Frozen Grapes Are Not Dessert

 

Snow day!

When I was little, snow days meant creeping out of bed on a necessarily frozen morning, stealing across the cold hard wood floors of my bedroom, and turning on the radio until the music stopped and the announcer recited the schools that were closed.  “Ontario Schools” was, of course, always somewhere in the middle, leaving one on tenterhooks until that pivotal moment. Those lucky kids in Bucyrus and Crestline and Galion. The extra minutes of my childhood given to that mid-alphabetical listing!

Today, both my husband and I received a phone call and an email from the school district at 5:09am, followed by an email from our elementary school at 5:19am. And for good measure, while still warm in bed, I tugged my cell phone up from the floor by its charging cord, and pulled up the 9news website to see it in print as well. And went back to bed for an hour.

Snow days have magic to them, even if there’s more technology in their delivery. I’m lucky to work in a job where a snow day just means a work-from-home day, and so I never quite got dressed today, although I added a layer and fuzzy socks, and my car never left the driveway, although I did clear it off, in preparation for my life resuming tomorrow. But one aspect of snow days that has evolved since I was a student is parenting a snow day.

My oldest woke up a little after 9. She received the Harry Potter books from her uncle on New Year’s Eve (otherwise known as the Final Gifts of Christmas), and she has since then worked through the first two, starting on the third. She occasionally surfaces to note what she prefers from the books, and what she thinks the movies did well. She hasn’t even watched tv in two days, she told me, which probably I should have noticed, and encouraged, for myself. But for the most part, Child 1: snow day, sorted. And since voracious reading is how I would spend a snow day, both then and now, I feel good about it.

Which leaves Child 2.

“Mom, where’s my ruler from picture day, so I can measure the snow?”

“Mom, can I have a pickle? Mom? Can you open the jar? Do you need a knife to bang on it?”

“Mom, how do you spell creepy crawly? I’m writing a story.”

“There’s nothing to do!!” (It’s 10am)

“Mom! I cut myself with the orange peeler! It’s bleeding!”  (How? Just… how?)

“But you said I could spend my money at the Dollar Store tomorrow.”  “No. I said, Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow doesn’t mean tomorrow.” “You said tomorrow!”

“Is there enough internet for your work and for Netflix? Can you find me Animal Buddies?”

And finally, “I swear if you don’t get off your sister this instant, you’re going to spend the rest of the day in your room. I mean it, chica. Don’t test me.”

Well, that last one was me. Possibly said in not my magical snow day voice.

When we were in Minnesota for the holidays, my brother-in-law mentioned that they’d had school the week before with a -45 degree windchill (real temps, -23). And then and now, I thought that was crazy. Partly because I can’t even imagine -45 degrees, windchill or not, and I don’t understand how such places stay populated, even by enthusiastic winter warriors. But I also thought, snow days shouldn’t be so hard won. They should be like the 10^th free purchase at the frozen yogurt store, or the $5 reward at the liquor store. Sure, it doesn’t happen every day, but both have definitely happened in recent memory and will again.

Even as an adult, snow days are rewards in the non-sugared cereal box. They are reminders that there are some things we can’t control in life (nature is a big one) and that’s not so bad. Somehow we got suckered into adulting – we maybe even perhaps sprinted there, thinking we were in a hurry – and snow days are reminders that we can sometimes drop that ball, and just stare out the window for a while, hot mug in hand and old college sweatshirt on, while nature holds the cards.

Yes, I got less done than I would have in the office. Yes, I thought my head might explode a couple of times, with the potpourri of questions that fell faster than the temperatures. And no, my house is no cleaner than it was at 5:09am this morning. But snow days are snow days.

When I asked my youngest what the best part of her snow day was, she replied, “The best part? Was figuring out it was a snow day, and being with you.”

So she didn’t have to creep across a winter bedroom tundra, and even if she had, her school district begins with “D,” so she’s still got it made. But that pearly magic moment, when one moment you were hopeful but uncertain, and the next your whole soul lifts to the unexpected day off, that moment of snow day realization is still magic, no matter how we hear it.

And maybe she remembers our cell phone app yoga practice more than my ultimatums. Because now when I think back about the day, my favorite part was feeling her hand find mine during Shavasana, while we both just let routine flow over and around us, stretched out in complete repose. And isn’t that the entire point of a snow day?

 

My adorable 7-month-old niece gave me a cold for Christmas. It’s hard to hold it against her, since she is also full of baby giggles and has endearingly chubby rolls at her wrists and ankles and still has the delicious downy baby head that you can nuzzle and breathe in. But at about 4:17pm this afternoon, I sneezed three times in quick succession, and my slightly tickly throat and case of intermittent sniffles became a full-fledged cold.

Certainly I wouldn’t take back any of the cuddles with this new niece who will only be a baby for such a short time, who will probably stretch into at least a toddler before we see her again, like her sister before her who somehow turned four this fall while our backs were turned.

This is kind of the thing about life, I suppose. There’s the good, and there’s the bad. There’s bad with the good. There’s good with the bad. I blame evolution for the fact that the bad sometimes seems to outweigh the good in our calculations. If you’re being chased by a saber tooth tiger only 10% of the time, it’s still likely to make a sizeable impression on how you live the other 90% of your life. But now that most of us aren’t dividing our lives into predator/prey scenarios, probably the inclination to weight the negative isn’t as imperative. And yet it’s hard to get out of the habit.

I’ve been incredibly guilty of this this year. 2016 has been collectively panned as a terrible year. The part of me that can’t help but use dark humor to cope appreciates this sampling of the Twitterverse:

 

There’s dark camaraderie in laughing cynically into the void.

And yet, clearly it hasn’t been all bad. My family is healthy, except for maybe this cold, which I imagine will be relatively short-lived. There was a perfect new baby on each side of our family tree this year. I was able to see multiple far-flung friends who have known me for so long we don’t admit how long, because it makes us seem far older than we feel. I watched my daughters wade in the Colorado River on sunny summer days, and kissed my husband on a catamaran at sunset beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. I discovered new friends who challenge me to think with more breadth and depth, and renewed old friendships that remind me that some things are immutable. The good.

And the bad: a man who embodies everything I abhor won the presidency of the country that I was absolutely convinced, until about 9pm on November 8, would never fall for him. But in the same moment, many more rose up, via voices and checkbooks and volunteerism and tenacious presence, to defend social progress: “His views are not mine.” I worry globally, but am confident locally. Yin and yang.

New Years is generally a positive holiday (as I suppose most holidays are). The metaphoric blank page. The glittering ball drop in Times Square, fireworks over the Sydney Opera House and Auld Lang Syne. The start of “all things that have never been.” I don’t know if I’ve ever made a successful new year’s resolution. I don’t think the point is so much keeping them as making them. Making them is a hopeful, optimistic act and we need as many of those as we can accumulate in life. And so I also embrace the clean starts of spring, of summer break, my birthday, the letting go of fall. It’s never too early or too late to begin again.

Often, we characterize the new year as a baby, taking over from the old man of the previous year, beginning January with precocious charm. This year seems more like it is starting with a cautious, somewhat jaded early-20-something who has their whole adult life ahead of them, but has been tossed around a bit already. The optimism is tempered with disquiet, like scanning the horizon for a predicted storm, unsure of its arrival and intensity.

Storms aren’t all bad. The waiting reminds me that this fall, when my aunt’s seaside town in South Carolina was hit by a hurricane, what she conveyed afterwards was not the fear of the storm, but the sense of community it created in preparation and cleanup. And my first winter in Colorado, it snowed three feet in March. What I remember most is neighbors coming together with everything from shovels to baking trays to scoop away snow, even while we were noting cars by their antennas sticking out of snow drifts. Storms come and go; often they leave communities stronger for them.

In high school and college, I kept a quote book. I look through it sometimes still, amused by the often histrionic, though sincere, bent to what appealed to me at the time. Dating is hell, clearly. Other entries are idealistic. Others classic. Jerry Maguire quotes beside Emerson beside Tolstoy, beside Jewel lyrics.

I can still remember the impact of when I read The Grapes of Wrath, the imagery, the heartbreak, the despair, the beginnings of an understanding of social justice. There are several pages in that quote book devoted to Steinbeck’s portrayal of a country in deep turmoil, but which is still, somehow, slowly progressing forward:  This you may say of man – when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only a half step, never the full step back.

Even in the worst of times, described so rawly and powerfully by Steinbeck in his evisceration of the mechanisms of the Great Depression, inevitably, we go forward. It’s not always pretty, but still “the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice.” We just have to take the long view, and gaze steadfastly and confidently in that direction, while committing, in the short view, to being the good in the bad.

As 2017 begins, I resolve to try to remember that I’m not being chased by a saber tooth tiger. That storms build communities. That a new year isn’t so much about blank pages, but about forward progression, however slow, however messy.

Happy New Year, all. To 2017.

I went to bed early last night because sometimes the universe works out where you are simultaneously exhausted and home and no one’s needs are especially pressing. And so when I woke up somewhat early this morning, it was still completely quiet, except for the thudding predator prey white noise of the cats as they did their cat thing. I slid open our frosted bedroom window to see how much snow had fallen overnight, and breathed in the cold air. It smelled cold. And new. And freshly wintery. Checked phone. -2. Definitely wintery.

I came downstairs and made tea and I stood at the patio door for a little while, the tree’s Christmas lights reflecting off the glass, and I watched the snow filter down. I miraculously found both tape and scissors (Christmas miracle!) and wrapped a few presents, slipped a few mementos into stockings. And I reflected that this was an ideal sort of holiday season morning. Snow, quiet, wrapping presents in the quiet glow of the tree.

But I noted it in a sort of detached, third-person way. An if-I-wrote-tv-movies-or-if-I-wrote-for-Hallmark-or-Folgers commercials sort of way. I usually enjoy Christmas. I’m not that person who counts down from July, but once Thanksgiving is over, usually still that afternoon, I’m all in. We play Christmas music almost exclusively throughout the month, and we decorate with the traditions that have become our family’s, as well as some heirlooms that have been passed down. I make a big deal out of making hors d’oeuvres and hot cider while we decorate the tree.

This year, I did none of that. When my husband suggested decorating, I teared up, got angry, and said that they could do what they wanted. This was unreasonable, obviously. And no matter how I’m feeling, obviously the good parenting instinct should kick in and push me to do what I need to do to make the holiday special and joyous for the children, for the family.

“That’s okay, mama,” my youngest said, rubbing my arm as I stood, rigidly, irrationally heartbroken at the idea of Christmas. “You don’t have to help. We can do it.”

It’s always sweet when we adults are feeling sick or tired, and our children bring us a stuffed animal and pull a blanket over us. “You’ll be such a good mother,” I say. And yet, when our children are truly and sincerely parenting us in ways beyond stuffed animals, it’s a little distressing. But I stood firm. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – embrace a feeling I wasn’t feeling, simply because the calendar had ticked its way through the year.

And so, Christmas cards were ordered, gifts were purchased. Without me, the mantle was decorated and stockings were hung. Finally, giving up on me, my husband shrugged and put up the tree. I made a couple forays into holiday spirit, but they felt uncomfortable. An ill-fitting jacket found at the back of a closet. I peeled out of it and put it back. I Googled “Where Are You Christmas,” and “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” the only Christmas songs I felt any connection with.

I put Love Actually on the other day, thinking it would be a good way to channel some holiday cheer. Heads up, parents, if you haven’t seen it in a while and only remember heart-warming highlights. Delightful, yes. Child-friendly, no. It is totally rated R for a reason. I did not even think to check until the about the time I ordered my youngest out of the room, about 8 minutes in. Holiday does not automatically equal PG and is not all about lobsters at the Christmas crèche. Noted for next time. For this year, it was just another aborted Christmas mission.

This has been a hard Christmas season. I know it’s been true for not just me. I have talked to many friends who feel the same way. This year has been emotionally exhausting for any number of reasons. I feel buffeted by wave after wave of news and information. I’ve considered the sage advice of tuning out for a while, and yet that seems somehow frightening as well. I want to be informed – the world doesn’t stop just because we tune out and I firmly believe that the world needs a compassionate, informed public – but the cost of being informed is knowing, seeing. And so, we’re exhausted. Protests, natural disasters, mass shootings, genocide, fallen police officers and the warmest year on record (again).

Christmas can be wonderful. It’s traditions and joy, goodwill and family. But it’s also exhausting. Life doesn’t stop because it’s the holiday season, and in some ways the world spins faster. Holiday parties, year-end wrap-ups, concerts and dance recitals. Gifts to buy. Finding time to make traditions happen. Great-grandma’s cookies, remembering it’s the one time of year we need to buy shortening, and holiday movies (of appropriate scope). If we start out emotionally drained, it’s hard to find the additional reservoirs to tap for that ornament decorating and cookie exchange party that’s taking place on a Wednesday night.

This year, in acknowledgment of the holidays, the girls and I looked through the World Ark/Heifer International gift catalog and the girls choose to send Hope Baskets – chickens and rabbits (a little known and quickly multiplying symbols of Christmas). It’s a gifting custom started with my grandmother, continued by my parents – four generations of holiday spirit. That seems legitimately traditional. And then, feeling sick about the continued news coming out of Aleppo, we donated to Doctors Without Borders, so that they can continue to do everything they can to help those people who are in such unimaginable distress, and who, coincidentally, live in the same region of the world as one little displaced boy child who was born in a manger 2000 years ago. It’s a drop in an ocean, but still a drop.

I think I have sometimes gotten too caught up in the trappings of a perfect Christmas, which makes it harder to be at peace with the humbuggery I’m feeling this year. I generally subscribe to the holly jolly Christmas, the best time of the year, maybe a little fearful that if it wasn’t, I wasn’t doing my job, wasn’t paying enough homage to my own childhood, wasn’t giving my children a template that they would want to take with them. In the name of tradition, I was creating snapshots of orchestrated holiday accomplishment. And maybe in a lot of ways, that’s actually what tradition boils down to… what snapshots we want to take with us as we go into the new year, as our children become adults, the days and moments we want to make sure we remember.

This year, the stockings are hung. The tree is trimmed, even if I didn’t have much to do with it. In a secret, thawing place in my heart, it’s a soothing reminder that life is multi-faceted, as are we. I think it’s okay if this year my holidays aren’t about matching pajamas and Christmas mugs of cocoa next to a Yule log. Maybe I’ll get back there next year. Maybe sometimes it’s okay if the holidays are simply a cyclical reminder that the world has been around for a very long time, and will likely keep spinning for a good while longer, even if not everything looks the same from year to year.

One of the traditions of my childhood was reading aloud in the evenings as a family, including the classic C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe series. In Narnia, when the Pevensie children first arrive, it is always Winter, but never Christmas. I think this year, while not glowing with holiday spirit, I’m content with the idea that in the midst of Winter, Christmas is still due to arrive on schedule, proof that we’ve made it around the sun one more time and get another chance to do it all again, and maybe – hopefully – better, next year.

It’s a reminder that in the coldest, darkest part of the year, the sun is already fighting for precedence.

When I was 23, I left my first husband after being married for just about 10 months. Of course, we should never have gotten married in the first place, which was, I have always said, painfully obvious in hindsight.

But really, it was obvious beforehand. It was obvious when he brought home size 6 clothes for me, when he knew I was an 8 (but I could be a 6 if I tried). It was obvious when I found out, after a car accident, that he didn’t have a valid driver’s license (just some tickets he hadn’t taken care of. No big deal.) It was obvious when he took a hammer to my engagement ring after a fight (full disclosure, I’d started it by criticizing his treatment of his mother, which was, he said, none of my business, and had wrenched it from my finger and thrown it at him mid-fight.) Not the best signs. But I stayed. I took that deal. And I married him.

If I could go back, I don’t even know what I would say to that girl. Shake her, maybe. Because she was so willfully blind, or so willfully focused, or maybe just incredibly stupid. I thought it would get better. I thought we just needed to get settled. Or maybe we needed a change of scenery. We were just passionate, not dysfunctional.

I’ve heard it said that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes the reason is that we’re foolish (naïve, irrational, bone-headed, desperate, reactive) and make bad choices. And there it is, sometimes bad things happen because we make bad choices. Sometimes the bad choices are painfully obvious, to us, to those around us. And yet we make them anyway. We accept a deal that’s a stacked deck because of a myriad of background issues, our own personal foundational cracks and insecurities, previous heartbreak and heartburn. We don’t live in a vacuum, and we don’t make decisions in one.

When I was 23, after 10 months of marriage, my brother had a health scare on the East Coast while I was thousands of miles away in Colorado. I got the news in an email from my mother the next morning. I was late getting into the shower. I was late getting out of the shower. My lack of basic consideration meant that my ex was now also running late. Might even be late for work, because of me. I don’t remember if he was. I do remember that he said things no one should say to anyone, let alone their wife. Mean things, especially to someone who was never a natural size 6, but had tried, and who was still wrapped in a towel, and inescapably vulnerable to the icy acidity of the cutting inventory of my bodily and marital flaws.

And so I left him that day.

Realizing a bad decision, or even coming out of a bad decision, doesn’t negate it. We’re a sum of our parts. It simply means that I made bad choices, but am now making the choice to make new choices. There’s almost necessarily some collateral damage along the way. Some of it is repairable. Some is not. Some people will forgive you and welcome you back. Some will not. It’s not up to you and you have to make peace with that, even when it hurts.

New choices take some distance, some soul searching, some willingness to see that we weren’t irreproachable ourselves. I was culpable in my own disgrace. I could give you a dozen easy reasons why it wasn’t my fault. But in the end, I made that deal with all its concessions. But also my choice to rebuild, refocus, rebrand, remake.

Whether a person believes that the nation’s electoral college win for Trump – which is a win for the presidency, I don’t dispute – is a black hole of bad decisions doesn’t matter much at this point. We can unfriend and hashtag and yell into the void for as long as we want. As a nation, we made that choice. We decided, apparently, that we’re just passionate, not dysfunctional. As a nation, we agreed to certain concessions.

And so, we jumped into a relationship that is bound to be volatile at best. Bernie Sanders supporters may blame the DNC. Hillary Clinton may blame Jim Comey. The blue states may blame the Rust Belt, or the 40% of Americans who don’t vote. Millennials who are too entitled. Baby boomers who are too rigid. I’m not convinced that even Donald Trump is super happy with the result. It turns out he applied for a really big job, and he got it.

In the end, though, retrospective armchair quarterbacking is only significant if we do a little soul searching on top of it. I’m still angry. And I’m still despondent. But ultimately, it doesn’t matter how incredulous I am if I don’t question my own culpability.

Enough Americans feel they’ve we’ve been hurt tangibly as a country because of [personally-specific reason here], that we’re willing to go in a completely new direction, as long as it’s unrecognizable from our past. Sometimes our choices don’t say nearly as much about who we are, or our foundational beliefs, as they do about what we have just immediately walked through. Sometimes we whiplash from painful into toxic before we can walk out. I’ve been there. In the end, it’s as Shakespeare said, “What’s past is prologue.” We can’t change it, but we can react to it. There’s a whole play after the prologue; we’ve all got parts.

No matter what we’ve done, “inexorably, unalterably done,” we control our next choice. We choose when to stay, we choose when to walk. And it’s infinitely more complicated than that, of course, and far from fair. Regardless, our choices can’t be expunged. And sometimes the consequences are incredibly high, either to ourselves, or others, or if you’re the President-elect of the United States, then potentially for the world.

While I might despair that the new administration’s first Cabinet choices include white males known more for their racism than their open-mindedness, I can celebrate that social justice and civil liberties groups have seen a huge groundswell of support, record breaking donations.

For all the good people who voted against Trump, we feel pummeled, irate, afraid, inspired to activism, but with the election in our rearview mirror, our outrage is only as good as our follow-through, and only as useful as our pragmatism.

For all the good people who voted for Trump, the country needs your voice now more than ever. To speak for those who are afraid. To speak up against a Chief Counsel with alt-right views. To protest loudly when a new Chief of Staff will not rule out a Muslim registry on the Sunday talk show circuit. To admit that to be white and straight in America is not the same as being gay, or brown, or otherwise marginalized. To admit that some people are marginalized, and to commit to using our privilege to protect their rights.

For those who voted against the president-elect, for those who voted for him, but reject the rhetoric that came with the campaign, there are myriad of choices that can be made now that will reassure a nervous nation and a worried world.

And for everyone who voted neither blue nor red, it’s time we all make choices so that every voter feels like they have a voice in this process and are motivated to use it. We each need to hold ourselves accountable. We need to agree that we hold some truths to be self-evident. That verbiage should sound comforting and familiar and seems like a good place to begin.

We’re in this horrible chasm right now and chasms create echo chambers and have such little light. We start thinking the shadows are real, and we forget we have the ability, and the responsibility, to walk out into the light, confront life in all its three-dimensional forms. When Trump objectifies, patronizes women (et al., et al., et al.), I think back to the young woman who was never a comfortable size 6, but who – for a little while – tried to be. And who faded away, insubstantial but still a size 8. For a little while, she believed the shadows were real.

The reasons that we make choices that compromise our best selves isn’t because we’re bad people, or incredibly dumb, or hateful or uneducated. We make choices because of our own backstory, because for each of us, in this moment, there are certain things we fear more than others. The 22-year-old fears of the girl who stayed were different than those of the 23-year-old who left. The 23-year-old made the choice to make new choices, and years later, I’ve been shaped by her renewed resolve. I’m grateful to her.

As a country, we’ve made choices, but we aren’t beholden to any past choices going forward. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to nullify a relationship so soon after minting it. But it’s even worse to let ourselves be subservient to it.

Knowing the right steps to stop demonizing each other while also staying true to our personal beliefs is hard. The chasm feels deep and painful. I will never be okay with the rhetoric of racism. I will never be okay with casual misogyny. But I am open to the idea that we are better than both of those things, no matter who we voted for. Now we become braver and stronger than our anger and despondency and fears. We live up to our potential instead of down to our fear. With one big choice behind us, we can now choose to stay or go. We can choose to make sure that no one in our country feels afraid because of who they are, how they worship or who they love.

When I was 37, I voted for the losing candidate in a demoralizing, poisonous presidential campaign that took a piece of my optimism and idealism with it. It feels a little like a bad relationship foisted upon the country and throws lurky shadows of poor choices and ghosts I’ve left behind.

But as I’ve learned, the best time for good choices is after a bad one.

 

When I was young, and not so young, I found a lot of comfort sitting on the floor of my parents’ bedroom, in the maybe three feet between their bedframe and my father’s vinyl collection. I listened to Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris, Little Feat and Leonard Cohen. Abbey Road and Sergeant Pepper. I danced with my father to Jesse Winchester at my wedding, Lay Down the Burden of Your Heart.

Someone at some point had painted the hardwoods of the upstairs of our house. Eventually, we sanded and resealed some of them, but we never got to parents’ room. The paint on the floor there was brown, but had started to wear away. Somehow, though, it didn’t feel like it needed to be changed, repainted or sanded down, polyurethaned to a glossy oak. It was a safe space. A cubby and a generation of singer-songwriters. It was your most comfortable, much-worn sweatshirt. The kind that you put on when life threatens to crush your spirit, and you just want to wrap comfort around you. But also the kind that you slip into when everything is going right, and you need no frills or trimmings to feel content. It’s soft, and faded and dependable. That nook in my parents’ room was soul affirming.

Right now, I’m so awfully tired. I cried myself to sleep Tuesday night. I almost worked from home on Wednesday, but decided that that was weak, and that I am weak, and I’d spend my day diving into too many commentaries and opinions and dire forecasts. So, I went to work, to my office where it is 85% male and military, and my political affiliation is probably just as uncommon as my gender.

I tried to keep it together. I didn’t completely fail, but I didn’t completely succeed, either. And no one said a single thing that was anything other than considerate, even though by and large, they didn’t feel the same despair. People with whom I had crossed swords throughout the last seemingly interminable few months were deferential, knowing it was a dark day for me. I had been so sure that I would be the one who would be gracious and respectful, restrained and tasteful in victory, that my vision for my country was the only one that would, could, win out in the end.

It didn’t work out that way, and I was – am – heartbroken. But unlike the online vitriol of the last 18 months, the click-bait and the partisanship, the actual people in my life whom I appreciate, but share little political common ground, those people were still my people first. There’s a lesson there, obviously, when everything hurts a little less, and I’m ready to start looking at lessons.

Ray Bradbury said, “Stay drunk on writing so that reality cannot destroy you.” Part of me thought, what is possibly left to say, and what’s the point? Many, many people said everything already, and much more succinctly, much more eloquently, much more powerfully than I could. People chose not to listen. And so a few more tears grew hot behind my eyes, tears of frustration and anger and disappointment. Aloud I said, “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” I anticipated the news of a rise in hate crimes and felt darkly vindicated in my grief when they appeared, as expected. What did we expect? What words are there?

As as I processed the grief, as the initial shock began to wear off, I remembered that sometimes words aren’t for other people. Sometimes they are for us. Sometimes they are cathartic, sometimes cauterizing. Sometimes they’re just there, and ask to be let loose.

I rolled sentences around as I brushed my teeth. I composed introductions as I shampooed. I scribbled down thoughts at work. Despite the deference at work, I’m grieving and will be. I’ve lost a piece of my idealism, and it hurts. When something hurts, writing is my go-to to process that. Stage 2. Anger. “I was summarily fired 30 days after maternity leave,” I wanted to scream to the doubters who said that Clinton’s sex had nothing to do with her defeat, who somehow saw the race as a level playing field in a culture that still plays to archetypes. “Raise your hand if you’ve been assaulted by anonymous hands in a darkened bar, or a crowded street, or if you’ve stared down someone who you thought you knew, who touched you without permission.” Are we all raising our hands now? I know I am. And yet 42% of women still voted in the person who normalizes sexual assault culture as locker room banter, and demonizes the women who would dare to confront him. I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand, my tired, tired heart cried. Maybe I could understand not voting for Clinton. But how could people vote for a veritable caricature of patriarchal power? How?

What it comes down to is that I don’t understand. I probably won’t. I’m middle class and white, though. I’ll weather the next four years. But I’m afraid for women who are afraid to wear their hijab. I’m brokenhearted for Hispanic children who are taunted on playgrounds, “Build the wall, build the wall!” I wonder if we’re going to even have snow this year, as we enjoy another 70-degree day in November. Or if we’re going to have snowmaggedon in March as the pendulum swings.

And then Leonard Cohen died today.

That’s really piling it on, Universe. Could you maybe leave 2016 alone for the rest of the year?

And so I listened to my favorite Leonard Cohen songs. Suzanne. Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye. Dance Me to the End of Love. Hallelujah. Anthem. And then I listened to the entirety of the Jesse Winchester album, Let the Rough Side Drag. If I close my eyes, I can picture the yellow album cover of the vinyl record my dad still owns. I can hear the sound of the needle dropping onto the vinyl. I can picture the fading brown paint under my feet and the bedframe at my back. Even though that house no longer exists, the scared floors long gone, it feels so solid.

I still don’t understand how everything I hold so sacrosanct could be so fluid to someone else. I know it works both ways. I am an enigma to a solid handful of people in my life who do not understand how I came to my own immutable truths. They like me, anyway, and they are no more one-dimensional than I am. I want to be optimistic, but for me, it’s too soon for optimism. The future seems far less solid than I anticipated. I worry for those who have been promised disenfranchisement. My heart contracts painfully each time it thinks, SCOTUS. No, no, no. (Be well, RBG. Be well.)

In his final creative gift, Leonard Cohen gave me my favorite, well-worn much-loved sweatshirt to pull around me tonight. And though my world has otherwise been rocked this week, I’m going to take comfort in the fact that even when I don’t have the words, he does.

Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s where the light gets in.

My brother and his wife just had a new baby. Because their family lives 1200 miles away, I’ve only seen him virtually, but by photograph you can still swear he’s already smiling. Content, protected, much anticipated and much loved. You can see his tiny little fingers with their even tinier fingernails curled up against his cheek as he’s sleeping, and you can imagine that he’s dreaming sweet dreams. Since I can’t nuzzle his soft, downy baby head and breathe in his baby smell, I can anticipate the winter slipping by quickly, so that we can meet in person.

Having a new baby, especially the first, brings out so much hope for the world, and so much fear. In one tiny baby is the story of every baby. It’s amazing, and it’s magical, and it’s scary as hell. The world becomes smaller, knit with that common bond of parents everywhere. But it becomes bigger, and you realize that when your parents let you travel through it, on your own, as a teenager, they were the bravest people you knew.

You cry at the evening news, and you rejoice, and cry, at St. Jude’s success stories. As our children get older, parenting becomes a little more routine. We get a bit lost in the endless loads of laundry, and we aren’t thrilled anymore when our child eats two bites of green beans. There’s still joy and wonder, but once they can throw a granola bar wrapper on the floor and walk away, the moments of awe are balanced by moments of discipline and monotony and sometimes near hysteria, as we find our child covered from head to toe in orange and black marker or red nail polish. Always an adventure, we say, eyes a little crazy and smile a little too bright.

Babies encourage us to look forward, but they also prompt us to look back. To our own childhoods, to our parents’. Beyond. There have been many times, if I’m being honest, that I have compared my life to life on a wagon train heading West, just to remember that I’m probably going to make it through.

My brother carries his grandfather’s name as his middle name, and now so does his son. I was blessed to have amazing grandparents. We don’t necessarily appreciate our grandparents as much as we should when we’re young, and yet they have incredible impact on us, as I know my own children, and my new nephew, will come to know, as well. Grandparents shape our worldview because they’ve lived so much more than we have, they’ve learned what to fight for, and what to let go. Through them, and the children they raised, we learn what’s worth fighting for.

On my father’s side, my grandparents were longstanding volunteers with the Salvation Army. I can picture the vintage push button phone on the side table by the stairs, the notepad beside it. Someone would need help, that phone would ring, and just like that (or so it seemed to a child), help was en route. They were everyday heroes in plain sight. I realized that in retrospect. At the time, I mostly thought we watched a lot of Lawrence Welk and This Old House, and I liked my grandmother’s backyard goldfish pond, and going fishing with my grandfather to restock it.

I grew up in the same house as my maternal grandmother. She was a church youth group leader, taking teens to areas of need within the US for service projects, she joined adult service trips annually and encouraged me to participate for multiple years in ASP, Appalachian Service Project. In the days of my mother’s childhood, she garnered a reputation of a “friendly house” to railroad hitchhikers. She wrote letters to prisoners and believed passionately in Heifer International, an organization her family still supports today, three generations deep. That my daughter, her great-granddaughter, spends as much time inspecting the Heifer International livestock gift catalog as the Toys R Us wish book is a testament to her enduring service, goodness and grace. She lived, “Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.”

I’m not at their level. I have better intentions than actions. I get busy with my own life, and I forget my roots. I’m proud of who I come from, but I’m not sure that I’m always living up to their example. But my world view is still foundationally theirs. It’s why I’ve been wound so tightly the last year or so, and even more tightly still the last few months. My world view is at odds with my world, it sometimes seems. My husband and I went to see Billy Joel in concert last fall. He played the classic, We Didn’t Start the Fire, and his stage show showed classic imagery from the original song, spliced with today’s news. We didn’t start the fire. It was always burning, since the world’s been turning. We didn’t start the fire. No we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it. …We didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel like we’re doing much to fight it lately.

In the three months after the United Kingdom voted to leave the European Union, validating the Brexit campaign which was built largely on anti-immigration rhetoric and dissatisfaction with the status-quo, homophobic attacks in the UK rose 147%. Hate crimes in general spiked and have now begun to stabilize, in a depressing way, to levels above the pre-Brexit vote. The country voted in intolerance by just 4%. And yet it was a referendum on ugliness. I’m terrified by the parallels in the US.

The day after the Brexit vote, pro-Brexit politicians admitted their grand plan was mostly lip service that they would not be able to deliver. Many voters said that they voted for Brexit never thinking it would actually win, but wanting to lodge a protest vote, to feel heard. Afterward, some voters wondered aloud if there could be a re-do. Except, elections don’t work that way. Voters have to make adult decisions in the first round. How often have I wished that I could see two parallel paths play out. But way leads on to way.

I’ve often seen, and appreciated, and identified with the sentiment, “Who let me adult? I can’t adult.” It feels true in so many ways. I might be the one with the paycheck and the mortgage and the paid-off, hail damaged car, with the carpool duty and the children who are constantly out of clean socks, but surely someone else around here is the adult. I can’t always be counted on to take my make-up off at night, or have plans for dinner, or get my oil changed on time. I can’t adult.

Except – crap, crap, crap – we are the adults. We are the ones in charge of making decisions. We are the ones who have to instill in our children, our grandchildren, our nieces and nephews, the worldviews, priorities and basic human decency that will shape their generation. It’s the most adulty part of being an adult.  We get to set our own bedtime and drink on a school night if we choose, we can buy seven shades of pink lip stick in shades from coral to sweet magnolia and watch uncensored HBO shows. But in exchange, it’s up to us to make sure we don’t muck up the world, miscarry justice and botch the compassion and decency meters of our progeny.

Why am I wound so tightly lately? So that my children and husband tip toe around me, soothing and evading in turn. Because I’m not so sure we’re doing a good job. I think about the old metaphor of a frog in a frying pan… the heat increases little by little, but the frog keeps adjusting, little by little, and it never jumps out. I think of the phone ringing in my grandparents’ house, letting them know that a stranger needed help, and their unquestioning devotion to those strangers. I think about my grandmother believing steadfastly in the light of the world overcoming the darkness. In people’s mistakes not defining them, not making them unworthy of prayer and love. I loved my grandparents. I love their memory, and my memories of them. And honestly, I’m glad they aren’t living through this period of US history. I think it would break their hearts.

These are the principles I want my children to live by:

1. Help each other.

Actually, I guess that’s it. That’s what it boils down to. I want them to know that helping someone else is the fastest way to feeling better ourselves. I want them to know that 99.999% of people in this world just want to ensure their own children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews are safe, healthy and happy. Our differences are small. Our similarities huge. As my youngest once said, “When people fall down, help them up.” Our 8-year-olds get it.

Our country is currently split, according to the latest polling, at about 45% for each of our major party presidential candidates. In this post-Halloween candy fog, I feel the same way about that as if someone told me that 45% of the country actually likes Good ‘n Plentys. How could that be possible? How would one even begin to comprehend that?

45% split. For arguably the most powerful office on Earth. I realize that my own views make it hard for me to be entirely objective. But one candidate, despite being caricatured as cold and shrill and power-hungry, has spent a career ensuring children’s health care, and seeing that 75% of the world’s AIDS patients are able to seek treatment. The other has spent a career literally gilding his house in gold while both not paying taxes and suing and stiffing those who worked for him (who, by the way, almost assuredly did pay income taxes, in the event they were ever fairly paid.)

No, neither candidate is perfect. No one is. I’m not, either. Even my esteemed grandparents were not. But in this race, one candidate has advocated for fair pay and women’s rights worldwide, and one has mused publically about what a pretty picture a woman can make dropping to her knees. One has visited 112 countries and brokered a peace accord in one of the world’s perpetual hot spots. One wants to have play dates with Putin.

We’re the adults here.  We are the ones who not only get to choose, but who are quite literally responsible for the future. We are the ones who decide whether our politics and policies are helping each other, or helping ourselves. We are the ones who will live with these decisions, because we’re the adults. But we’re not the only ones. Our children get to live with them, too. And while it may make me crazy to pick up those wrappers and argue about homework, I’m still in awe of their amazing compassion and potential. I don’t want to tarnish either of those things for them.

Do we tell them we voted in hate crimes and petty retribution? I’m not speculating. Ask anyone from England, they of the 147% increase in the same. When we talk about building taller walls instead of longer tables, we are telling our children that when the phone rings, we don’t answer. When someone falls, we walk by. That when we disagree, we threaten our opposition with their life and freedom, because we’re out of real ideas. We are telling them that we’re tired of adulting.

We are defining a generation by our actions. I want to affirm for my children the world that my grandparents prepared for me. That world cannot be based on fear and division, stoking hate under a paralyzed frog in a frying pan. We’re the adults. We have to jump.

Every four years or so, people become significantly more vested and attentive to the first ten amendments to our Constitution.

People who mostly live their lives thinking about how to attend soccer games of both children on Saturday morning while also getting groceries and cleaning bathrooms before the in-laws come over for dinner are suddenly faced with the manufactured choice between being able to shoot their potential rapist in a dark parking garage, or letting 20 kindergarteners die at the hands of a maniac.

Except, of course, the truth is always somewhere in between. Most conservatives have no issue with ending gun show and internet loopholes. Most liberals have no wish to rid the country of guns. I’ve never even held a gun myself, and yet I’m able to walk by the gun club next to my work without shouting angry slogans. Remarkable, right? I’ve also never sky-dived or collected stamps. I’m fine with anyone doing those things as well. I avoid horror movies like the plague. And yet am married to someone who loves them. It’s almost like we’re different people with different preferences, living in the same house by simultaneously indulging and avoiding what doesn’t appeal to us individually.

But as a nation, stoked by the assumption that someone who doesn’t think like us thinks against us, the rhetoric ratchets it up and up until a country that actually sees eye to eye in broad strokes is consumed by animosity toward each other.

And meanwhile, we have a love hate relationship with our very first tenet in our Bill of Rights. Freedom of speech, religion and the press. It’s all good when it’s protecting our value system. When we feel like our principles are being served and validated. But it feels a lot more uncomfortable when our sense of righteousness is encroached upon. Then it’s pretty easy to call foul. Then it’s pretty easy to be shocked by the unprincipled, downright immoral actions of those saying what we would never say. Sanctioning what we would never sanction. Of those reporting what we know in our hearts to be red herrings and outright misdirection, salaciousness for the sake of a bored and hungry, and impassioned, audience.

Lester Holt said, “As Americans, we rightfully place tremendous value on having a free and independent press. Our role as journalists is to give voice to the voiceless, and hold our leaders and institutions accountable. But the circle is only completed when that information is consumed by a free-thinking and engaged audience.”

This morning, reading the latest news cycle, I broke out in hives. I’m prone to hives, so this isn’t like I’d suddenly developed Skittles pox. But I don’t usually develop hives by reading or watching the news. My husband would tell you I often develop verbal deluge syndrome, but not usually hives.

I am wound so tightly lately. The news of the informationally empty but politically charged headlines of more email hoopla made me simultaneously vow to stop reading all news for the next 9 days, and also spend 45 minutes immediately reading a dozen headlines about it. They all said the same thing. What do we know? Not much. Are these emails from Hillary? We don’t think so. Are they emails that have already been vetted? Could be. Are they likely to change July’s FBI verdict? Unlikely. Is Anthony Weiner literally the last person any Democrat is putting on their holiday card list? Yeah. For sure.

“10 days before the election, and there’s no new information there at all,” I ranted to my husband, scratching my hivey neck. “It’s completely irresponsible to even report it.” “There’s nothing to it,” he agreed, “And it won’t take much to spin it to why it was addressed at all.”

Spin. Ugh. When did we become this nation, a people, a world, of Spin Rooms and flashpoints and predetermined bias? Maybe about the time that Gutenberg invented the printing press and opinion could be easily digested from those we’ve never met. Probably much farther back than that.

And that was about when I realized that I was not fulfilling my part of Lester Holt’s contract, or trusting anyone else to do so, either: a circle only completed when information is consumed by a free-thinking and engaged audience. It’s up to me what news I digest, what facts I dig for, what biases I acknowledge or stand against. That’s a bummer, obviously, because knee-jerk reactions and preconception is infinitely easier.

I can’t decide who watches horror movies and who collects stamps. And I certainly can’t, and don’t want to, sit as judge and jury for those whose only crime is not being me, inline with my every preference and predisposition. As much as it sometimes rankles, the point of those first ten amendments is to keep everyone – including me – from becoming a sanctimonious despot, sitting high atop a moralistic throne.

So, I’m going to take a deep breath, push the crazy back down a couple levels, and trust in our estimable system rooted in that sometimes exasperatingly objective and equitable Bill of Rights, intrinsic to our national fabric, allowing everyone a voice on matters of sky-diving, horror movies, and even politics, trusting us each to make free-thinking, engaged and informed decisions.

Adulting is hard.

This is the time of year that we are still sleeping with the windows open, even though it gets down into the 40s at night. I’m always so excited to pull the big cozy blankets out of their summer storage that I spend two weeks in a self-imposed night sauna, just waiting for the temperatures to dip enough to truly warrant the extra covers. And when they do, it’s worth the chilliness of the morning to have been able to cocoon all night. The problem with crisp fall mornings is that they are suddenly crisp, dark fall mornings. It’s nearly impossible to get out of bed. I start reminding myself that dry shampoo is better for my hair, definitely a couple – to a few — mornings a week. And I hit snooze one more time.  Five minute shower just to warm up, and… go.

I’m not sure what it is about fall – I love fall, the clarity of those breathe deep blue sky mornings and the apple cider and the turning leaves – but I often find myself a little down, a little nostalgic, a little overwhelmed.

Maybe it’s a natural rhythm thing, left over from when we had to prepare for winter, the anxiety of not being quite sure we had enough nuts squirreled away. Or the knowledge that days are getting shorter, and the realization that, again, the summer sped by without having nearly the amount of bask-on-a-sunny-rock time that I anticipated.

Add to it the entrenched school and activities routines, the job that spins on a contract year and is naturally busy every third and fourth quarter, and it feels like the days aren’t just losing daylight, they’re losing time.

Lately at work, I’m buried. Lately at home, I’m sprinting. Or I’m home, but still at work. I have the luxury of a flexible job, for which I’m grateful. But it means that when I leave early to get to Girl Scouts on time, or to get my youngest to Reading Buddies at the library, my work day isn’t over just because I left work, and once the majority of us are home, once dinner is done, I’m back at my kitchen table office. It feels like I’ve put in a 12-hour day, but I’m actually still 90-minutes and one dance class pick-up away from just a solid 8. Or still at the office, “I miss you. Plees leave work soon,” my youngest texts. Heartbreak.

Sometimes I feel like I suffer from a bit of poor little rich girl syndrome. Except, you know, not the rich part. And I have long since left girlhood behind. But the part where I have a loving family, a comfortable home, a beautiful view out my front door, a flexible job and a bevy of good friends, but still feel a little like crying at the end of a long day, just because there haven’t been enough hours, and there won’t be again tomorrow, and I’m not quite sure how to climb out of the time hole I’ve dug.

Glennon Doyle Melton said, “Life is hard. Not because we’re doing it wrong, just because it’s hard.”  And it’s not hard because it’s bad. Or because it’s somehow deficient.  It’s hard because it’s hard, and we’re all winging it. A decade ago, I’d never had a child before. And they just give you one and wish you luck. Seven years ago, I’d never had two children and two lost jobs before. Tightrope, white knuckles. Today my oldest asked to Skype with a friend about a school assignment. She’s a very sensible, even-keeled person. But I blanched. Even Microsoft was cautious. We take the safety of Skype end users very seriously and have security measures in place to help protect children… Is Microsoft judging me? Forget about me winging it ten years ago. That was just diapers and pink eye and the occasional pebble up the nose. Social media and dating and driving? The days are getting shorter, but so are the years.

A few weeks ago, talking to a coworker about how demanding life is and how little time we have, when we both had a dozen other things to do, he suggested a conscious one-to-one ratio of bad to good. The last minute discovery of cat puke in the foyer is still pretty disagreeable (just kidding, I don’t have a foyer, I just mean the place where we kick our shoes into a pile), but if specifically opposed with a child enthusiastically offering to pack my lunch to save time, maybe it’s a wash. Even if it doesn’t save any time.

 

Stage 1 orthodontics. Dancing in the kitchen with a giggling daughter.

Car making a weird noise. Over-using the library’s hold system because of my avid reader.

Non-wheat, non-dairy pizza sitting right next to the real thing. Family tv picnic and Friday night Netflix.

If sometimes it’s hard to get out of bed and start a hectic day, and if some days my make-up is more war paint than cosmetic, if sometimes I feel tears prick behind my eyes for no particular reason as I just sit at a stop light, in between work me and mommy me, trying to identify a little bit of independent me, well, maybe that’s just because sometimes life is hard, and days are short and it’s hard to wake up in the dark. It’s a part of the whole. Figuring it all out is exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting.

And maybe it’s just evolution reminding me it’s time to squirrel away some more nuts for winter. And by nuts, I mean Godiva and red wine. And those really soft fluffy winter socks. And a good red lipstick.

When I was in high school, I had Mr. Roseberry for history, twice. Once for World History my freshman year and once for American History my junior year. There are history facts that I will know forever, because of those classes. For example, I can never unlearn that the Moors invaded Spain in 711. That’s with me forever. It’s possible that I was unable to learn calculus because that brain space was already taken with immoveable facts about the Spanish Inquisition.

As a teacher, he believed, believes probably, that history is a living thing, not just something that happened in the past. As such, one of our daily assignments was to look for Connections – those reflections of yesterday that appear in today. They were supposed to be more than mere allusions, or On This Day history channel facts. They were supposed to wake us up to the fact that current events almost always have deep roots in the past, to make us aware that headlines – we still had literal newspaper headlines back then – were deeper than who played who in Friday’s football game. Connections were to show that the Bosnian Serbian War occurring across the world at the same time that I was taking World History was historically resultant of the division and fall of the 700-year-old Ottoman Empire. (Note to self, look up They Might Be Giants’ Istanbul (Not Constantinople) for what would have been a lazy Connection, but a good song…)

Besides Connections, another thing Mr. Roseberry believed in was history through literature. Among others, he read aloud to us A Tale of Two Cities, The Scarlet Letter, and a little book from the 1860s called The Man Without A Country. It’s about an associate of Aaron Burr (who is made contemporary these days by the smash hit Hamilton, of course), who is tried with Burr for treason. Found guilty, he rashly claims that he never wants to hear another word about the United States again. The judge takes him at his word, and sentences him to a life at sea, where no one is to speak to him of his country again. Slowly, the man without a country realizes, by its complete lack, what country means. He dies fiercely patriotic, even while he’s spent decades without a word uttered about the country he realizes he loves.

And so I’ve been thinking about The Man Without A Country. I’ve been thinking about Edward Snowden, who I have mixed feelings about, and I’ve been thinking about how so many people threaten to move to Canada every time something doesn’t go their way at home. I’ve been thinking about people who claim that government is rigged and the election is rigged, and I’ve been thinking about all the animosity that seems to bubble up every election cycle, but especially this one, and about what patriotism means, and whether it is made of uncompromising tenets of red, white and blue, or if it’s flexible enough to mean a multitude of different things to so many different people.

I’ve been thinking about the anger and danger and fear that childhood me saw in black and white photographs in history books, and about the nightly news that sometimes I wonder if I should allow my children to watch. I wonder what Edward R. Murrow would have thought about the news that Lester Holt has to deliver every night. I’ve been thinking about Anne Frank and about Syrian refugees. About the books my grandchildren might one day read as part of their American History canon.

On Saturday morning, we wake up in a house, our house, that has been abused all week by our busy schedules, our tired brains and bodies, so that we have to spend hours cleaning up after ourselves, when every week we realize that if we just did a little more each day, we could skip the full weekend press. My daughters can’t clean the same room without sibling war, which leaves them separated, but still with a path of unfair pitfalls.

“But this isn’t even mine,” my youngest protests, looking at a small pile of her sister’s things. “Why should I have to clean up her mess?” And then inevitably I fix her with an icy stare and ask whose dishes I’ve been washing all morning, and how her clothes happen to become clean again week after week. “We all live here,” I say. “It’s all of our mess.”

Because the point is, we’re a family. Sometimes it’s Christmas morning and there’s hot chocolate on the stove and music playing and love flowing so thick it’s palpably tangible. Sometimes we don’t particularly like each other every moment of every day. And sometimes the mess isn’t ours. And sometimes we think about what it would be like to walk away, not for good, but maybe just for the day. To just grab car keys and turn the radio up and disappear down the highway for a while. Maybe not to Canada, but at least far enough to have to stop for gas. Family is fierce, but it’s messy.

Sometimes, instead of words, I think a Connection is more a feeling. But if I had to verbalize it, I would say, In this house, we don’t always agree, and we love, but don’t always like each other every minute of every day. But this is our family, damn it, and we love each other so damn much that on Christmas morning, my heart bursts with it, and on days when I wake up early and see still tiny feet peeking out of a cocoon of covers, I could weep with the beauty of it, notwithstanding that I could also ugly cry at the piling responsibilities of growing children, aging houses and busy jobs, and Saturday morning spent yelling, “I am not going to live like this for another week. We are all going to start doing our part; do you hear me?” Fierce. Messy. In for the duration. But messy. I said that, right?

Because unless we all plan to move to Canada – and I’m not really sure that Canada wants us – it seems like it’s about time to imagine an icy stare fixed our way that says, This is our nation, damn it. We don’t always agree, and we don’t always even like each other, but this is us. It’s our damn mess – all of ours – and so it’s our job to spend Saturday morning – or all of 2017 or the next 20 years – fixing it, whatever it takes to get this house in order again. And if that pile is your sister’s, pick it up.

Except, if it was a Connection, I’d probably leave out the swearing. I don’t think Mr. Roseberry would approve.

24 days. And then maybe Lester Holt can get back to news Edward R. Murrow would understand.

 

*With apologies to Mr. Roseberry for any historically inaccurate mis-remembering.

If you’ve ever watched your child replay their entire day, in real time, using their favorite stuffed animal, you might be a parent.

If your security system on your home has nothing to do with laser sensors and everything to do with a pile of backpacks right at the front door, followed by a maze of shoes and blankets, you might be a parent. Sometimes I walk in and think, how would we even know we’ve been robbed?

If you’ve ever poured yourself a bowl of cereal, from a wide open bag in a wide open open box, noted – unsurprised – that it was stale and not only put it back in the cupboard, but ate it anyway, you might be a parent.

If you’ve ever hidden the last … anything. Cinnamon roll, Reeses cup, working pen…. specifically planning to bring it out after bedtime, or keep it secret until you yourself also forget about it… well, you might be a parent.

This has been a long and busy week already. And it’s about half over. There’s been something going on each night after work. My husband has a cold. Work meetings starting an hour before I would generally get to work, which means an hour earlier than my children generally get up. Luckily it’s at least been warm again. It got slightly cooler last weekend and I panicked, just a little, because I knew that my oldest was still wearing jeans from six months ago, when she was four inches shorter.

I have now recorded two episodes of This Is Us, which I’m sure I’ll love, and have been told I’ll love, and I am in Season 4 – only halfway – of the family re-watch of Gilmore Girls before the new episodes appear on Black Friday. I just ordered two books from the library on the recommendation of a friend, while I just returned another one unread, because after I renewed it twice, the library called my bluff and told me I couldn’t renew it again. Just when I was going to get to it! I still have hope for the new arrivals, though, because sometimes you just have to cut your losses and begin again, fresh.

I am tired. I have at least three overnight spots on my face, and my meal planning for the week consisted of two crock pot soups, with one day of leftovers in between. Today, I added grilled cheese, and I felt kind of guilty that this was my above and beyond, and kind of like a rock star for adding a two-course meal to my week.

And yet, when I got home tonight, I looked at the high school soccer practice going on across the street, and at the beat up pink soccer ball left in the front yard, the fall flowers blooming while the leaves finally begin to turn, the sun slanting across our front walk, and in my head I sang a chorus of, Our house…. is a very, very, very fine house, with two cats in the yard….

 

I wouldn’t necessarily say that everything is easy. In fact, I’d say it’s not.  And when I think too much about the outside world, I’m a little prone to despair. When I look inside, I wonder how we’re ever going to catch up on our basic housework, let alone the pet projects that I have for myself. And yet, in the end, it’s a house full of morning squabbles, laundry that has yet to be put away, and birthday invites from parties attended two weeks ago… and while it’s not perfect, it’s pretty great.

If you’ve ever watched your children read with a beloved pet tucked under their arm, and let bedtime slide just a little bit because it’s a perfect scene, and then ten minutes later yelled up the stairs that tomorrow, bedtime was going to be early unless teeth were brushed in three, two…. then you might be a parent. And probably your house is a very, very, very fine house, too. Don’t let the general chaos convince you otherwise.