I ran. I lost, so now I am going home. I can't go backwards. It is really difficult that I spent nearly ten years in that arena and I really can't go back."
"Have you looked for a job at the university?" she asked. She works in a university setting and she knows we are close to UW.
"There was an opening for change management position to support the new payroll system roll out," I said. "I applied for that."
"You sound perfect for it!" Before kids, I had worked in Change Management.
"I didn't hear anything back," I said. I didn't tell her there were probably 300 other resumes that came in for that job.
"Oh," she said. I didn't tell her about the other half dozen jobs at the university I applied for. Betty paused.
"How are you managing all of this?" Betty asked. Translation: Wow, your life is in a bad place.
I imagined myself being a tightrope walker being unaware I was 300 feet in the air, and then having someone tell me. I looked down and saw the people looking like ants while I was floating above them and freaked out. I thought, She's right. This is really hard. How am I coping?
Betty is a dear friend and meant no malice. Her only fault was being empathic, which is the opposite of a fault. I have other empathetic friends, but this was a high density conversation about all that is going on in my life. When she asked, "How are you managing?" the surface tension which was keeping the liquid from overflowing burst. My cup was overfilled, held together by exceptional laws of physics. When the tension was released, my emotions poured out, not at that exact moment, but slowly: when I got back to my dad's empty house, when I was flying home, when I went to dinner Saturday night with Jack and the kids and the Boy decided to have a snit fit which then expanded into full blown tantrum by the end of the evening. By Sunday, I was a wreck.
It is a minor testament to resilience that I could manage to keep moving and maintain a reasonably positive outlook. At the same time, a little pessimism doesn't hurt. It is what inspires and motivates us to makes changes. Okay, I can't end on this Pollyanna note. I want to say my life is a mess and I need to clean it up, but sometimes life is just messy, and there are things that can't be cleaned up. I can't change my mom's situation. I can't go back and re-run the School Board election. I can't change that I have a teenage son who is at times my favorite person in the world and other times my least.
While on the stationary bike this weekend, I read Roz Chast's Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant?* It is her graphic novel memoir about her parents' slow deaths. She had no control, but she could collect her insights and write them down. I laughed in recognition when she wrote and drew "The Aisle of Tears" which sold adult diapers, adult wipes, pureed food, and other things my mother needs. She talked about the dining room at the Assisted Living Center being like a high school cafeteria with its cliques and unofficially assigned seats, which I also saw where my mom now lives, but on a much smaller scale.
Reading Chast's book made me realize that there are parts of life that just suck, and there is very little we can do about it except get through it. There is no shortcut through suffering: it is part of the human condition. Reading her book, I felt like I was in a conversation with a friend who was guiding me through the wilderness of aging parents. For now, my experience with my parents' aging is not up close, but from a distance. She turned her and her parents' suffering into art, a story that resonates with people like myself who are going through something similar.
Sharing coffee with a friend, telling her how I feel, that is good way to make it all a little more bearable.
* I used to like Roz Chast but now I love her.
I talked about my life; she talked about hers. Betty is everything you could want in a friend: funny, empathetic, a good listener, caring, and intelligent. She asked me how I was doing with my mom's illness, my knee, and losing the School Board election last fall. She asked how my dad was coping with my mom's illness and his subsequent loneliness. She asked about Jack and how we were recovering from his betrayal that I first learned about two years ago. She asked about Claire Adele and the Boy. I talked about dealing with the Boy's reorganization of his teenage brain and his frustrations with friends. While the Boy is generally pleasant, he is capable of epic mood swings. As my friend Sarah says, "The Boy has a large emotional range." Yeah. And it is awful to be on the receiving end of his tantrums.
As we were talking, I didn't think I was being excessively whiny or complaining. I was more or less giving her an inventory of my life, as we commonly do when we haven't seen each other in a while.
"How is the job search?" Betty asked.
"It has been on hold since the knee injury," I said. My daughter's piano reminded me of the emotional and physical energy required for healing. It is one thing to continue to work at a job you already have when you are injured; it is another thing to look for a new one while recovering.
"What about getting back into education?" she asked.
"The entire new School Board except one director campaigned against me," I said. "I have no clout with that group. I can't return to advocacy in the current environment. Nor do I want to. I decided to go big or go home when I ran. I lost, so now I am going home. I can't go backwards. It is really difficult that I spent nearly ten years in that arena and I really can't go back."
"Have you looked for a job at the university?" she asked. She works in a university setting and she knows we are close to UW.
"There was an opening for change management position to support the new payroll system roll out," I said. "I applied for that."
"You sound perfect for it!" Before kids, I had worked in Change Management.
"I didn't hear anything back," I said. I didn't tell her there were probably 300 other resumes that came in for that job.
"Oh," she said. I didn't tell her about the other half dozen jobs at the university I applied for. Betty paused.
"How are you managing all of this?" Betty asked. Translation: Wow, your life is in a bad place.
I imagined myself being a tightrope walker being unaware I was 300 feet in the air, and then having someone tell me. I looked down and saw the people looking like ants while I was floating above them and freaked out. I thought, She's right. This is really hard. How am I coping?
Betty is a dear friend and meant no malice. Her only fault was being empathic, which is the opposite of a fault. I have other empathetic friends, but this was a high density conversation about all that is going on in my life. When she asked, "How are you managing?" the surface tension which was keeping the liquid from overflowing burst. My cup was overfilled, held together by exceptional laws of physics. When the tension was released, my emotions poured out, not at that exact moment, but slowly: when I got back to my dad's empty house, when I was flying home, when I went to dinner Saturday night with Jack and the kids and the Boy decided to have a snit fit which then expanded into full blown tantrum by the end of the evening. By Sunday, I was a wreck.
It is a minor testament to resilience that I could manage to keep moving and maintain a reasonably positive outlook. At the same time, a little pessimism doesn't hurt. It is what inspires and motivates us to makes changes. Okay, I can't end on this Pollyanna note. I want to say my life is a mess and I need to clean it up, but sometimes life is just messy, and there are things that can't be cleaned up. I can't change my mom's situation. I can't go back and re-run the School Board election. I can't change that I have a teenage son who is at times my favorite person in the world and other times my least.
While on the stationary bike this weekend, I read Roz Chast's Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant?* It is her graphic novel memoir about her parents' slow deaths. She had no control, but she could collect her insights and write them down. I laughed in recognition when she wrote and drew "The Aisle of Tears" which sold adult diapers, adult wipes, pureed food, and other things my mother needs. She talked about the dining room at the Assisted Living Center being like a high school cafeteria with its cliques and unofficially assigned seats, which I also saw where my mom now lives, but on a much smaller scale.
Reading Chast's book made me realize that there are parts of life that just suck, and there is very little we can do about it except get through it. There is no shortcut through suffering: it is part of the human condition. Reading her book, I felt like I was in a conversation with a friend who was guiding me through the wilderness of aging parents. For now, my experience with my parents' aging is not up close, but from a distance. She turned her and her parents' suffering into art, a story that resonates with people like myself who are going through something similar.
Sharing coffee with a friend, telling her how I feel, that is good way to make it all a little more bearable.
* I used to like Roz Chast but now I love her.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Outlander: Biting and Sad Romance
At the end of each physical therapy session, Evan ices my leg. While my leg chills for fifteen minutes, I usually read a book. I have been reading a lot lately, as I have a lot of down time since my surgery. A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend, Theresa, at the grocery store and she recommend I read Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Theresa had previously recommend I watch "Bletchley Circle," so I took her advice. She said Outlander was a little steamy, but I wasn't deterred. "My book club read it and all of the husbands seemed to appreciate it," Theresa laughed. "They said we should read more books like this."
I was in the middle of another book I has bought, and decided to reserve Outlander from the library. It is the first book in a long series of adventures of a time traveling English woman who leaves 1945 and visits Scotland in 1743.
Yesterday, Evan iced my leg. He wandered off to take care of his next patient, and I got out my copy of Outlander. Before I cracked it open, the woman on the bench next next me said, "Oh I love that book! Have you seen the tv show?"
Before I could answer, the physical therapist working on her chimed in, as did another patient on the exercise bike. Three of the three women in this small area had both read the book and watched the television show. These women ranged in age from late twenties to mid-forties. I didn't realize this book had such a following.
"It is like Game of Thrones for women," one of PT women offered. "They show both men and women. Game of Thrones just shows women." Interesting.
I guess that explained why I had to enter my birthday into the Starz website before I could watch the show. I had watched the first episode earlier in the week. While the book was written in 1991, the television series started last year. I entered my real birthday, not just random date that would show I was older than twenty-one. After I was the show, I thought maybe this show is just for middle age women and the website folks had to make sure I was middle-aged. I am surprised I didn't have to check my gender because this is show is chick-flick central. Sure, almost all of the main characters are men and there are lots of battle scenes that take place in the Highlands of Scotland, but this is mostly a romance.
Claire, the main character, has a husband back in England, but she meets up with the younger and much hunkier Jamie in Scotland. Gabaldon, the author, was married with three young kids living in Arizona at the time. A woman back from serving as a nurse during WWII gets to leave her boring life and face dangers and adventures in another era. She can hook up with someone else scot-free (pun intended) because her husband hasn't been born yet. The young buck thinks she is brilliant and adores her for it. This is pure cougar fantasy. Sign me up.
I am not a regular romance novel reader. The closest I get to romances are Jane Austen novels. (Next on my list of books is Eligible by Curtis Sittenfeld, a modern take on Pride and Prejudice.) I am getting to the point where I am closer to the age of the mothers and aunts in these books than I am to the heroines. What is a middle-aged woman to do? It is sad when I can relate to Elizabeth Bennet's Aunt Gardiner better than I can to Elizabeth. I suppose that is why romances are so popular, and yet so difficult to read. For middle-aged women who have already been in the game and settled down, this gives us a chance to live vicariously through fictional characters. It still brings on a certain sadness to know that those days of young love are far, far behind me. I guess after I got married I was so busy having kids I didn't really think about romance. Now my kids are older and I am recovering from my knee, I have more time to ponder.
Time travel in a way dissolves age, I think this maybe one reason why Outlander reaches to out so many readers. In one sense, Jamie, the hot young Scotsman, is five years younger than Claire. In another way, he is 197 years older. Time travel smoothes out those kind of wrinkles.
Oh and the biting. This is the second book I've read during my recovery/convalescence where women have bitten men on the lower lip and drew blood during amorous times. I don't really get the lip biting thing. It seems both gross and mean. I asked Jack about this.
"Have you ever been bitten while having sex?" I asked.
"That is the strangest question someone who has ever been married for twenty years has ever been asked," he said.
"Seriously," I asked.
"Have you ever bitten me?"
"No," I said.
"Then no," he said. "I would get a canker sore or two and that would not be fun."
I was in the middle of another book I has bought, and decided to reserve Outlander from the library. It is the first book in a long series of adventures of a time traveling English woman who leaves 1945 and visits Scotland in 1743.
Yesterday, Evan iced my leg. He wandered off to take care of his next patient, and I got out my copy of Outlander. Before I cracked it open, the woman on the bench next next me said, "Oh I love that book! Have you seen the tv show?"
Before I could answer, the physical therapist working on her chimed in, as did another patient on the exercise bike. Three of the three women in this small area had both read the book and watched the television show. These women ranged in age from late twenties to mid-forties. I didn't realize this book had such a following.
"It is like Game of Thrones for women," one of PT women offered. "They show both men and women. Game of Thrones just shows women." Interesting.
I guess that explained why I had to enter my birthday into the Starz website before I could watch the show. I had watched the first episode earlier in the week. While the book was written in 1991, the television series started last year. I entered my real birthday, not just random date that would show I was older than twenty-one. After I was the show, I thought maybe this show is just for middle age women and the website folks had to make sure I was middle-aged. I am surprised I didn't have to check my gender because this is show is chick-flick central. Sure, almost all of the main characters are men and there are lots of battle scenes that take place in the Highlands of Scotland, but this is mostly a romance.
Claire, the main character, has a husband back in England, but she meets up with the younger and much hunkier Jamie in Scotland. Gabaldon, the author, was married with three young kids living in Arizona at the time. A woman back from serving as a nurse during WWII gets to leave her boring life and face dangers and adventures in another era. She can hook up with someone else scot-free (pun intended) because her husband hasn't been born yet. The young buck thinks she is brilliant and adores her for it. This is pure cougar fantasy. Sign me up.
I am not a regular romance novel reader. The closest I get to romances are Jane Austen novels. (Next on my list of books is Eligible by Curtis Sittenfeld, a modern take on Pride and Prejudice.) I am getting to the point where I am closer to the age of the mothers and aunts in these books than I am to the heroines. What is a middle-aged woman to do? It is sad when I can relate to Elizabeth Bennet's Aunt Gardiner better than I can to Elizabeth. I suppose that is why romances are so popular, and yet so difficult to read. For middle-aged women who have already been in the game and settled down, this gives us a chance to live vicariously through fictional characters. It still brings on a certain sadness to know that those days of young love are far, far behind me. I guess after I got married I was so busy having kids I didn't really think about romance. Now my kids are older and I am recovering from my knee, I have more time to ponder.
Time travel in a way dissolves age, I think this maybe one reason why Outlander reaches to out so many readers. In one sense, Jamie, the hot young Scotsman, is five years younger than Claire. In another way, he is 197 years older. Time travel smoothes out those kind of wrinkles.
Oh and the biting. This is the second book I've read during my recovery/convalescence where women have bitten men on the lower lip and drew blood during amorous times. I don't really get the lip biting thing. It seems both gross and mean. I asked Jack about this.
"Have you ever been bitten while having sex?" I asked.
"That is the strangest question someone who has ever been married for twenty years has ever been asked," he said.
"Seriously," I asked.
"Have you ever bitten me?"
"No," I said.
"Then no," he said. "I would get a canker sore or two and that would not be fun."
Monday, March 21, 2016
Balls
The Boy and Jack at times seems to have a dreadful time getting along. The Boy will be thirteen in one month, and many cultures honor that time as a passage to manhood. I suppose there was a time before the birthday for fathers and sons to have forced time together learning how to hunt buffalo, shoe a horse or learn ancient Hebrew texts. What happens in modern society, where my husband's skills will not match my son's? Jack can't bring The Boy into the hospital and teach him how to be a doctor, nor can Jack program a robot, design rockets and buy the fuel, or teach him secret soccer skills. What happens when we as parents are supposed to nurture our kids' interests when they are so different from our own?
There is only so much a mother can do to be a male role model. I get there are millions of single moms and thousands of two mom families raising boys. Bless their hearts. Maybe they have an easier time without two alpha males living under the same roof, two males who are constantly thumping their chests. Because The Boy lives in this house, he needs his dad. What he needs his dad for is a large and looming question.
What can the Boy and Jack do to bond? It is not for me to decide, but them. The Boy plays soccer. Jack doesn't. Jack swims and runs. The Boy doesn't. They both ski, which is good, but that is only a seasonal activity. The Boy is getting faster, taller, bigger, stronger, while Jack's knees are wearing out. Jack can't keep up with the Boy on the slopes as well as he used to. The Boy is moody and grumpy and a pain in the ass at times, but I'd be grumpy too if I grew a half an inch taller in a few weeks. Jack's tolerance for this sassy attitude is low. How can two male cheetah's survive in the same cage? They don't.
Thank god for the NCAA basketball tournament. Just in time for the Boy's growth spurt and turning into a teen, Jack and the Boy have something to discuss that doesn't place me in the middle. They read the sports page, search the internet for scores and watch the games. They both saw the buzzer beater three point shot of Northern Iowa over Texas. (I was there, reading my book while the game was on, and only saw the replay.) They discuss Hawaii and Michigan State. There is no argument, no fighting, no posturing. Just basketball. In the spring, it might be baseball, in the summer the Sounders, and in the fall, the Seahawks.
I never quite understood the point of people watching highly paid athletes perform when the average Joe could just as easily be out getting exercise, but now I get it. It gives the pack of alpha males, whether father and son, neighbors or co-workers, a chance to root for the same team, to be on the same side, even when in so many other areas they are competing.
There is only so much a mother can do to be a male role model. I get there are millions of single moms and thousands of two mom families raising boys. Bless their hearts. Maybe they have an easier time without two alpha males living under the same roof, two males who are constantly thumping their chests. Because The Boy lives in this house, he needs his dad. What he needs his dad for is a large and looming question.
What can the Boy and Jack do to bond? It is not for me to decide, but them. The Boy plays soccer. Jack doesn't. Jack swims and runs. The Boy doesn't. They both ski, which is good, but that is only a seasonal activity. The Boy is getting faster, taller, bigger, stronger, while Jack's knees are wearing out. Jack can't keep up with the Boy on the slopes as well as he used to. The Boy is moody and grumpy and a pain in the ass at times, but I'd be grumpy too if I grew a half an inch taller in a few weeks. Jack's tolerance for this sassy attitude is low. How can two male cheetah's survive in the same cage? They don't.
Thank god for the NCAA basketball tournament. Just in time for the Boy's growth spurt and turning into a teen, Jack and the Boy have something to discuss that doesn't place me in the middle. They read the sports page, search the internet for scores and watch the games. They both saw the buzzer beater three point shot of Northern Iowa over Texas. (I was there, reading my book while the game was on, and only saw the replay.) They discuss Hawaii and Michigan State. There is no argument, no fighting, no posturing. Just basketball. In the spring, it might be baseball, in the summer the Sounders, and in the fall, the Seahawks.
I never quite understood the point of people watching highly paid athletes perform when the average Joe could just as easily be out getting exercise, but now I get it. It gives the pack of alpha males, whether father and son, neighbors or co-workers, a chance to root for the same team, to be on the same side, even when in so many other areas they are competing.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Nineteen Years
Jack and I just celebrated nineteen years of marriage last week. One of the interesting things about being married that long is seeing things we use every day that we got as wedding gifts, and realizing they are nineteen years old. I buy things all of the time, but then never calculate how old they are after I've had them for a while. I recently went to the Title Nine warehouse sale. I went to the sale years ago and bought a coat. This year, I bought a new coat. When I got home, I looked in my check register to discover I bought my old coat in 2007. Yes, it was time to get a new coat, but I never knew how old it was.
Wedding gifts, on the other hand, have a precise age. The duvet cover on our down comforter? Nineteen years old. While the color is still fine, it is in reasonable condition, I wasn't planning on using it for nineteen years. I picked out a new one (one sale, of course) but Jack thought it was too flowery. The Boy overheard our conversation, and was torn on which side to take. Should he pick the side of his beloved mother, or side with his dad who doesn't want a bad cover that looks like an English garden? What is wrong with an English garden? This duvet was cheerful. Eh. I deferred to Jack and didn't get it.
The down comforter is also nineteen years old (gift from Jack's parents). Our steak knives from my cousin Matt and one of Jack's friends are still in service. The food processor from another friend is still working, though we had to get a new bowl and blades.
The sadder thing is looking at things that I've had since before we were married. Nesting bowls? Older. Pots and pans? Older.
I don't remember getting older. How did I end up with all of this old stuff?
The down comforter is also nineteen years old (gift from Jack's parents). Our steak knives from my cousin Matt and one of Jack's friends are still in service. The food processor from another friend is still working, though we had to get a new bowl and blades.
The sadder thing is looking at things that I've had since before we were married. Nesting bowls? Older. Pots and pans? Older.
I don't remember getting older. How did I end up with all of this old stuff?
Monday, January 26, 2015
Thirty-Six Questions
The column "To Fall in Love with Anyone, Do This" from the New York Times "Modern Love" series has gone viral. The essay was by a woman who participated in a study by psychologist Arthur Aron that suggests the intimacy between two people can be accelerated by staring into someone's eyes for four minutes and answering a series of thirty-six personal questions. Earlier this month, Daniel Jones, the editor of the series, published the list of questions:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?smid=fb-share&_r=0
While I think there is merit that people can feel closer to another person by sharing details, I am not sure I buy that this guarantees falling in love. Perhaps I am the most skeptical, least romantic person in North America. If I were to answer these questions with my parents, brother or kids, would I fall in love with them? (Ick, by the way.) No offense to members of my immediate family, but I sure hope not.
What if I were to take this test with someone I was completely incompatible with, let's say someone from another state who views domestic violence as a reasonable way of controlling a partner? Could I fall in love with a Neanderthal? I hope not.
What if I were to take this test with a husband of my friends? Would I pack it up and leave Jack for a neighbor after a long dinner conversation? Could this test cause someone to fall out of love with their spouse and in love with someone they just met? Maybe it does, and that could be scary. Could this be the magic love potion the world is looking for, or is this snake oil? Or, it is a combination of the two? (Maybe this is what poor Taylor Swift needs, to sit down with some reasonable, available young man and become vulnerable. I saw on her Instagram account that she wants to meet 500 guys and is giving away meet and greet tickets. That is one way to find a soulmate -- have a contest. I digress.)
What if I were to answer these questions on my blog? Would everyone who reads my blog fall in love with me as I share my deepest thoughts and feelings? Would I want to? Who would care? If people don't fall in love after answering these questions, does love exist?
Here goes. I'll start. Question 1.: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
This doesn't give me a number of people, so I will take license and pick a few. Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, Jesus, Nelson Mandela and Gandhi, all in their prime, and Hitler when he is about 23 years old. Topic: Why genocide is a bad idea. Perhaps we could avoid the Holocaust. Just a thought.
Let me know when you start to love me.
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?smid=fb-share&_r=0
While I think there is merit that people can feel closer to another person by sharing details, I am not sure I buy that this guarantees falling in love. Perhaps I am the most skeptical, least romantic person in North America. If I were to answer these questions with my parents, brother or kids, would I fall in love with them? (Ick, by the way.) No offense to members of my immediate family, but I sure hope not.
What if I were to take this test with someone I was completely incompatible with, let's say someone from another state who views domestic violence as a reasonable way of controlling a partner? Could I fall in love with a Neanderthal? I hope not.
What if I were to take this test with a husband of my friends? Would I pack it up and leave Jack for a neighbor after a long dinner conversation? Could this test cause someone to fall out of love with their spouse and in love with someone they just met? Maybe it does, and that could be scary. Could this be the magic love potion the world is looking for, or is this snake oil? Or, it is a combination of the two? (Maybe this is what poor Taylor Swift needs, to sit down with some reasonable, available young man and become vulnerable. I saw on her Instagram account that she wants to meet 500 guys and is giving away meet and greet tickets. That is one way to find a soulmate -- have a contest. I digress.)
What if I were to answer these questions on my blog? Would everyone who reads my blog fall in love with me as I share my deepest thoughts and feelings? Would I want to? Who would care? If people don't fall in love after answering these questions, does love exist?
Here goes. I'll start. Question 1.: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
This doesn't give me a number of people, so I will take license and pick a few. Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, Jesus, Nelson Mandela and Gandhi, all in their prime, and Hitler when he is about 23 years old. Topic: Why genocide is a bad idea. Perhaps we could avoid the Holocaust. Just a thought.
Let me know when you start to love me.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Getting to the Doubtful Sound
No, the Doubtful Sound is not a new rock band, though it would be a good name for a music group. The Doubtful Sound is part of the Fiordland in southern New Zealand. We booked a one day boat tour of the sound back in October. It was going to be one of the highlights of the trip. Part of traveling to another part of the world is to see things that are unique to an area, and we can't see fiords in the U.S.
The tricky part of this adventure would be getting to the Doubtful Sound in time to catch the boat. For the whole trip, this set of logistics scared me the most. We had to leave Queenstown and drive 165 km down to Manapouri. The tricky part of traveling in New Zealand is figuring out how long it will take to get places. "Leave plenty of time to get places," Carla's husband, a native New Zealander, told us. "You don't want to get stuck behind a caravan."
The time to get some place on Googles maps could be off by a lot. On the way to Pohara, we had to drive through the mountains. The posted speed limit was 100 km/h, but the road was so twisty we were lucky to go faster than 50 km/h. Traveling during the holidays could add time to a trip, as everyone else is leaving town at the same time. The roads from town to town are often two lanes, and it is hard to pass because they are hilly and curvy. On the way from Hanmer Springs to Christchurch, we saw miles of back out town. We were glad to be traveling in the opposite direction.
The boat was supposed to leave Manapouri at 10:30 a.m., and we had to be there twenty minutes early. According to google maps, it was supposed to take two hours and fifteen minutes to get there from Queenstown. According to the books, it was apposed to take two hours and forty-five minutes. We were traveling on New Year's Eve day. We later found out that Queenstown got an extra 100,000 visitors on the night of New Year's Eve. It was the Times Square of New Zealand. We were lucky to be leaving, not driving in.
Also, this little cruise on the water was fairly expensive, even though it seemed like a good value. We each could have ridden on a Hydroshark for 20 minutes in Queenstown for the same price. This was going to be an eight hour trip with a boat ride across a lake, a drive through a rain forest, and then another boat ride through the fjords.
Jack wanted wheels on the road by 7:00 a.m. I figured we should be out of the door by 6:45. We would wake up and 6:00, eat and then leave. Jack wasn't worried -- he said he wakes up at 6:00 a.m. anyway. We left the curtains open, as the sun rises early in the summer here. At 5:40 a.m., I heard the birds singing and I could see the sun. Jack was snoring. I drifted back asleep. He was still snoring when the alarms on our phones went off at 6:00.
The kids were slow to move. We had packed 90% of our stuff the night before, but we still had to eat, get dressed and brush teeth. They were dragging. At 6:55, we were ready to leave, but the Boy did not have his shoes on. Jack's cell phone rings. It was the hospital, and we all paused, worried why they were calling him. It was a robocall about the hospital that is sent to all physicians. Jack didn't answer the phone the second time they called. He moved forward.
We got to the car in the garage. When I got there, I thought I had forgotten our phone chargers, so I ran back to the room while Jack packed. When I got back, Jack went to check out. The reception area was full with a tour group checking out at the same time. He made it back to the car, and we left. As soon as we pulled out of the garage at 7:04, it started to pour. There was a steep hill to get out of the garage. (This hill is steeper than many hills in Seattle, which is saying a lot.) Cars were parked along the edges, making it a one lane road. Another car was coming down the hill, and we had to pull over. When we got past that car, we had to wait for an elderly woman to climb the hill. We pulled out of the hotel at 7:08.
When we were on the main road, I turned on the GPS. In NZ, there are lots of roundabouts. At the first roundabout, Jack made a wrong turn and we had to double back. Once we were on the main road, we were following a tractor with a large lawn mower on the back. I looked at the GPS: 165 km to go, and it was 7:12. After a few minutes, the tractor pulled off. I figured it wouldn't be heading to Manapouri.
All through the trip, I was doing the math: how fast did we need to go to make it in time? I looked at the speedometer. Jack was going about 85 km/h. The maximum speed limit in NZ is 100 km/h. I looked at him. "The road is straight and flat here. I would recommend going the sped limit."
"I thought you'd be worried I was going too fast," Jack said as he sped up.
The rain continued, and the road got curvier. Once we passed the tractor, we didn't have a car in front of or behind us for miles. Jack decided to take a bathroom break after an hour. Before we left, he has been debating between drinking coffee and not, but decided he'd rather be awake for the drive. I agreed with his decision and we pulled over. (Small towns in NZ have public restrooms, which are very convenient for travelers.)
We got back on the main road, only to follow a tour bus and a gasoline tanker. Argh!!!! We had been on the road for an hour, and still had 100 km left to go! We had gone about 65 km in the past hour, and who knew what the road and traffic ahead would look like in the rain behind a tanker. Would we make it in time?
The tanker kept up with the speed limit, thankfully. It stayed on the main road, while we took another route. We made it to Manapouri by 9:20, plenty of time.
The boat ride was stunning, the highlight of the trip so far. I'll post pictures of the fiords and waterfalls when I get home.
The tricky part of this adventure would be getting to the Doubtful Sound in time to catch the boat. For the whole trip, this set of logistics scared me the most. We had to leave Queenstown and drive 165 km down to Manapouri. The tricky part of traveling in New Zealand is figuring out how long it will take to get places. "Leave plenty of time to get places," Carla's husband, a native New Zealander, told us. "You don't want to get stuck behind a caravan."
The time to get some place on Googles maps could be off by a lot. On the way to Pohara, we had to drive through the mountains. The posted speed limit was 100 km/h, but the road was so twisty we were lucky to go faster than 50 km/h. Traveling during the holidays could add time to a trip, as everyone else is leaving town at the same time. The roads from town to town are often two lanes, and it is hard to pass because they are hilly and curvy. On the way from Hanmer Springs to Christchurch, we saw miles of back out town. We were glad to be traveling in the opposite direction.
The boat was supposed to leave Manapouri at 10:30 a.m., and we had to be there twenty minutes early. According to google maps, it was supposed to take two hours and fifteen minutes to get there from Queenstown. According to the books, it was apposed to take two hours and forty-five minutes. We were traveling on New Year's Eve day. We later found out that Queenstown got an extra 100,000 visitors on the night of New Year's Eve. It was the Times Square of New Zealand. We were lucky to be leaving, not driving in.
Also, this little cruise on the water was fairly expensive, even though it seemed like a good value. We each could have ridden on a Hydroshark for 20 minutes in Queenstown for the same price. This was going to be an eight hour trip with a boat ride across a lake, a drive through a rain forest, and then another boat ride through the fjords.
Jack wanted wheels on the road by 7:00 a.m. I figured we should be out of the door by 6:45. We would wake up and 6:00, eat and then leave. Jack wasn't worried -- he said he wakes up at 6:00 a.m. anyway. We left the curtains open, as the sun rises early in the summer here. At 5:40 a.m., I heard the birds singing and I could see the sun. Jack was snoring. I drifted back asleep. He was still snoring when the alarms on our phones went off at 6:00.
The kids were slow to move. We had packed 90% of our stuff the night before, but we still had to eat, get dressed and brush teeth. They were dragging. At 6:55, we were ready to leave, but the Boy did not have his shoes on. Jack's cell phone rings. It was the hospital, and we all paused, worried why they were calling him. It was a robocall about the hospital that is sent to all physicians. Jack didn't answer the phone the second time they called. He moved forward.
We got to the car in the garage. When I got there, I thought I had forgotten our phone chargers, so I ran back to the room while Jack packed. When I got back, Jack went to check out. The reception area was full with a tour group checking out at the same time. He made it back to the car, and we left. As soon as we pulled out of the garage at 7:04, it started to pour. There was a steep hill to get out of the garage. (This hill is steeper than many hills in Seattle, which is saying a lot.) Cars were parked along the edges, making it a one lane road. Another car was coming down the hill, and we had to pull over. When we got past that car, we had to wait for an elderly woman to climb the hill. We pulled out of the hotel at 7:08.
When we were on the main road, I turned on the GPS. In NZ, there are lots of roundabouts. At the first roundabout, Jack made a wrong turn and we had to double back. Once we were on the main road, we were following a tractor with a large lawn mower on the back. I looked at the GPS: 165 km to go, and it was 7:12. After a few minutes, the tractor pulled off. I figured it wouldn't be heading to Manapouri.
All through the trip, I was doing the math: how fast did we need to go to make it in time? I looked at the speedometer. Jack was going about 85 km/h. The maximum speed limit in NZ is 100 km/h. I looked at him. "The road is straight and flat here. I would recommend going the sped limit."
"I thought you'd be worried I was going too fast," Jack said as he sped up.
The rain continued, and the road got curvier. Once we passed the tractor, we didn't have a car in front of or behind us for miles. Jack decided to take a bathroom break after an hour. Before we left, he has been debating between drinking coffee and not, but decided he'd rather be awake for the drive. I agreed with his decision and we pulled over. (Small towns in NZ have public restrooms, which are very convenient for travelers.)
We got back on the main road, only to follow a tour bus and a gasoline tanker. Argh!!!! We had been on the road for an hour, and still had 100 km left to go! We had gone about 65 km in the past hour, and who knew what the road and traffic ahead would look like in the rain behind a tanker. Would we make it in time?
The tanker kept up with the speed limit, thankfully. It stayed on the main road, while we took another route. We made it to Manapouri by 9:20, plenty of time.
The boat ride was stunning, the highlight of the trip so far. I'll post pictures of the fiords and waterfalls when I get home.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Low Expectations
I was at coffee today with my friend Sarah. When Jack and I had our separation a few months ago, I stayed at Sarah's house for a week while I settled down.
"Maybe staying with Jack is the best of all of your possible options," she said. "There are other alternatives out there, of course, but maybe as you consider them, you should see that Jack isn't the worst thing out there."
She has a point, and I generally agree with it. Here is where my brain and heart start duking it out. Before I get into this, let me tell you something else Sarah said to me ages ago, before the shit-hit-the-fan in my marriage. At the time, I was feeling lonely in my marriage. Why did this hurt so bad, and would be I better off single? If I were single, I would be even more lonely. Or would I?
Sarah said it was all about expectations, and not in a bad way. When we are married, we expect to have companionship and not be lonely. So when we are married and lonely, we have the disappointment of having our expectation not being met. If we are single and alone, our expectation are not being dashed.
Also comes into play is the ability to change. When someone is single, they have the opportunity to go out and find ways not to be lonely. They can be open to new relationships. When someone is lonely in a marriage, the opportunities to find non-platonic companionship are different. Of course, men and women need friends outside of the marriage. I am not talking about relying on my spouse and kids for all human contact.
So I could go with Sarah's idea that Jack is the best of all possible options. But what I were still lonely and Jack didn't change? Would I then be falling back to the position of low expectations which got me in this position in the first place? He started working way too much. I expressed my frustration, loneliness and disappointment, which met with his resistance. I stopped complaining, I just lowered my expectations, which allowed him work more, which everything even worse. I was in a lose-lose spot where no matter what I did, there was no positive change from my perspective.
Jack maybe the best alternative, but low expectations are not an options. Brain, meet heart. To be continued....
"Maybe staying with Jack is the best of all of your possible options," she said. "There are other alternatives out there, of course, but maybe as you consider them, you should see that Jack isn't the worst thing out there."
She has a point, and I generally agree with it. Here is where my brain and heart start duking it out. Before I get into this, let me tell you something else Sarah said to me ages ago, before the shit-hit-the-fan in my marriage. At the time, I was feeling lonely in my marriage. Why did this hurt so bad, and would be I better off single? If I were single, I would be even more lonely. Or would I?
Sarah said it was all about expectations, and not in a bad way. When we are married, we expect to have companionship and not be lonely. So when we are married and lonely, we have the disappointment of having our expectation not being met. If we are single and alone, our expectation are not being dashed.
Also comes into play is the ability to change. When someone is single, they have the opportunity to go out and find ways not to be lonely. They can be open to new relationships. When someone is lonely in a marriage, the opportunities to find non-platonic companionship are different. Of course, men and women need friends outside of the marriage. I am not talking about relying on my spouse and kids for all human contact.
So I could go with Sarah's idea that Jack is the best of all possible options. But what I were still lonely and Jack didn't change? Would I then be falling back to the position of low expectations which got me in this position in the first place? He started working way too much. I expressed my frustration, loneliness and disappointment, which met with his resistance. I stopped complaining, I just lowered my expectations, which allowed him work more, which everything even worse. I was in a lose-lose spot where no matter what I did, there was no positive change from my perspective.
Jack maybe the best alternative, but low expectations are not an options. Brain, meet heart. To be continued....
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Luxury
Some women don't need to have a man around all of the time. They are content when their husbands travel or work all of the time. They are happy as long as their men make good money and they are well stocked in fancy shoes and have an ample allowance to travel and go out to lunch with friends.
I am not one of those women.
I read an article this week in the Seattle Times about Satya Nadella, the new CEO of Microsoft, which got me thinking. In 1994-1996, he got his MBA from the University of Chicago while he was living in Seattle. He would fly out on Friday and would catch the red-eye back at the end of the weekend. I am guessing he worked full days during the week. (Maybe not. I don't know.) I don't think I could be married to a guy who was gone seven days a week. What would be the point of being married? This would assume the marriage implies some level of companionship at the core. Maybe he worked extraordinarily hard during that time to stay close to his wife. This is a quote from Nadella that was posted on NPR's website:
"At home, raising kids or maintaining a loving relationship, realizing that you have achieved something fantastic is much harder to see. For example: making sure you are at home, reading to your kids every night, just trying hard to be a great parent with just hope that it may make your children great people and parents themselves, but that for most people you won't know the result of your efforts for 20 years and nothing is certain."
I don't know if Nadella had kids while he was in business school. But what if someone with his work schedule did? I am not a woman who could handle that.
Which leads me to another point. A friend of mine posted a link to this blog post on Facebook, Being a Stay-At-Home Parent is a Luxury...For Your Spouse.
http://www.babble.com/relationships/being-a-stay-at-home-parent-is-a-luxury-for-your-spouse/
In my fourteen years of being a stay-at-home mom, I never figured this out. It is a luxury for Jack that I stay home and take care of everything. He shows up at 6:30 p.m., and dinner is on the table. If a kid is sick, there is no questions about who will take care of this child. Summer camps and alternate plans? All mine. Who makes sure the kids leave for school on time and driven to soccer? Who is home when they get home?
Yep.
I am more than a little sore right now. Jack just finished working 19 days in a row, which for a workaholic, is like a boozer going to Mardi Gras. The deal was when he was going to work a weekend, he was supposed to take a weekday off. I told him he didn't even have to spend it with me. He could go for a long bike ride or whatever. He worked two weekends in a row with no days off. Why didn't he take a day off? "I have a bunch of deadlines and too much work to do." No shit, Sherlock. He always has too much work to do, which is why he is a workaholic.
"No, really, it will get better," he says.
The other day, I was flipping through the calendar when I saw twelve days overlapping two weekends marked out on the calendar when Jack is going out of town. Did he discuss it with me as he was putting it on the calendar? No. I knew the trip was coming up and the month, but did I know it was 12 days including two full weekends? No. I asked him what he was thinking when he put it on the calendar, did he think to tell me? No. Did he think it was important to tell me? No. Am I seeing a change in behavior here? Not really.
This spring, he was galloping up and down the West Coast while I was at home, taking the Boy to soccer try-outs and helping the kids finish up the school year. Do I have any say in his schedule? When does "luxury" become "taken for granted," and the person holding down the fort is ignored and dismissed, assumed they will be there to keep everything in place? Treated like the staff at Walmart, who work when they are told to work or they don't have a job?
Okay. That was super bitchy. I am not treated like Walmart worker. But the challenge of being a "luxury" to one's spouse is that it implies an inherent inequality in the relationship. I am sure some marriages manage this just fine, where both parties have open and mutual communication, respect, admiration, etc. But happens when that open communication isn't there? What if I had plans during that time? It wasn't even considered, which therein lies my problem. I don't make plans because God-only-knows what the Job will bring in.
Back in the day when I working in compensation consulting, the partner at the firm I worked at was called by the Chicago Tribune. A study had shown amongst MBA graduates, that men whose wives worked earned less than those who didn't. It was statistically significant, but not socially so. The MBA's whose wives didn't work earned on average $10,000 more a year. I am assuming the women who worked made more than $10K, so the family as a whole had a greater income.
The partner called several us of into his office to discuss why this might be the case. Years ago, I though it was because the men with stay-at-home wives asked to earn more, or they worked a little bit harder. Now I think it was because the guys likely never had to say "no" to the job. They probably never had to say "I need to check with my wife if I can take that trip," or "I can't work late. I have to drive the baseball carpool."
The so-called "Mommy Wars" are more likely fought husband v. wife, than mom v. mom. Sure, there are plenty of issues that need to be resolved, like equitable pay, opportunities for promotion, flexible work hours, etc. I don't mean to diminish the barriers that exist for women to raise a family while working. But much of that conversation starts at home before women even get out of the door. My friend Eleanor who is in her nineties told me, "Men don't want their wives to work. You just need to go out and take control of your own life! Don't wait for your husband to come around. Just do it.*"
So what does this mean for me? If my staying at home is defined a "luxury," it means it really isn't so much needed. Sure, I like being a stable, predictable presence in my children's lives. I like home cooked meals, even I don't like cooking them. But I like being busy. I like solving problems. I like having something meaningful to do. I need a sense of accomplishment.
It makes the idea of going back to work a whole lot less scary. For me, anyway. I am not sure Jack will feel about it.
___________________
* Eleanor very likely didn't use the exact phrase, "Just do it." She has studied Shakespeare. She is not likely to quote a Nike commercial. A Nike commercial quoting her? That could be possible.
I am not one of those women.
I read an article this week in the Seattle Times about Satya Nadella, the new CEO of Microsoft, which got me thinking. In 1994-1996, he got his MBA from the University of Chicago while he was living in Seattle. He would fly out on Friday and would catch the red-eye back at the end of the weekend. I am guessing he worked full days during the week. (Maybe not. I don't know.) I don't think I could be married to a guy who was gone seven days a week. What would be the point of being married? This would assume the marriage implies some level of companionship at the core. Maybe he worked extraordinarily hard during that time to stay close to his wife. This is a quote from Nadella that was posted on NPR's website:
"At home, raising kids or maintaining a loving relationship, realizing that you have achieved something fantastic is much harder to see. For example: making sure you are at home, reading to your kids every night, just trying hard to be a great parent with just hope that it may make your children great people and parents themselves, but that for most people you won't know the result of your efforts for 20 years and nothing is certain."
I don't know if Nadella had kids while he was in business school. But what if someone with his work schedule did? I am not a woman who could handle that.
Which leads me to another point. A friend of mine posted a link to this blog post on Facebook, Being a Stay-At-Home Parent is a Luxury...For Your Spouse.
http://www.babble.com/relationships/being-a-stay-at-home-parent-is-a-luxury-for-your-spouse/
In my fourteen years of being a stay-at-home mom, I never figured this out. It is a luxury for Jack that I stay home and take care of everything. He shows up at 6:30 p.m., and dinner is on the table. If a kid is sick, there is no questions about who will take care of this child. Summer camps and alternate plans? All mine. Who makes sure the kids leave for school on time and driven to soccer? Who is home when they get home?
Yep.
I am more than a little sore right now. Jack just finished working 19 days in a row, which for a workaholic, is like a boozer going to Mardi Gras. The deal was when he was going to work a weekend, he was supposed to take a weekday off. I told him he didn't even have to spend it with me. He could go for a long bike ride or whatever. He worked two weekends in a row with no days off. Why didn't he take a day off? "I have a bunch of deadlines and too much work to do." No shit, Sherlock. He always has too much work to do, which is why he is a workaholic.
"No, really, it will get better," he says.
The other day, I was flipping through the calendar when I saw twelve days overlapping two weekends marked out on the calendar when Jack is going out of town. Did he discuss it with me as he was putting it on the calendar? No. I knew the trip was coming up and the month, but did I know it was 12 days including two full weekends? No. I asked him what he was thinking when he put it on the calendar, did he think to tell me? No. Did he think it was important to tell me? No. Am I seeing a change in behavior here? Not really.
This spring, he was galloping up and down the West Coast while I was at home, taking the Boy to soccer try-outs and helping the kids finish up the school year. Do I have any say in his schedule? When does "luxury" become "taken for granted," and the person holding down the fort is ignored and dismissed, assumed they will be there to keep everything in place? Treated like the staff at Walmart, who work when they are told to work or they don't have a job?
Okay. That was super bitchy. I am not treated like Walmart worker. But the challenge of being a "luxury" to one's spouse is that it implies an inherent inequality in the relationship. I am sure some marriages manage this just fine, where both parties have open and mutual communication, respect, admiration, etc. But happens when that open communication isn't there? What if I had plans during that time? It wasn't even considered, which therein lies my problem. I don't make plans because God-only-knows what the Job will bring in.
Back in the day when I working in compensation consulting, the partner at the firm I worked at was called by the Chicago Tribune. A study had shown amongst MBA graduates, that men whose wives worked earned less than those who didn't. It was statistically significant, but not socially so. The MBA's whose wives didn't work earned on average $10,000 more a year. I am assuming the women who worked made more than $10K, so the family as a whole had a greater income.
The partner called several us of into his office to discuss why this might be the case. Years ago, I though it was because the men with stay-at-home wives asked to earn more, or they worked a little bit harder. Now I think it was because the guys likely never had to say "no" to the job. They probably never had to say "I need to check with my wife if I can take that trip," or "I can't work late. I have to drive the baseball carpool."
The so-called "Mommy Wars" are more likely fought husband v. wife, than mom v. mom. Sure, there are plenty of issues that need to be resolved, like equitable pay, opportunities for promotion, flexible work hours, etc. I don't mean to diminish the barriers that exist for women to raise a family while working. But much of that conversation starts at home before women even get out of the door. My friend Eleanor who is in her nineties told me, "Men don't want their wives to work. You just need to go out and take control of your own life! Don't wait for your husband to come around. Just do it.*"
So what does this mean for me? If my staying at home is defined a "luxury," it means it really isn't so much needed. Sure, I like being a stable, predictable presence in my children's lives. I like home cooked meals, even I don't like cooking them. But I like being busy. I like solving problems. I like having something meaningful to do. I need a sense of accomplishment.
It makes the idea of going back to work a whole lot less scary. For me, anyway. I am not sure Jack will feel about it.
___________________
* Eleanor very likely didn't use the exact phrase, "Just do it." She has studied Shakespeare. She is not likely to quote a Nike commercial. A Nike commercial quoting her? That could be possible.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
The Boy and the Fish
While we were in Tofino on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Jack and the Boy went fishing. The Boy is eleven years old and had never been fishing before -- not on a bank of a pond, creek, river or lake. One of the boys in his class and on his soccer team spends a few weeks in the summer in Alaska fishing with his grandfather. The Boy heard all about these grand adventures, and wanted to try it. He also heard Ron Swanson, a character from Parks and Rec, talk about fishing: "It's like yoga, except you get to kill something." Ron doesn't eat fish. He considers it a vegetable.
I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it. I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish. The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.
So Jack and the Boy went fishing. They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish. Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean. From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut. For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch. Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants. The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle. My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal. The second thing I caught was a bluegill. If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.* I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills. Ever. I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store. Ever.
So the Boy and Jack went on the boat. The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean. They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho. Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line. The limit was two fish per person. We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.
The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook. The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving. From there, the Boy began to pale. He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won. That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish. It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.
"Why did it have to die? It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said. "It wasn't hurting anyone." I patted him on the back during his existential angst. "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."
I let him ponder. While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal. I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food. If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it. But the fish was already dead. It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.
"The fish had a good life," I told him. "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many. She knows what is sustainable. It was going to die anyway at sometime."
"So I just cut its life short?"
"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation. While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay. Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.
"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said. "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."
"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."
"Whatever. They are thankful for the fish."
The Boy settled down. When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner. I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night. Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.
He said no. He did it in his head.
The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid. My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain. It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times. I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even. Yet, they both have similar sensitivities. My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness. Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.
* My dad remembers where we went fishing. Big Trout Campgroup near Rockford, IL. It probably should have been called Big Bluegill.
I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it. I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish. The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.
So Jack and the Boy went fishing. They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish. Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean. From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut. For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch. Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants. The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle. My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal. The second thing I caught was a bluegill. If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.* I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills. Ever. I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store. Ever.
So the Boy and Jack went on the boat. The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean. They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho. Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line. The limit was two fish per person. We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.
The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook. The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving. From there, the Boy began to pale. He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won. That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish. It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.
"Why did it have to die? It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said. "It wasn't hurting anyone." I patted him on the back during his existential angst. "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."
I let him ponder. While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal. I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food. If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it. But the fish was already dead. It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.
"The fish had a good life," I told him. "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many. She knows what is sustainable. It was going to die anyway at sometime."
"So I just cut its life short?"
"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation. While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay. Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.
"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said. "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."
"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."
"Whatever. They are thankful for the fish."
The Boy settled down. When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner. I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night. Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.
He said no. He did it in his head.
+ + + + +
The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid. My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain. It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times. I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even. Yet, they both have similar sensitivities. My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness. Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.
 |
| Sunset at North Chesterman Beach |
 |
| Low tide at North Chesterman Beach |
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Competing with Water
When I was a sophomore in college, I asked Jack to join my family on our summer vacation. My parents said I could bring a friend. They were very surprised that I invited my boyfriend, but decided to let me bring him. My brother also brought a friend. We went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where my parents rented a house near the water for a week. Jack was a swimmer in college, so a trip to the ocean was a good thing for him.
It was a good week, all in all, with a few memorable moments. Jack got a horrid sunburn and had a painfully itchy back as a result. He thought his Chinese genes protected his skin and he wouldn't get burned. No such luck. My dad and Jack went deep sea fishing together, and both my father and Jack got a bad case of seasickness as the small boat jostled in the waves. My father was called back from vacation to attend a meeting for work. My brother had just graduated from high school and I was in college. This was the only time we could take a family vacation given our schedules. This time was sacred. My father's company had gone through three presidents in a year, and the new one was especially difficult. Being called back for a non-essential meeting was the last straw. My father flew back to Ohio, went to the meeting, quit his job, and flew back to South Carolina for the rest of the week. Now that I think about it, that might have been the last trip my parents, brother and I took together.
In spite of the itch back, seasickness and my father quitting his job, it was a good trip. It was on this trip that I fell in love with Jack. I had always liked him, enjoyed his company and so on. But this was the trip where I knew I needed him. I couldn't sleep at night, knowing he was in another bedroom across the hall. I had liked other guys before, but I never found one who kept me awake at night.
Anyone can fall in love on vacation. It is a cliche. The Go-Go's had a song about it in the 1980's. Grease is about summer love meeting reality. Nevertheless, there I was. This was different because I fell in love with a guy I had been dating for a year, a guy who I would see in the fall when we returned to Chicago for school. This was more than a summer romance, more than a cute boy I met at the beach. Part of the reason it was easier to fall in love there was because we were removed from homework, finals, swimming, friends, laundry and everything else.
In college, Jack swam. He was a walk-on on the varsity team. He had a big heart, lots of passion, but his skinny 5'10'' frame couldn't compete with men who were four to six inches taller. But he tried and never gave up. He perfected his technique on his stroke, showing me at dinner in the air the best way to butterfly. Jack has always been a passionate guy. He never does anything half-baked or half-way. He is all in or not at all.
Jack loves water. Unlike other guys I was attracted to in college, Jack couldn't dance. In the water, though, he had a grace I have never seen him possess on land. He didn't just float, he skimmed the surface, dancing on the water.
On the day before we left vacation, we went to the beach. The water was warm and the waves were high. Jack dove and jumped for about a half an hour. I watched, sitting on the beach. His back was to mine, but I could sense something: joy. I had never seen Jack so happy as when he was jumping and diving into the crashing waves. His hands caressed the crests of the waves as the smaller ones slipped passed as he waited for the bigger ones. The next time I had ever seen him so happy was the day he graduated from medical school. I took the afternoon off from work to join his family for the ceremony and dinner.
I remember thinking at the time that I could not compete with water. It wasn't a sad or tragic thought; rather, that I could never make Jack as happy as he was playing in the water that day. I didn't know what the idea meant at the time. Jack is passionate about ideas, work and play. In some ways, that is what attracted me to him. In high school, I had a few boyfriends who doted on me, which I didn't find appealing. I wanted someone who had strong interests in the outside world. I wanted someone who was independent versus treating me like I was their prized petunia.
And now, all it has fallen out of whack. Jack's interests and independence had taken over such that I was no longer a part of his emotional or intellectual life. We were boiled down to the practical, and I took care of almost all of that. What is left?
It was a good week, all in all, with a few memorable moments. Jack got a horrid sunburn and had a painfully itchy back as a result. He thought his Chinese genes protected his skin and he wouldn't get burned. No such luck. My dad and Jack went deep sea fishing together, and both my father and Jack got a bad case of seasickness as the small boat jostled in the waves. My father was called back from vacation to attend a meeting for work. My brother had just graduated from high school and I was in college. This was the only time we could take a family vacation given our schedules. This time was sacred. My father's company had gone through three presidents in a year, and the new one was especially difficult. Being called back for a non-essential meeting was the last straw. My father flew back to Ohio, went to the meeting, quit his job, and flew back to South Carolina for the rest of the week. Now that I think about it, that might have been the last trip my parents, brother and I took together.
In spite of the itch back, seasickness and my father quitting his job, it was a good trip. It was on this trip that I fell in love with Jack. I had always liked him, enjoyed his company and so on. But this was the trip where I knew I needed him. I couldn't sleep at night, knowing he was in another bedroom across the hall. I had liked other guys before, but I never found one who kept me awake at night.
Anyone can fall in love on vacation. It is a cliche. The Go-Go's had a song about it in the 1980's. Grease is about summer love meeting reality. Nevertheless, there I was. This was different because I fell in love with a guy I had been dating for a year, a guy who I would see in the fall when we returned to Chicago for school. This was more than a summer romance, more than a cute boy I met at the beach. Part of the reason it was easier to fall in love there was because we were removed from homework, finals, swimming, friends, laundry and everything else.
In college, Jack swam. He was a walk-on on the varsity team. He had a big heart, lots of passion, but his skinny 5'10'' frame couldn't compete with men who were four to six inches taller. But he tried and never gave up. He perfected his technique on his stroke, showing me at dinner in the air the best way to butterfly. Jack has always been a passionate guy. He never does anything half-baked or half-way. He is all in or not at all.
Jack loves water. Unlike other guys I was attracted to in college, Jack couldn't dance. In the water, though, he had a grace I have never seen him possess on land. He didn't just float, he skimmed the surface, dancing on the water.
On the day before we left vacation, we went to the beach. The water was warm and the waves were high. Jack dove and jumped for about a half an hour. I watched, sitting on the beach. His back was to mine, but I could sense something: joy. I had never seen Jack so happy as when he was jumping and diving into the crashing waves. His hands caressed the crests of the waves as the smaller ones slipped passed as he waited for the bigger ones. The next time I had ever seen him so happy was the day he graduated from medical school. I took the afternoon off from work to join his family for the ceremony and dinner.
I remember thinking at the time that I could not compete with water. It wasn't a sad or tragic thought; rather, that I could never make Jack as happy as he was playing in the water that day. I didn't know what the idea meant at the time. Jack is passionate about ideas, work and play. In some ways, that is what attracted me to him. In high school, I had a few boyfriends who doted on me, which I didn't find appealing. I wanted someone who had strong interests in the outside world. I wanted someone who was independent versus treating me like I was their prized petunia.
And now, all it has fallen out of whack. Jack's interests and independence had taken over such that I was no longer a part of his emotional or intellectual life. We were boiled down to the practical, and I took care of almost all of that. What is left?
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
A Note from a Friend: Disaggregate and Blaze Your Own Trail!
My friend Jane wrote me a note last week. (Jane of "The M-Word" post.) These themes have been kicking around in the back of my mind.
Lauren:
I say disaggregate (what we always tell the school district!). It is so daunting to address the John-as husband-as workaholic-marriage-self confidence-job marketability-mid life questions about purpose as a single monolithic challenge! It always makes sense when people say break down a problem into smaller pieces.
Recently, nearly everything is focusing like a laser beam on John (his workaholic tendencies, his choices, his emotional availability, etc.) and what impact his behavior and choices have on you, your marriage and your family. This is a central relationship and person in your life, so of course it--and he--deserves a significant amount of your attention, but perhaps only a portion!
There are plenty of other pieces to this puzzle that have more to do you with you and just you than they do with the people with whom you live, and I think that part of this deserves as much--and, really, more--attention. It seems like you are finding yourself in a somewhat unexpected place: you are a stay-at-home mom and you aren’t sure if the dividends have been what you anticipated or wanted or thought you agreed to. You have been an extraordinary volunteer, but again, it isn’t clear if that is the right fit for you going forward--does it produce the outcomes you want? In both cases, maybe this is a good time to take a new look at what is right for you. What do you want?
There are a number of potential outcomes. You could, for example, decide that you want to be the primary care provider at home and you want to stay out of the work force until the kids are in college. If you made that choice now, you would be doing so with a clear understanding of what the “returns” are. You might have new demands of the people involved if you were to make a conscious choice to do this. My primary point is that the choosing would be in your power, and you would have some influence over the terms. And, knowing what you know now, you might negotiate a little differently!
Similarly, you might choose to go back to the paid work force. That might become a priority focus of yours. It would involve different trade offs. You would derive some of your “returns” from different sources (co-workers, bosses, etc.) and in different forms ($$$, different types of satisfaction re: work products, etc.).
I hope you will feel empowered to stop and consider the choices before you and not feel that John is calling the shots on all of the above. He has a full plate of things he has to work through. Those things don’t have to dictate how you feel about yourself and your choices. You deserve to be your number one priority right now, Lauren. You have been through an incredibly rough experience. With the help of your friends and people whose opinions you respect, you can put the pieces back together and craft a way forward of your choosing.
Your friends are one source of that support. I just said to someone today, “if you aren't feeling confident about yourself professionally, perhaps you could borrow some of the confidence that I have in you”. Similarly, a friend of mine is at a major transition point where she wants to change jobs (and coasts), but she doesn't expect any support whatsoever from her husband (he is content in his situation and doesn’t really have an incentive to make changes). I told this friend to look to others that will support her in this endeavor (if not her husband).
Rather than thinking of you at a dead end, I think of you at the beginning of a totally new and different road. Terrifying not knowing what is around the corner, yes. But, the opportunities are plenty. You are smart, you are capable, you are caring. Even more than recreating your trust in John (which is important; just a separate issue), I hope you will recreate trust in yourself. Believing in yourself will help put some of the other stuff in perspective, it will give you a strong foundation from which to navigate these complicated waters, it will help give you the strength to move forward.
How? By doing exactly what you are doing. Borrow some confidence from your friends. Remember that these are people whose opinions you value and respect (know that we are right when we tell you that you are awesome and capable and that you can do this). Put yourself first in a way that you have not done for some time. Allow yourself to think about what you, just Lauren, wants and not what the other people in your household need or want. And, go after it! Blaze your own black diamond trail.
Fondly,
Jane
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
The Toughest Job in the World
Note: Here is another blog post from April 23, 2014 which I didn't post at the time. My marriage was in mid-collapse, but I had no idea at the time. Welcome to watching my MLC (mid-life crisis) appear in real time. I was looking back at the fourteen years of being a stay-at-home and trying to re-enter the workforce.
You might have seen by now the viral video from American Greetings on the toughest job in the world. As of now, 15 million people have watched this on YouTube.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3xM93rXbY
The toughest job in the world is 24/7, no breaks, standing, lifting things, little sleep, and knowing medicine, finance, and culinary arts. This job requires extra work on holidays, "with a happy disposition." It requires giving up your old life. All for no pay.
** Spoiler: The toughest job in the world is being a mom. **
Like anyone else with a heart, I cried when I saw this.
This video was circulated amongst a group of stay-at-home moms who are now deciding how and when to return to the paid workforce. I have no intentions of debating whether or not to stay at home with kids. I know many women have little to no choice if they work. Other women choose to work, that this is fine, too.
I belong to the camp of women who "decided" to stay-at-home with my kids. "Decided" is a tough a word for me. My husband works night and weekends, and the job I had at the time my daughter was born required extensive travel, at least three days a week out of town three weeks a month. One year I traveled so much that I paid income tax in California even though my home was in Chicago. Given my husband's and my combined schedules, either one of us needed a new job, or we would need overnight childcare several days a week.
Before all of that, my pregnancy history was complicated. I had a full-term stillbirth followed by a miscarriage. My third pregnancy with my daughter was complicated. While she was fine, the pregnancy had its problems, including a subchorionic hemorrhage, which meant I bled throughout the first trimester. At the end of my third pregnancy, I had been pregnant for 92 weeks with no baby.
+ + + + +
You might have seen by now the viral video from American Greetings on the toughest job in the world. As of now, 15 million people have watched this on YouTube.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3xM93rXbY
The toughest job in the world is 24/7, no breaks, standing, lifting things, little sleep, and knowing medicine, finance, and culinary arts. This job requires extra work on holidays, "with a happy disposition." It requires giving up your old life. All for no pay.
** Spoiler: The toughest job in the world is being a mom. **
Like anyone else with a heart, I cried when I saw this.
This video was circulated amongst a group of stay-at-home moms who are now deciding how and when to return to the paid workforce. I have no intentions of debating whether or not to stay at home with kids. I know many women have little to no choice if they work. Other women choose to work, that this is fine, too.
I belong to the camp of women who "decided" to stay-at-home with my kids. "Decided" is a tough a word for me. My husband works night and weekends, and the job I had at the time my daughter was born required extensive travel, at least three days a week out of town three weeks a month. One year I traveled so much that I paid income tax in California even though my home was in Chicago. Given my husband's and my combined schedules, either one of us needed a new job, or we would need overnight childcare several days a week.
Before all of that, my pregnancy history was complicated. I had a full-term stillbirth followed by a miscarriage. My third pregnancy with my daughter was complicated. While she was fine, the pregnancy had its problems, including a subchorionic hemorrhage, which meant I bled throughout the first trimester. At the end of my third pregnancy, I had been pregnant for 92 weeks with no baby.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Sidelines or the Back of the Pack?
Over the past thirteen years, I've spend a fair amount of time watching my kids exercise while I am on the sidelines. I often thought of the fabulous shape I'd be in if I exercised while they were, but sadly, I rarely did.
Given that I am often a spectator, when I get the chance to participate, I do. While under no circumstances would I join the Boy on the soccer pitch, there are other activities where I don't want to sit and watch the rest of my family have fun. And yet, my participation is becoming more challenging as everyone gets older. The kids are becoming more capable and more courageous, and I worry if I am in good enough shape to keep up. The kids are becoming exponentially more athletic, whereas my improvement curve is fairly flat. I also worry about injury.
My mom told me once when I was young never to marry a man who likes to watch sports on television. My dad will occasionally watch a game, but he is not the type to plug into whatever game is on, knowing nothing about squash or caring about Northwest Missouri State's basketball team. So I took her advice, which seemed wise at the time. My husband doesn't watch much television at all, which is fine with me. The downside is that my anti-couch potato husband refuses to sit still.
My adrenaline junkie husband encourages the kids to try new things, mostly because he wants to try them, too. Last summer, we went to Whistler. We went zip lining, downhill mountain biking and white water rafting. (When I suggested canoeing or trail biking, I got raised eyebrows for a reply, suggesting those activities were for wimps.) I got a little nervous about all of these things, but sucked it up and was a good soldier. Ironically, the worst part was the Grouse Grind, a hike up a mountain outside of Vancouver, B.C.. I thought it would be fine given it did not require a helmet, a harness, elbow pads, a pre-activity safety lecture, and/or an insurance waiver. The night before our ill-fated hike, we went to a very nice restaurant. The waiter was in his mid-thirties and looked relatively fit. British Columbia is an outdoorsy kind of place, and it seems that many people ski, hike, bike or participate in some other kind of outdoor activity. This waiter seemed to fit the profile, so I asked him about the Grouse Grind.
"There is no way I would do that again. I did it once and I almost died."
Great.
So, we did the Grouse Grind the next day because my anti-couch potato, adrenaline junkie husband insisted. I was feeling a mix of curious and nervous, but figured I would take it slow. I was mostly worried that my knees would give out midway or I'd have a stroke, and then I'd be stuck. The Grouse Grind is one-way uphill trip. The path is narrow and heavily trafficked. Once you are on, you can't go back down. Once you make it to the top, you have to take a gondola down.
So we get to the Grouse Grind, and you can see from this picture who is excited to do this and who couldn't care less.
I stopped to take a picture at the beginning of the hike and they were gone. I didn't see them until about halfway up. I ran out of water, and I called Jack and asked him to wait for me.
"But I don't know where you are. How can I wait?" Grrrr. You aren't suppose to leave your hiking companions.
The next line was even better. "I had to keep up with the Boy." Nice. Even though it was true, it was not cool that he blamed it on the Boy.
"Where is my daughter?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied. Strike three.
I will have this conversation forever recorded in my mind and will use it in case I ever need to call a divorce attorney. "Your husband left you in the dust on the Grouse Grind, lost your daughter and blamed it on your son? Excellent. Tell me what you want..."
I was pissed. I asked him for the car keys and seriously considered leaving him in Canada and driving back to Seattle when I got to the bottom. But I didn't. I was just super mad. For twenty four hours until Jack conceded he was wrong. Why was I so mad? This was supposed to be a family vacation, which means it was for everyone in the family, not just the super athletic. It also became very apparent that I was now the weak link, the slow poke. Me, the one who created this family, was now forgotten and shuffled to the back of the line.
Eight months later, we were back in Canada, this time skiing at Whistler. I am a fairly mediocre skier, but I enjoy it and am content skiing blues and greens at a slow pace. I am not a big fan of skiing too fast or out of control as I don't want to get hurt. I've see five year olds crash and then bounce up like nothing happened. I don't think I'll be that lucky. We have twenty some odd steps to get up to my house from the street. A broken leg, sprained ankle or twisted knee would mean spending a few weeks at the Silver Cloud Inn down the street while my family did all of their own cooking and laundry for a few weeks. Plus, I was to ski another day.
So I have to decide: would I rather be in the game, in the slow zone, and the worst player on team McGuire, or would I rather be on the bench? While I am skiing the blues and greens, my family will ski the black runs on the same lift. They will occasionally venture off to steeper runs, while I stay in my comfort zone. They were off on the Whistler Bowl, some crazy steep run, while I was having a mocha at the lodge. Which is fine with me. I know my limitations, but that isn't going to keep me out of the game.
It also helps that Jack is joining me at the back of the pack, left in the dust by the kids when it comes to skiing. Already, they are both better than us, and there is no way for us to reasonably catch up. He knows this. "There will soon come a day when they will have to do the steep stuff by themselves," he said, tired and a little scared after the Whistler Bowl.
I'll welcome him to join me for a mocha.
Given that I am often a spectator, when I get the chance to participate, I do. While under no circumstances would I join the Boy on the soccer pitch, there are other activities where I don't want to sit and watch the rest of my family have fun. And yet, my participation is becoming more challenging as everyone gets older. The kids are becoming more capable and more courageous, and I worry if I am in good enough shape to keep up. The kids are becoming exponentially more athletic, whereas my improvement curve is fairly flat. I also worry about injury.
My mom told me once when I was young never to marry a man who likes to watch sports on television. My dad will occasionally watch a game, but he is not the type to plug into whatever game is on, knowing nothing about squash or caring about Northwest Missouri State's basketball team. So I took her advice, which seemed wise at the time. My husband doesn't watch much television at all, which is fine with me. The downside is that my anti-couch potato husband refuses to sit still.
My adrenaline junkie husband encourages the kids to try new things, mostly because he wants to try them, too. Last summer, we went to Whistler. We went zip lining, downhill mountain biking and white water rafting. (When I suggested canoeing or trail biking, I got raised eyebrows for a reply, suggesting those activities were for wimps.) I got a little nervous about all of these things, but sucked it up and was a good soldier. Ironically, the worst part was the Grouse Grind, a hike up a mountain outside of Vancouver, B.C.. I thought it would be fine given it did not require a helmet, a harness, elbow pads, a pre-activity safety lecture, and/or an insurance waiver. The night before our ill-fated hike, we went to a very nice restaurant. The waiter was in his mid-thirties and looked relatively fit. British Columbia is an outdoorsy kind of place, and it seems that many people ski, hike, bike or participate in some other kind of outdoor activity. This waiter seemed to fit the profile, so I asked him about the Grouse Grind.
"There is no way I would do that again. I did it once and I almost died."
Great.
So, we did the Grouse Grind the next day because my anti-couch potato, adrenaline junkie husband insisted. I was feeling a mix of curious and nervous, but figured I would take it slow. I was mostly worried that my knees would give out midway or I'd have a stroke, and then I'd be stuck. The Grouse Grind is one-way uphill trip. The path is narrow and heavily trafficked. Once you are on, you can't go back down. Once you make it to the top, you have to take a gondola down.
So we get to the Grouse Grind, and you can see from this picture who is excited to do this and who couldn't care less.
I stopped to take a picture at the beginning of the hike and they were gone. I didn't see them until about halfway up. I ran out of water, and I called Jack and asked him to wait for me.
 |
| I was left in the dust out of the gate on the Grouse Grind. |
"But I don't know where you are. How can I wait?" Grrrr. You aren't suppose to leave your hiking companions.
The next line was even better. "I had to keep up with the Boy." Nice. Even though it was true, it was not cool that he blamed it on the Boy.
"Where is my daughter?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied. Strike three.
I will have this conversation forever recorded in my mind and will use it in case I ever need to call a divorce attorney. "Your husband left you in the dust on the Grouse Grind, lost your daughter and blamed it on your son? Excellent. Tell me what you want..."
I was pissed. I asked him for the car keys and seriously considered leaving him in Canada and driving back to Seattle when I got to the bottom. But I didn't. I was just super mad. For twenty four hours until Jack conceded he was wrong. Why was I so mad? This was supposed to be a family vacation, which means it was for everyone in the family, not just the super athletic. It also became very apparent that I was now the weak link, the slow poke. Me, the one who created this family, was now forgotten and shuffled to the back of the line.
Eight months later, we were back in Canada, this time skiing at Whistler. I am a fairly mediocre skier, but I enjoy it and am content skiing blues and greens at a slow pace. I am not a big fan of skiing too fast or out of control as I don't want to get hurt. I've see five year olds crash and then bounce up like nothing happened. I don't think I'll be that lucky. We have twenty some odd steps to get up to my house from the street. A broken leg, sprained ankle or twisted knee would mean spending a few weeks at the Silver Cloud Inn down the street while my family did all of their own cooking and laundry for a few weeks. Plus, I was to ski another day.
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| That wee tiny green dot on the left side of the slope is Jack. The kids are already probably already at the bottom waiting for us. |
It also helps that Jack is joining me at the back of the pack, left in the dust by the kids when it comes to skiing. Already, they are both better than us, and there is no way for us to reasonably catch up. He knows this. "There will soon come a day when they will have to do the steep stuff by themselves," he said, tired and a little scared after the Whistler Bowl.
I'll welcome him to join me for a mocha.
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| Me on the Dave Murray downhill run, skiing back to Creekside. Jack documented me on a black run. Yes, we both have the same color ski jackets. For the record, I got mine first. |
Thursday, April 17, 2014
April -- The Month of Contrasts
I've been offline for a few days. We went skiing in Whistler for the first part of Spring Break. Here are two scenes from my yard yesterday:
And today it rained almost all day. We took the kids to the Pacific Science Center to see the new Spy exhibit. (Very cool.) Jack made a nice steak dinner with mushrooms, asparagus, mashed potatoes and spinach salad. As we were finishing dinner, I looked up and saw this out the window. I screamed when I saw the big flash of color. We all rushed outside to get a look. "This is payback for all of the rain this spring," Jack said. My daughter grabbed her phone and mine and was taking pictures with two phones at the same time.
While we were looking at the rainbows, Fox made it to the dining room table and grabbed the last bit of my steak. I am not sure how our little Houdini did it. The chairs were pushed in, but obviously not enough. He didn't touch the mushrooms or asparagus or potatoes. Just the steak. The Boy witnessed Fox's crime. I offered him (Fox, not the Boy) the last sip of my wine to wash it down, but he refused.
And today it rained almost all day. We took the kids to the Pacific Science Center to see the new Spy exhibit. (Very cool.) Jack made a nice steak dinner with mushrooms, asparagus, mashed potatoes and spinach salad. As we were finishing dinner, I looked up and saw this out the window. I screamed when I saw the big flash of color. We all rushed outside to get a look. "This is payback for all of the rain this spring," Jack said. My daughter grabbed her phone and mine and was taking pictures with two phones at the same time.
While we were looking at the rainbows, Fox made it to the dining room table and grabbed the last bit of my steak. I am not sure how our little Houdini did it. The chairs were pushed in, but obviously not enough. He didn't touch the mushrooms or asparagus or potatoes. Just the steak. The Boy witnessed Fox's crime. I offered him (Fox, not the Boy) the last sip of my wine to wash it down, but he refused.
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