Mamas Don't Sleep While their Babies are Sick

Moms don't sleep while their babies are sick.

They don't shower, they forget to eat, they don't call their moms on her birthday.

Most of all, moms don't sleep. Or if they do sleep, it is a crappy, miserable sleep where they are up every time there is a peep. They can't sleep until their kid comes out on the other side, when it is clear and apparent that their kid will be fine.

I doesn't matter the illness. The first flu or cold, cancer, or mental health crisis. Their primary focus is on the kid getting better. Some moms might continue to work because they need health insurance. (Some moms are horrible and abandon their ailing children at the hospital, but that is not most moms.)

I was in a writing class about feminine archetypes where we studied women represented in mythology. Demeter was Persephone's mother, Diana was the Hunter. "Virgins" like Diana had focused attention and were goal oriented. Mothers--like Demeter--were known for having diffuse attention where they would pay attention to lots of little things at the same time. Think cooking dinner while the laundry is in the washing machine and the kids are playing in the backyard. A guy once compared a woman's mind to a computer with lots of apps open at the same time. The cooking app may be running in the foreground, but the kids outside and the laundry are running in the background.

When mother's child is sick or suffering, that laser like focus of the virgin goddesses comes back into play. That sick child is in the foreground, and everything else is in the back. The sick child is a memory hog, using up a lot of RAM.

The Boy has turned a corner where he is seriously thinking about his future, looking ahead. Last Monday, the Boy was talking about his SAT scores, where he wanted to go to college, and what he wants to study.

"I thinking of math," said the Boy. "Something like Mathematical Methods in the Social Sciences." I nearly leapt with joy for so many reasons. First, MMSS was my own major. We have to acknowledge that. Math is an awesome major in college because it is not like you are going to pick it up on the job or learn it on the fly. I suppose people can learn math online through Khan Academy, but that is a tool for people who want to study math more.

It is super cool that he is considering math, but most important is that he is considering anything. Before, he didn't see a future for himself, which made him more depressed. Now, he is looking forward, which is good.

I am happy for him.

And now I can sleep. I can restore. I can find myself and again and get back to everything else I left running in the background, unattended.

Non-Essential & Mom-in-Chief

As you may have heard, the State of Washington is on a stay-at-home order from the Governor as of Monday night. I am a non-essential employee so I get to work from home. Lots of people work form home at my office, so the pace of work hasn't dropped much if at all. For me, this is the beginning of my third week of working from home as part of social distancing and I am getting kind of used to it. I am find myself to be really hilarious even if no one is around to enjoy my humor besides me and Fox. Fox is a good dog. At times he is kind of needy with me around all day. Other times he's like "Why are you here? I am trying to hide a bone from you. That bone you gave me? You might take it back so I need to hide it under the blanket on the couch."

Last night after work, I was driving to Madison Park where I had an appointment. I left downtown at 5:05 and made it to Madison Park by 5:19. Pre-covid, I would leave work at 4:45 and get there at 5:20. Aside from the line thirty people deep outside a pot shop on Capitol Hill, Seattle was dead. I parked right in front of my therapists office--no problem. It was weird. Now I know what it would have been like to live in Seattle in 1972. I feel like I am living in the Upside Down (see: Stranger Things) minus the flower monsters.

(Shots of downtown Seattle today at 5:30 p.m. Normally it is very busy with people walking and packed with cars.)

The biggest challenge for me is eating in for 21 meals a week. This is a serious struggle. (Well, not getting enough exercise should be my biggest struggle, but I like food more than yoga and Zumba.) I went to Pike Place Market Sunday and stocked up on fresh vegetables. I was probably a wee bit too ambitious. I had to make an inventory of my vegetables so I wouldn't forget what is in my fridge and find it weeks later all composted.

I also bought some fruit. "An apple a day keeps the doctor" away but I prefer oranges.

Garlic keeps away vampires.

Vitamins provides nutrients I can't get enough of from food.

Top Pot doughnuts are yummy. And I am supporting a local business! Go me!

I saw a video online of a doctor in Chicago talking about covid. She has lived in Illinois her whole life. I love the sound of her voice. When I listened to her, I felt like I knew her, that we might have been friends if I never left Chicago. She is a badass.

It got me thinking. Instead of Commander-in-Chief, we need a Mom-in-Chief running the country. Seriously. Her is what she might say:

"I know this is a tough time for everyone, but seriously, do you want Grandma to die? Cause that is what is going to happen you don't wash you hands, sneeze into your elbow and stay home. Sure, I'll let you out to get food, but wash your hands before you go out and stand six feet away from your cashier. 

"Now, about the jobs. Waiters and waitresses are out of work and that sucks because many of them are young and live paycheck to paycheck. So, we are going to dip into the family bank account to help them out while we try not to kill Grandma and Grandpa. No, I am not giving you money for new yoga pants Claire-Adele*! I'll make sure your rent is paid while we get through this crunch. Seriously? I don't care if your airline stock price is in the toilet and you want to buy it back Lululemon is having a clearance sale! Grow up! We are having a crisis. If you want to walk the dog, that is fine but chill. By the way Grandma -- you need to STAY HOME FROM WORK! Everyone in North America is staying home so you don't get sick. I know you have the strongest work ethic on the planet, but don't be a covidiot. You are in the highest risk category. And Grandpa--you can live for three weeks without eating a restaurant. Come on. Your cooking isn't that bad. Watch a YouTube video on how to cook salmon.

"And don't worry. It may feel like the end of the world, but it is not. Now go watch Netflix, be nice to your brother and leave Mommy alone. She has to figure out a way to get hospital masks, gloves and ventilators to healthcare workers."

* Not the real Claire-Adele. She is making apple pie in Maryland with her boyfriend.

Time of Conflict

At this point of my life, I am getting sick of myself and my own company. I am wondering why anyone wants to even talk to me as I continually complain and bitch about the same things over and over and over.

Oh my god. I am horrible.

"You are making progress," said my friend Karen. "Three months ago the Boy just started treatment and you were exhausted. Look at all of the progress both of you and the Boy have made!"

Yes, I have made progress, but I still feel like an emotional mess. My heart is pulling me in forty different directions and my brain is like "Seriously woman. All of these feelings are so conflicted and then throw in an anxiety attack. Give me something consistent to work with here and I'll try to help you sort things out."

I walked around Green Lake with a friend today, who is kind and patient, like all of my friends. I am waiting for one of them to say, "For god sake's woman, pull yourself together!"

But no.

"I want to have peace," I told my friend Jessica walking around Green Lake today. "I don't want to be in this chaos anymore. I want to be calm and fun and carefree, like I used to be. I am tired of reading self-help books and books on how to parent a troubled teen. I want to read a novel. Anything."

"You can't skip to peace," said Jessica, a two-time cancer survivor. "You are in a time of conflict. There won't be peace during a time of conflict. You are trying to sort things out. Peace is a nice long-term goal, but you need to go through this. You can't cut around it." She said this as she pointed to a tree. Behind the tree were the giant fields where dozens of little girls played soccer while parents watched. The youth soccer pitch--the Promised Land of Parenting. For some parents, the Promised Land might be a swimming pool or a stage or a concert hall. Let me tell you: it isn't Wilderness or therapeutic boarding school. And yet, I am lucky that I can send the Boy to a place where he can get the care and support he needs to make it to adulthood.

Jessica has a son who is in his senior year of high school. Having been through that with Claire-Adele, I know that is a very difficult time. Toddlers are more rational and open to suggestion compared to a NE Seattle teen who feels their existence depends on whether or not they get into their top choice university.

"I made the mistake of watching videos of them when they were little," she said. "They were so full of joy. Will they ever get that back?"

I hope so. I am equally guilty of looking back at pictures and videos of the Boy when he was a tot. But that is not a bad thing. Seeing the sweet boy he once was gives me more reason to make sure he is getting the help he needs.

My manager often says to me he wants me to be happy, and the subtext there is that I am not. He has known me for a few years, and has seen me at my worst and my best at work. He recalls that I have a sense of humor and fun, but hasn't seen it in a while as it has been hidden behind my worry about the Boy.

Like my manager wants me to be happy, I want the Boy to be carefree and fun, too. I miss his sense of humor. I miss the joie de vivre he had a kid, like in the video above when he was crashing his plastic lawn chairs with the wheelbarrow. I remember when the Boy was little and Claire-Adele was in pre-school, I would dance with the Boy on my hip in the kitchen. I'd put him on my hip and spin around and he'd laugh and laugh. Obviously, that isn't going to happen, but I remember in recent times when he'd have good stories to tell about school, his friends and skiing. I remember dinners at Santorini with the kids when Jack was working, and they'd bombard me with tales of the crazy things they had done.

I miss that, but I am hoping sometime the Boy and I will both return to not necessarily our past selves, but better, future selves that enjoys the ups in life and can safely weather and navigate the rainy days. I hope Wilderness and boarding school will give him the rain coat, the umbrella, the rubber boots he will need to keep him warm and dry during those inevitably rough times. I used to wish--as I am sure most mothers do--that the Boy would never face hard times, that his life would be sunshine and rainbows. I have had enough tragedy in my life I should know better, and yet I still wish him a peaceful life.

But I can't. There are hard parts of life, the times of conflict that we cannot avoid or go around. We need to go through, as I was so gently reminded by Jessica. Unlike rain, we can't just sit and wait until it stops. We need to work through, or else the conflict will wait.

The leaning stack of books next to my bed.

Mantra: Kid First, Self Second, and Oxygen

As the Boy has continued to struggle with his anxiety and depression, I have been reaching out to friends whose kids have had similar if not the same issues. Their advice:

"Take care of the Boy first and yourself second."

I know this comes as a great contrast to advice given to new (and probably all) parents: As flight attendants will tell you, put your oxygen mask on before you take care of someone else.

Interestingly, this has be explicit for parents because they might not otherwise do that. The instinct would be to take care of your kid first. Parents would hold their breath while they wrestled the mask over their squirming kid. (I think this policy is part because the airline does not want to deal with a passed out parent and a freaked out kid.)

If you are walking with your toddler and it starts to rain, you would zip your kid's coat first likely before you'd zip your own. Unlike the oxygen mask on the airplane, rain is not a matter of life or death. Being wet is a matter of discomfort. A mom can withstand an inordinate amount of discomfort. A toddler cannot.

Dealing with a kid with mental health issues can be a matter of life and death--for the kid, not the parent. In this case, it means putting the oxygen mask on the kid first and the parent withstands the discomfort.

The plan is for the Boy to leave in a little more than a week for wilderness therapy. As the time gets closer for him to leave on his journey of healing (I hope), I am starting to see a little bit of light. I have put myself second for the past several months, putting relationships with family and friends on the back burner while I tend to the Boy. Some of those relationships I have neglected. Others haven't been neglected but rather put in a holding pattern.

I am grateful for the patient support many have given me. My dad has listened to me rant and rave for months, as has my friends Ellen and Patty. I owe them all a tremendous debt of gratitude. I owe my co-workers the same. Ellen took three weeks off of work before she sent her daughter to wilderness therapy--she said it wasn't a great idea as all she did was fret at home. I looked forward to the distraction of work, but I can't say my game is 100%. I am lucky to have years of experience behind in a variety of environments that I can pull on to help me manage to get through with a decent amount of grace and composure. I am reading Bel Canto, a book about people in a hostage situation, and how these people manage to cope, a majority of them are extremely composed. There are things that we are trained to do in our lives, and putting forth a good public face when your life is complete shit is something white upper middle class Americans are very, very good at. Part of it is training and seeing your friends do it. Part of it is having a solid support network of people who can see behind the curtain when your life is falling part. The other part is sleeping on sheets with 700 thread count, eating nice restaurants when you don't have the bandwidth to cook and having the extra pocket money to buy fresh cut flowers just because.

This week, I was invited to a baseball game for work a few days the Boy is dropped off at wilderness therapy. And for the first time in a very long time, I have something to look forward to, even though it is small.

"After I get back from dropping the Boy off, I really could use a hot dog and expensive beer," I wrote in an email accepting the invitation. And it is true. I am hoping to get hammered. Maybe not literally, but metaphorically. I know I could get drunk if I wanted to, whereas now I am on edge, fearing a hangover or intoxication might make me less capable of caring for the Boy. I am looking forward to not have actively be involved in what the Boy is or isn't doing. Someone else is going to take care of him in ways that I can't.

Dropping him off at wilderness might be both the hardest and easiest thing I'll ever do as a parent (I hope.) Hard because it will be hard for the Boy; easy because I feel confident that he needs help and I am glad to get him back on the path to have a fruitful and meaningful life.

I am looking forward to breathing again while someone else puts the oxygen mask on the Boy.

The Third Wheel

Monday morning this week I woke up and I was in a bad mood. When I am grouchy, I try to do this exercise where I ask myself:

1. What am I feeling?
2. Why am I feeling this way? Is there a cause?
3. What am I going to do about it? How will I react?

I’ve had to adopt this strategy since I started working again as it is not acceptable or sufficient to haul off and tell people they are pissing me off. But don’t think I’m all zen or whatever. I’m not.

So Monday I am grouchy.  Did I watch too much Ali “being a stay-at-home mom is like being in solitary confinement” Wong and now I am hostile at the three people who put me there?

Yeah, possibly.

This past weekend was my daughter’s prom and Mother’s Day.

First, the boutonniere debacle. Claire-Adele ordered flowers to be delivered for the prom. For Winter Ball, her boyfriend wanted to get her a corsage and she did not see the point of spending an hour of money she earned on something that she’d wear for a night then it would shrivel and die. For prom, she got the point and ordered flowers without fuss. She failed to check her voicemail until Saturday afternoon when she heard a message from earlier in the week from the florist saying they couldn’t deliver her flowers because they were slammed with Mother’s Day orders. She learned Saturday around 1:00. She was leaving for dinner at 7:00.

She was stressed. Jack drilled her with questions: Did you get a confirmation? Did you call them? Did you get your money back? The Boy said he was going to call the florist and yell at them until they brought her a flower. She became more stressed.

I looked at the Boy and Jack and said, "You guys need to go buy some bike parts" as I shooed them out the door. Claire-Adele went to her room and cried.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked. "The roses are in bloom in front of the house. We can make something."

"Leave me alone for five minutes," she said through sobs.

I thought for three minutes. I yelled up the stairs, "I can call Met Market and see if they can get you a flower."

"I am texting Robby," she said. "Okay, call Met Market."

I did. The woman at the other end of the line was as cheerful as a florist could possibly be before Mother's Day. "I can get you something by six. Does that work?"

"Sure." I told Claire-Adele.

"Robby got flowers from the Safeway where he used to work," she said. "Can you cancel yours?"

After the crisis was narrowly averted, neither Robby or I were going to cancel our flowers. Better to have two boutonnieres than none. "Robby can wear two," I said.

When he arrived and flower time came, Eleanor pinned on Robby's lapel the flower Robby brought. Of course she should. He's the boyfriend. I'm just the mom. It is my job to stand back and let her stand on her own. She should take his flower.

But still. I decided to not let a good rose go to waste, so I unwrapped the flower and put it in a vase by my kitchen sink.

Then next day was Mother's Day. Jack and I decided to go for a bike ride, and I was delighted the Boy decided to join us. It was a warm, sunny day, prefect for a ride across the 520 bridge. When we got to the park on the Eastside, we admired the view for a bit and then I was ready to go back home.

"I'm hungry," said the Boy. Which means his hunger has slowly been building for a while and now he was ravenous. 

"Why don't we go back and got to lunch in Ballard?" Ballard is full of fun places to go for lunch on a Saturday. That suggestion was met with ridicule from Jack and the Boy.

"It is only three more miles to Bellevue," Jack said, not looking at the elevation gain. As we left, we rode down a giant hill. Which meant on the way back I'd have to ride up a giant hill. Fuck. And then there was the mile uphill climb. The ride to Ballard is along the water and is as flat as a any ride you can find in Seattle.

Jack and the Boy were consistently twenty yards ahead of me. Once in a while, Jack would turn around and yell "You can do it!" Just because I could do it, doesn't mean I wanted to. And this was Mother's Day. It was supposed to be my ride and it was turning into theirs. I was getting pissed and I was the weak link, holding them back. Plus, I was carrying the Boy's water.

Literally.

We were the sweatiest people Bellevue Square has ever seen. Truckloads of people were dressed up and at the mall on the nicest weekend day of spring so far this year. It was weird. I didn't bring my saddle bags, so I couldn't shop--for much! I did manage to get a little "treat yourself" Mother's Day goodies in my fanny pack from Lego and Lush. The boy got Jamba Juice.

I was in need of some powerful feminine energy after riding with the Boys. And lip gloss.

The ride from Bellevue Square back to the 520 bridge wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I got to the bottom of the steep part, I found a mantra--In two months, I'll be in London. London is flat. There are no hills in London. Magically, the hill I was terrified about wasn't nearly as killer as I thought it would be. Evan, my physical therapist, would have been proud.

At the end of the day, I had fun slogging to Bellevue Square, even though I was swearing under my breath for the second half of the ride. I had 16 miles to add to my "Bike Everywhere" log for May.

So why was I so grumpy on Monday? Did I watch too much Ali Wong over the weekend and I was deeply pondering the inequity women face in the world?

Perhaps it is the realization that for so long, my world revolved around them, and that there never will be a day where their world revolves around me--not that it should. Still--I'd like a weekend where I am not the third wheel in my family events.

Cognitive Dissonance and the Other Side

Earlier this week, my past and present lives collided in an unexpected way.

Tuesday, I went to charity breakfast for Literacy Source, an organization that teaches adult immigrants and refugees to speak, read and write English so they may find gainful employment and fully engage in American society. Nancy Pearl, famous Seattle Librarian, Pulitzer Prize jurist for Fiction, and long-time supporter of Literacy Source, was the keynote speaker. She gave us her top picks for summer reading. (See below if you are curious.)

My attendance at these charity breakfasts, lunches and auctions has greatly diminished since my days as a stay-at-home mom, volunteer and community activist. Still, when my friend Barb invited me to this event, I said yes.

It was a year ago last week that I started training for my job. Since then, I've been buried in settling myself into my new roles of working mom and data analyst. I now have "colleagues" and "co-workers" instead of "friends," but really they not much different aside from gender. (Most of my stay-at-home mom friends started out as a volunteer colleague or someone I met through a non-profit.) After the initial phase of drinking out of a fire hose was over, work felt familiar, comfortable in fact. Why? Because I was returning to my past-past-life where I was in consulting and project management. Returning to work was like riding a bicycle...while simultaneously drinking from a fire hose.

Barb picked me up early Tuesday morning. I hadn't seen her in a while. She was one of a very early supporters of my campaign for school board. She is a perennial do-gooder with a massive heart and a fierce brain that wants to solve all of the inequities and injustices in the world. And she isn't smarmy or self-righteous. She is nice and she is kind, one of the kindest people I know.

"Tell me about your job," she asked, as have many other women I know.

I told her I was part of Apprenti, an organization that brings women, veterans and people of color into tech jobs. When I told her I finished my training and am in a data job, she looked confused, as have many other women I know.

"Wait," she said. "You are one of the people in the training?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, I thought you were running the program," she said as have many other women I know. "Tell me about your job search. You have such great experience. It must have been easy to find a job."

"Ummm, no," I said. "Finding paid employment after being a stay-at-home mom for seventeen years is a tale worthy of Tolkien." Like Bilbo Baggins, I was seriously kicked out of my comfort zone complete with second breakfasts and whatnot and thrown into a world of grand adventure where I was breathed on by Smaug, the evil tech recruiter who told me I should consider being an administrative assistant. Yeah. Would you say that to guy? No. (Sorry. In my rage when I look back at my job search, I am repeating an existing blog post. My bad.)

Barb, bless her heart, thought my job search entailed me looking up really cool jobs online, and then picking the best one.

Ha! I started a full-throtle bitch session on how hard it was to find a job. Poor Barb. I felt sorry for her having to listen to me rant.

I got back to the office from charity breakfast filled with gray haired middle-aged women. (Women who support refugees don't have time to dye their hair. C'mon! We have better things to do.) At work, I did work related stuff. Once in awhile, I'll check my personal email at work, and 95% I have nothing interesting or urgent. In my email, a friend invited me to a dress rehearsal of the Seattle Opera's Aida. I also had an email reminding me of a fundraiser for Maria Cantwell, the U.S. Senator from Washington. My arts and culture life collided with my political life.

Then, the greatest clash of all--I was invited to attend the Gala for the Apprenti program. As an apprentice. So I could sit with people and they could see the benefit of the program. I am used to being on the giving side of these things, not the receiving.

And yet. I replied to the invite, which the program director replied back: Do you want to bring your husband?

And let everyone see I am married to a doctor? Good god no. Why would anyone donate money to the cause that provides upper middle class white women the opportunity to return to the workforce in a professional position? When I told Jack I couldn't bring him, he said, "You don't think people will donate money to support ladies who lunch?"

I hope to god the dear, kind, true-blue believers at Apprenti do not ask me to give a speech. It would be the worse speech ever.

"I want to thank Apprenti for saving me from a life of volunteerism, benefit luncheons, and driving my kids places. Now that I have a real job, I can buy Prada shoes and not have to explain or discuss with my husband."

Or worse, "Hey all of you tech leaders! Without this program, I would not have been able to enter the workforce even though I have really cool work experiences and a top shelf education. Two of my college professors won Nobel Prizes in Economics. Two. You have a shortage of workers and I know of at least three women who are stay-at-home mom volunteer types who have MBA's from kickass colleges. I know an electrical engineer who is now a Zumba instructor! I know bankers and tech saleswomen and software people who are now yoga instructors! Maybe make your workplaces suck a little less--as in not make them white collar sweatshops--and have you HR people have a little decency to look outside of their little boxes and hire a former mom! Seriously. You are bringing this on yourselves. You are your own worst enemy. Hire more women, stop harassing the women you do have and pay them equitably." (mic drop.)

Yeah. Those speeches will get people to donate money.

Not.

So here I am, freaking out, reading my email at work instead of working. I have to decide between Aida and Maria Cantwell. Oh the conflicts I have in my ever-so-privileged and connected life! So I decide on Maria.

It was the best thing ever. It was a small group at a home on Capitol Hill. It was not unlike the dozens of fundraisers I did when I was running for school board where I'd talk to people at the party over hors d'oeuvres, give a little speech and answer questions. I was too fangirl, starstruck to talk to the Senator, but she talked to the group of less than thirty people.

How in the hell did I get invited to this event with this rarified air? It was unbelievable. The next morning, I woke up and remembered: when I ran for school board, I'd attend events of other politicians, and I'd make a contribution. I must have made twenty contributions to local political campaigns over the past two years. Why? Unfortunately, campaigns cost money and good people need strong campaigns to win. I know the game because I've been on the other side.

So that is the lesson for this week -- I've been on both sides of the same coin. I've been the donor, to causes and campaigns. And I've been a beneficiary of the largess of others, as a candidate and as an apprentice. It just so rare for me to be looking at both sides of this coin at the same time.

Nancy Pearl's Book List

State School

Claire-Adele committed to the University of Maryland.

I should be thrilled, right? She's in the Honor's Program, she got in her major government and politics, and she will be in Washington, D.C. where there are hundreds of opportunities to get internships with the federal government. This will be awesome for her.

For me, this is a state school which is about $22K less than a private school, plus she got a nice scholarship, saving me close to $30K.

Claire-Adele joined the UMD freshmen Facebook page, and connected with several like minded students. Claire-Adele could have written this herself:

"I like hiking, reading, going to political protests and watching Parks and Rec on Netflix."

I was happy for her.

Then, she said, "I am going to need cut-off t-shirts to wear to tailgates."

Whaaa, I thought. She is on the waitlist for an all women's college in NYC where, if they did tailgate, they would not wear cut-off t-shirts.

I did not go to a state school. Neither did Jack. I know not all state schools are party schools and private schools van be rowdy. Animal House was based on Washington University in Saint Louis, blocks from where I used to live. Yet, I have an assumption--that might be right or wrong--that state schools party more than private ones. Jack checked out some videos on YouTube of UMD students. One girl was at what looked like a fraternity party where she smashed a beer on her head, it cracked open, and she drank it.

Oy. At that moment, I realized I know nothing about UMD. Sure, the college counselor said it would be a great fit for Eleanor. Sure, it has great programs in what she is interested in. Sure, it is considered a top twenty value in college education. (That is per Claire-Adele. I did not verify.) Sure, it is saving me $30K a year compared to a private school.

But is it a party school? Am I sending my daughter off to a drunken bachanal for the next four years? I hope to god not.

Then I wondered, could this be good for Claire-Adele? No, I do not want to see her hammered in a YouTube video slamming a beer. But maybe an environment that is somewhat festive could better than a school where everyone studies all of the time. Or better than a school where everyone studies all of the time and then power drinks on the weekends to escape the intense academic pressure.

So I googled "Top Party Schools" and found a few lists. According to the Princeton Review, UW (Wisconsin) Madison is the number one party school in the U.S.. That list wasn't complete enough, so I continued to Google and found another list from niche.com. UMD is listed at #41. University of Washington, in my backyard, is #84.

I relaxed. That isn't so bad, but I did figure out where all of my angst was coming from, in addition to one YouTube video. What college conference has the most party schools?

The Big Ten. Eight schools made the top 25, including UW Madison, Ohio State, Penn State, Indiana, Michigan, Michigan State, Iowa and U of Illinois if I remember correctly. MIT and Rice beat out my alma mater, which ranked so low, I can't even find it. (Okay, I did. #260.)

No wonder I was freaked out. I was born and raised in Big Ten country, home of some of the big party schools in the country. Then I read a little more. While my alma mater was ranked #260, its partying grade was A-. UMD was graded an A+ in partying. I suppose it is all the same, at some point. Unless I send Claire-Adele to a convent, partying will be part of the scene.

The Baby Bucket

Today, Claire-Adele heard from a few colleges she applied to. Nixed at one, waited listed at another. She seemed to be in a reasonable mood, considering.

I bought her some flowers at the Market today before I heard any of the news. I made the decision to buy flowers last week, knowing this week was going to be crazy. We went out to dinner at Rositas to celebrate the near end of the college admissions process/rat race.

At the table next to us was a young couple with a baby in a baby carrier car seat bucket. The baby was covered up, so I didn't get a peek. While Claire-Adele and I waited for the check, Jack and the Boy went to Gregg's Greenlake to look at mountain bikes. (Gear heads...) The couple and their baby walked by.

For a few moments, I remembered bringing Claire-Adele to Zuzu's, a Mexican restaurant in Clayton, MO. It was the first time we went out with the new baby, which was scary and thrilling. People stopped and told us what a cute baby we had, and of course, I believed them. This was the cutest, best baby ever. The first time people come up and look at your baby is something remarkable. It is amazing that this little tiny creature exists.

And here I am, seventeen years later, my baby in the bucket is about to leave for college in few months.

Holy crap. I hope the next six months aren't like this. I hope I don't start weeping every time I see a wagon or a stroller because my kids is going off to college. Ugh. I am going to sound like a new mom who thinks they baby is pure angel and they are the first person to ever experience the miracle motherhood.

And yet, I think this is as big as becoming a mother, maybe even bigger. It is easy to bring a kid into the world, and much harder to get them to the proverbial finish line.

Out with the Old

The next two weeks are going to be rough as Claire-Adele waits to get her acceptance letters from colleges. Our Spring Break plans hinge on where she gets in, which is a drag since this is her last Spring Break before she leaves.

Last night instead of getting involved in her spinning about what to do over break, I re-arranged my book stacks (i.e., the stacks of books I have around the house that don't fit on our shelves). With Claire-Adele leaving in less than six months, I don't need these books anymore. This morning, I donated them to the Little Library in our neighborhood.

We bought these books when we moved to Seattle in 2004, and they were well used. Instead of getting a pass to the Seattle Children's Museum (which is cool if I remember correctly), I am now buying tickets to Bumbershoot for the Boy.

These new books have replaced those old ones:

I had to balance out the geriatric knee book with something more inspiring. The Pacific Crest Trail is a gorgeous coffee table book with cool photos of places I'd love to see. While I have no plans to do a Cheryl Strayed and hike the whole thing from Mexico to Canada (or wherever she stopped), I wouldn't mind hitting parts of it. I can't imagine the kids would think it would be a fun vacation, but I can make plans for when they are gone. My neighbors Jen and Dave are empty-nesters as of this year, and they are having a blast traveling all over place.

After I moved some books around, I went to brush my teeth before I walked the dog and take the books to the Little Library. I looked around the bathroom and found other debris that will likely be left behind when Claire-Adele leaves, including a drawer full of nail polish. The old eye shadow will need to be tossed, but maybe I can find a place to donate the nail polish. If the YMCA Homeless Teen Center doesn't want it, maybe I can offload it on some of the neighborhood girls.

It is hard to believe this phase of my life and Claire-Adele's is coming to an end. It is not like she's dying, but there will be an extra empty bedroom in my house by the end of the summer. When someone dies, the loved ones are left with all of the crap the person has accumulated over a lifetime. Except for what she decides to schlep to east, all of her shit will still be here: dozens and dozens of books, a closet full of games, craft kits that are mostly used up, and a baby grand piano in my living room that no one will play, except maybe the Boy who dinks around on it once in a while or his friends who play when they come to visit.

Some parents leave their children's rooms as museums, untouched after the kids leave. That's not going to happen here. The Boy, who has been sleeping in the coverted attic space, will move into Claire-Adele's room when she leaves.

"Oh that's mean!" you might be thinking to yourself. "Poor Claire-Adele getting booted out of her room when she goes to college."

Nope. The kid has a view of Lake Washington and Mt. Rainier from her bedroom. It is the nicest room in the whole house, and she has it all to herself. There is no way I am leaving the hottest piece of property in my house unused while she is gone. Instead, she was extremely lucky for the years she was here. When she visits, she can either sleep in the converted attic, or out in the shed.

Drive v. Bus

I lied. This post is really (again) about the mass shooting in the high school in Florida.

Last night, Jack and I went to a YMCA event. It wasn't a fundraiser. It was an event for people who previously donated to the YMCA with free food and beverages and Eric Liu as the speaker so that when they call to ask you for money, you will say, of course and open your wallet very wide because you believe in an organization that promotes social equity by creating "weak ties" so we may have a decent, kind and respectful citizenry. "Weak ties" according to sociologists are the small interactions with have with people we kind of know, but not very well. These relationships are the glue that keeps society civil. When we have weak ties with people not like us, our society tends to have more social justice. This was a balm after hearing about the high school shooting in Broward County on Wednesday.

The next morning, I was dressed and on my way out the door to go to work when the Boy said, "I don't want to go to school."

I had driven the kids to school three times this week because

a) the Boy broke his collarbone,
b) the weather was crummy, and
c) I had to drive to work anyway those days, so I might as well drop the kids off at school on the way.

Today, I wanted to take the bus. I wanted twenty-five minutes on the bus to read the newspaper and another twenty minutes to walk from the bus to the office. All three days this week, the kids bickered and bickered and bickered as Claire-Adele wanted to eat the last piece of Jack's birthday cake for breakfast.

I was really looking forward to my bus ride this morning. I was relishing my alone time, so I could come to work relaxed, not annoyed and pissed off at my kids.

"Why don't you want to go to school?" I asked, looking at the clock, knowing I was going to miss the 8:11.

"I just don't," he said, slumping into the couch. I thought why he might not want to go to school: homework, missing ski bus, possible problems with friends. Last night, he said he, Milo and Anna had a deep conversation about school shootings in Chemistry class.

"Is it about your conversation with Milo and Anna yesterday?" I asked.

"No, not that," he said, and I believed him.

"Why don't you eat something. I can toast you a bagel."

"I'm not hungry," he said.

"At least get dressed," I said.

No answer.

"If you need to rest, I can take your phone and computer with me to work," I said in the kindest, least antagonistic way possible. I had to stay calm. Arguing with the Boy, telling him to get his butt of the couch and get to school would only make the situation worse, and I didn't want that. But I'd be damned if he was going to skip school and watch YouTube all day.

"I'll get dressed," said the Boy. And he did. He ate 3/4 of my breakfast sandwich, which was fine. I was glad he ate.

"I can give you a ride to school," I said. I needed to make sure he got to school. I didn't want to get to work and get a phone call from the attendance lady telling me my student wasn't there.

"I can walk," he said. The next bus didn't come until 8:26, so I hung out at home as late as I possibly could. I left when he was putting on his shoes. With a sprint up the hill and around the corner, I made it the stop as the bus was pulling up.

I sank into my seat and checked my email.

Then I read the newspaper, the front page, first article I saw in the New York Times:

Just 24 hours after a shooting that turned this city numb, Lori Alhadeff stood near 17 cream-colored angels with gold wings that lined the park stage where a vigil was held Thursday night. One of those angels represented her daughter, Alyssa, 14, who was killed in the massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.

Trembling, she said she was there for her daughter, and she was there to talk to anyone who would listen. “My daughter is dead, but all these children out here have to go to school. A shooter should not be able to just walk in,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I hope she didn’t die for nothing.”

Here is a mom whose daughter died twenty-four hours earlier and she is worried about the survivors of the massacre, the kids who have to go back to school.

I lost it. I started crying on the bus. I was glad I was the only one on my team in the office today so I could come in with puffy eyes and no one would notice.

I should have driven my kids to school.

Valentine's Day (sigh)

Note: I was going to write a happy, upbeat little post on why Valentine's Day sucks, but first I need to comment on the school shooting in Florida. Now that both of my kids are in high school, this kind of thing scares me exponentially more than it did when I only had one kid in high school. And I am going to stop thinking "Thank God my kids are safe," which they are. Instead, I will think about the mom who doesn't get to think that tonight.

How much of collective human joy has been destroyed because of these shootings? How many people were planning a festive evening to celebrate their loved ones and then have to experience the shared grief of Florida teenagers and their parents? Should we all become numb--shrug and move on--every time something like this happens? Do we need a magic number of dead kids (say, a dozen?) for a massacre to make national news? Don't kids have enough to worry about these days that they don't need "I could get shot in school by a stranger" added to the list as a credible threat?

I came back from the YMCA this evening and I heard the news on the radio. My son heard about it on Instagram hours before I did. Teens hear about everything that happens anywhere moments after it happens. When I was in middle and high school, we would have the Dan Rather on in the background while we ate dinner. I mostly tuned it out unless something major happened like the Space Shuttle explosion. Now, my kids know more about what Trump said or tweeted today than I do. For better or worse, they are not shielded from the world events. I needed to check in with my kids this evening, to see how they are feeling--worried? angry? sad?

The only hope I have is that my kids and their friends will all grow up someday and call bullshit on allowing people with records of mental illness to have access to AK-47s. Or even anyone to have access to an AK-47. I get blue and moody on occasion and I wouldn't want me handling a weapon on those days. Seriously--even though the likelihood of me committing a mass killing I hope would be infinitely small, would I trust myself that I could keep such a weapon safe and out of the hands of someone who might want to do harm to themselves or others? What about the kids next door? I’d be most worried that the eight year boy next door would think it was a toy and gun down his sisters.

I remember years ago reading about Chechen rebels who attacked a school in Russia and killed more than 300 people. Back then in 2004, I thought that was an act of considerable barbarism. What would be the worst, most reprehensible thing a rebel or terrorist could do to a group of people? Attack their children. It is the lowest of the low. We even think of animals they prey on the young as awful. What birds are considered the worst? The ones that steal other birds eggs. The fox gets a bad rep for stealing eggs from the hen house (and probably a few hens, too.) 

And yet, we permit this to happen. I am not calling for repeal of the second amendment, but nor do I buy the argument that “a few school killings is the price to pay for freedom.”