All Our Secrets Are the Same

For a long time, one of my deepest, darkest secrets was that despite having a wonderful life, I could not seem to be happy without medication and felt ashamed. I shared this secret on my blog over four years ago, and, since then, depression has gradually held less power over me.

Depression is awful. It is nebulous and silent and invisible, and it is so easy to trick yourself into thinking if you just tried a little harder, you would be fine. But its conjoined twin, anxiety, is also awful. Anxiety means being in the beautiful Colorado mountains on vacation gathered with your family of origin and the family you have created and still not being able to fully breathe. Anxiety means driving through the rolling Appalachian Mountains in Tennessee and pulling off the road due to a legitimate panic attack. Anxiety means poking at your children constantly about tiny little worries that bubble up, constantly comparing them to other children and other paths and other perspectives, and wondering if you are doing everything wrong.

It is so hard for me to separate whether I still have clinical anxiety despite years and years of therapy and medication, or if instead being anxious all the time is just a personality trait that defines me in the same way that introversion does. The Mayo Clinic helpfully defines anxiety as "intense, excessive, and persistent worry and fear about everyday situations." I find this definition purposely vague, because what is "excessive," "persistent" or "intense"? Is getting off the phone with a friend of over 20 years and struggling to breathe because you may have said the wrong thing during the phone call "excessive"? Is feeling your palms turning clammy and icy sweat pooling under your arms "intense"? Is worrying every single hour of every single day about all of the things that could possibly go wrong "persistent"?

Truthfully, my anxiety ebbs and flows, but it seems to peak when I have long periods of down time. The summer is hard. Vacationing when we lack a clear plan is hard, which is why all of our trips turn into Death Marches. Driving for long stretches of time in the car on a wide-open road flanked only by wheat stalks and lulling cattle is hard.

But one thing I have learned since sharing that I am living a medicated life is all our secrets are the same. And I think if we could all be honest about our inner mess and our struggles and our inner demons, perhaps we would help others who are struggling with a similar issue to feel a little less alone. So if you, too, know what it is like to not be able to breathe, to not be able to relax, to hop from worry to worry in your mind like an over-caffeinated Energizer Bunny, please know that you, too, are so very not alone.

High School and New Begininings

Today is the day that my daughter's high school releases their class schedules. So far, every.single.person that we have checked with has a completely different class schedule, and she does not yet know a person in any class. Almost all even have different lunch schedules.

Figuring out this news brought back a rush of emotions about high school. I went to a different high school than my neighborhood school and was essentially starting over. Freshmen year was hard. It took me several months to stop dreading lunch, to stop panicking over where I was going to sit and eat and where would be the least awkward place to be.

But I loved high school by the end. Absolutely loved it, loved my classes, loved the relationships I made that still carry through this day, loved the people, loved the activities, loved it. And since I went to a new high school, not a single close friend from high school was someone whom I knew before my freshmen year.

We have been deliberate about staying put in Manhattan, to allow our own children stability and the chance to remain connected with the same peer group. My daughter has absolutely amazing friendships, some of whom were first forged when she first arrived in 1st grade, and I hope and pray that their strong bonds will continue to grow throughout high school. But I also pray for the new friends and new connections that may not have been forged yet, that may get a chance to grow and develop throughout the next four years of schooling.

In the end, high school is a time of new beginnings. I would probably feel less anxious if my daughter discovered at least one other person whom she knew in one of her classes. But even if that does not come to fruition, I have faith that it is going to be an amazing time of growth. 

This is 38

I am 38 years old. I am told that midlife does not properly begin until you have crossed over the road into 40, but I can feel age creeping down my neck. My hair begins sprouting more and more gray hairs, until an elderly gentleman at church limps across the aisles to our family’s front-row pew to gleefully crow one morning, “I never noticed just how silver your hair is!” Still smarting from his comment, a few days later, I walk home down the hill from elementary school with my son and another young boy. The boy grins and cocks his face up to my own, “Why do you look like Daniel’s grandma when you are Daniel’s mom?” Instantly, I decide that my fiercely-held beliefs about the power of feminism in sporting gray hair are outdated, and I book an appointment at the only Aveda salon in town so that they can eradicate all of my ever-creeping gray hair and turn back the passage of time.

At 38, my desire for accolades burns singularly bright. I apply for full professor at my university a scant three years after earning tenure and constantly wonder if doing so was too early, but this application process feels desperate, essential, a bright-line test of my worth. "So you're NOT a professor?" my son asks one night, as we move our overcooked spaghetti noodles across our plates. I attempt to explain the categories of assistant, associate, and full professor as we pass the Parmesan around the table and my children's eyes glaze over. "No - not a 'full professor' - I'm an 'associate professor' and I used to be an 'assistant professor'." My son is unsatisfied with this explanation. "So you used to just ASSIST professors??" 

Thirty-eight means life is full throttle. My husband goes to Florida on a business trip and returns at 3 a.m., only to turn around and report for jury duty the next morning at 8 a.m., where he is promptly selected to be seated on the jury. The kids are still out cold at 11:28 a.m. after staying up until all hours of the night watching old Disney movies. I need to work a full day at work. Our family is leaving for Colorado the following morning and has not started packing at all. The next morning is also the 4-H fair and we have not finalized all of the entries yet. Life is frantic. Life is beautiful. This is 38. 

Why You Can't Trust Everything You Read Online

Social Media Version: My daughter got her learner's permit today! Yay!!

Real Life Version: My daughter took the classroom portion of a driver's education class last week. After completing it, she went to the DMV to take the written test to earn her permit. She had aced the final test in class and we were sure passing the written test at the DMV would be a slam dunk. But she missed too many questions and did not pass.

I reached out to some friends and got some good advice on better preparing for the written test (download an App for the Kansas driving test and work through all 305 practice questions several times, take practice tests online, read through the whole 102-page manual again). Our daughter was bummed at not passing but snapped out of it pretty quickly and was focused on studying.

Over the weekend, we learned that passing the test for the classroom portion of her driver's education class DOES mean you earn a permit - you just have to wait several weeks after the conclusion of class for the driving school to contact you and give you a slip of paper to take the DMV, where you can forego the written test.

However, my husband and I discussed it, and we thought that re-taking the test would be a great opportunity to work on fostering a growth mindset and bouncing back from failure. So we had our daughter continue to study and told her she needed to retake the written test.

Today, after waiting for hours and hours at the under-staffed DMV, our daughter re-took the written test, and passed this time! She seems so proud and relieved. I know that it was probably silly to have her re-take a test that we found out later she did not actually need to take - but we figured that studying driving rules more and getting back in the saddle again can't be bad things.

Moral of the Story: Life is always more complicated than what you might read on Facebook.

In Defense of a Passionless Life

Recently, I have become obsessed with the idea that our children lack a clear "passion." They both have plenty of interests and activities - but there is nothing that completely captivates them. 

When I was applying to colleges in the 1990s, the idea was to be a "well-rounded" student - someone who excelled at academics, athletics, arts, leadership, you name it. It seems that today, much that I read says that colleges seek students who are "passionate" about an endeavor. Perhaps gardening is your passion - you could then start a gardening club at your high school, work part-time for a local nursery, install a sensory garden at your church, AND write a grant to secure funding for a gardening program you could run in a local elementary school. This would clearly demonstrate your drive and focus in an area. 

This is not my children. My kids enjoy reading - but have not shown any interest in volunteering at the public library. My kids enjoy creating artwork - but prefer to explore this activity on their own. Both of my children are strong students - but dislike academic competitions. 

I recently have joined an extremely large Facebook group full of 84,000+ parents of high-school and college students. Much of the discussion topics focus on applying for colleges, with many references made to the necessity of demonstrating a passion. "Hello," I posted online the other day. "Do any other parents have kids who don’t demonstrate a 'passion'? I read so much about how important it is for kids to demonstrate a true passion in an area and wonder how many other kids do not have any true 'passions'?"

Some of the responses did little to quell my anxiety. "Everyone has a passion," one woman wrote.  Another respondent agreed. "Everyone has one. Just let them find it. It may not be what you want it to be so they might not be sharing it." Others commiserated that their own children also did not have a passion and it stressed them out. "Does gaming count?" 

But some of the most helpful replies were from people who thought the whole idea of focusing on finding and pursuing a passion in life was misguided. One high school teacher commented, "The whole conversation about passion is a HUGE disservice to students. Some people work, live, and love without ever having a passion, and have a great life." Others commented that concentrating on interests rather than a passion was important. Still others remarked that "follow your curiosity" was better advice. 

And reading these dozens and dozens of responses made me realize - a life focused on interests, on curiosity, on family and faith and love, is a wonderful life. Having a passion to explore may be one path in life - but it is not the only one. And I think that our children's journey will be just fine. 

Photo: My daughter's 4-H fair photography entry in 2016. 

The Farm

Kansas is a land of golden wheat fields with pricks of grass poking out in between the shocks of wheat, cows that lull their tongues out in the dry, dusty fields, corn stalks bathed in the golden beams of sunset. Kansas is a land of farms and farmers. My earliest memories of Kansas are of “the farm,” the home of my grandparents, who were not truly farmers and did not have the sprawling acreage typical of many Kansas farms.  On paper, the farm was 100 acres, but it may as well have been 1 million acres, as large as the land sprawled in my mind.

My grandparents’ house on the farm had once housed six children and two adults, with one small bathroom for all confined to share. My own time staying at the farm meant freedom, running in the waist-high bluegrass that grew next to the house, poking at the ancient refrigerator abandoned by the house decades ago in the past and wondering if children really could become trapped behind its massive metal door. The farm was a place of no rules – Cap’n Crunch cereal for breakfast, Windmill Cookies with vanilla icing for dessert, and condensed Campbell’s Tomato Soup for lunch.

My grandparents passed away when I was young, but the farm remained. When my grandmother died suddenly of a heart attack one snowy January morning on the very same day that we were scheduled to fly down to Kansas from Seattle, she had purchased raw steaks to prepare for us for our visit. Those steaks were stored under the front seat of her 1978 Oldsmobile, unbeknownst to the rest of the visitors to the farm, until the connection was made months later in a hot July day after it was concluded that something must be dreadfully wrong with the farm in general and the Oldsmobile in particular. These steaks were like everything else at the farm – unyielding, frozen in a moment in time, exhibits in the display of life that were stuck despite the march of years beyond the farm.

A large cellar down a rickety staircase contained Del Monte canned peaches, Smucker’s strawberry jelly, Campbell’s Tomato Soup. My grandparents had lived through the Great Depression as teenagers and young adults, and these provisions whose stamped expiration dates listed years that had passed decades ago were security against future wild economic swings. The nearby barn similarly housed every piece of faded fabric that my grandmother had ever used to sew for her six children, the edges of the cloth gnawed by rats and the decades of dust piling high in the folds.

I would love to take my own children back the farm someday, back to the place with unyielding freedom and few boundaries. But the farmhouse as I remember it is no more. After my grandparents both passed away in 1988 and 1989, the farm remained in the hands of my dear aunt and uncle – but the house was no longer inhabited. Word spread among the local teenagers in Mulvane, Kansas, and eventually, one blisteringly hot (or was it numbingly cold?) morning, we received a phone call that the entire house had been engulfed in flames and was no more. The farm lives on in our family heritage, the pond and the land in much better shape than had ever been in decades past, but with the farm of my childhood existing no more.

But sometimes, when the cicadas sing loudly on a hot summer night, or when I dump in the contents of a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup to make for my own family, I am transported back to this place of golden wheat stocks, of lulling cows, the sickly sweet smell of rotting steaks. And I would give anything to go back again for one last visit.

Emotional Scars

My body is freckled, mole-covered, and acne-ridden, but it is physically scar-free. Emotionally, however, several landmines exist where I have been scarred in the past. Some are buried deeply enough that I forget they are even there until they are scratched. Some are so close to the surface that they are like a wound that has never properly scabbed over. None is more raw and oozing than the emotional baggage I carry from telling people that I married when I was 18 years old. 

When I left Wichita to attend at my freshman year of college two hour away, I was so unsure about what future path to follow that I changed my official college major five times.  But I was so convicted that I was destined to spend my life with a 21-year-old physics major with a half-smile and a deep-seated scar below his right eye that I became officially engaged after we had known each other for only 5 months and legally married when we had known each other for less than a year.

The statistics about individuals who choose to marry at 18 years old are grim. On average, these people are more likely to face a lifetime of poverty, are less likely to pursue higher education, and are more likely to have their marriages crumble in divorce. I know that on an intellectual level, but on an emotional level, I bristle at these assumptions. When I tell people that I was married at 18 years old, I also feel the need to instantly bring up that my husband and I both went on to each earn PhDs, that we are very comfortable financially, that we have one of the strongest marriages I could imagine.

I am celebrating my 20^th wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and what surprises me most is that the emotional defensiveness I feel still haunts me to this day. I remember going to weigh our wedding invitations at the post office to see how much postage would be required to mail the letter, and the postal clerk gasping in amazement that I had brought in a wedding invitation. “You are HOW old??” she exclaimed, as her eyes bugged out. The same prickliness I felt then still pops up when I tell people how long we have been married and they do the math. “You were HOW old??” they exclaim, imagining the same fate befalling one of their children, grimacing at the thought of such a path.

Perhaps this emotional scar is because I care too much about the opinions and perceptions and approval of others. Perhaps this baggage would have faded in time if I could simply let it roll off me, like oil bouncing off water. But carrying this scar has made me who I am to this day. And I would not trade any of that for the world.  

Photo Credit: Amy Meng Photography

A Sticky Subject

So this is probably in super poor taste to write about, and maybe I will decide not to publish it, but here goes. I read a study on CNN earlier that stated that in one-in-four marriages today, the wife out-earns her husband. The big research study finding was that both spouses misreport in census surveys how much they actually earn. Specifically, both downplay the wife's income and exaggerate the husband's income. The difference between actual and reported earnings is not much - less than 5% - but the direction of the findings (downplaying the wife's earnings, exaggerating the husband's) is consistent. Survey authors think that this is likely an unconscious bias on individuals' part.

Our marriage is in one of those situations. Neither of us feel any negative emotion whatsoever over this comparison, and I can confidently say neither of us have any need to downplay or exaggerate.

I decided to test myself. As state employees, I can easily look up our reported earnings in about 2 seconds. I wrote down what I thought I made and what I thought my husband made last year. Then I looked at the actual numbers. And I earned more than I thought I did....and my husband earned less than I thought he did.

I feel disappointed in myself, not that I was inaccurate, but that the direction in which I was inaccurate was consistent with the bias observed in this research study. My blog post this morning was on all of the biases that women can encounter when they are parents. But this research study reminds me that there are also a plethora of biases that women can run into that have nothing to do with parenting.

The first step in overcoming any bias is to be aware of it. So this afternoon, I am grateful for this awareness. And for the opportunity to be reminded that research findings that I think do not apply to my own situation actually do.

On Grace and Whiplash

One of my favorite pages on Facebook to follow is Humans of New York. This page typically features a picture and a monologue from a random person in New York City.  What is so special about this page is that the comments left are usually very, very positive. One post a few years ago was of a man who had admitted to killing his wife while hallucinating. The comments were uniformly supportive and spoke of the necessity of treating mental health issues.

Yesterday, the featured post was on a woman who had a 1-year-old child. She had taken a 4-month maternity leave (longer than I ever took with either of my children) and spoke of the challenges of trying to balance career goals with being a parent. As a person who passionately loves being a parent and who is also passionate about my career, I could strongly relate to her sentiments. Then I clicked on the comments. Instead of being positive and supportive, the primary responses questioned the woman and her life choices. "Why even have a child if you aren't going to stay home for their first 3 years of life?!?" Another woman chimed in, "I have a hard time respecting anyone who only took a 4-month maternity leave." Still another, "I would NEVER allow someone else to raise my kids!" And on. And on. It was like a train wreck that I could not stop watching. It must have been enough of a train wreck for the whole post to have become derailed, because, when I checked this morning, the entire post had been deleted. 

Being a parent is hard. Being a mom is especially hard. I posted about this on Facebook, that 14 years ago, I went back to work after having Annika. In July 2004, I decided to quit my job to stay home with Annika. Multiple people told me what a good decision that was, because, "When they start kindergarten, you can really tell the kids who have a parent at home - they have a huge advantage!

Fast forward to July 2005. We had decided to move to Florida to pursue our PhDs, and Annika would be starting full-time daycare. Multiple people told me what a good decision that was, because, "When they start kindergarten, you can really tell the kids who have been in daycare - they have a huge advantage!

I still vividly remember the sense of whiplash I had - and the realization that no matter what I did, I was both wholeheartedly right and painfully wrong. 

I have been a full-time working mom for most of my children's lives, and they have almost always been in full-time childcare. Being a full-time working mom is hard. When Annika was younger, though, I was also a full-time at-home mom and a part-time work-from-home home. Both of these roles were also incredibly hard. I truly wish that we can all extend each other grace and support in all of our decisions and beliefs. Because we are really all just doing the best we can.

Would You Light My Candle?

A blogger whom I follow posted a powerful sentiment today - "You are not required to set yourself on fire to keep other people warm." I can totally relate to that emotion. I have often wanted to totally engulf myself in flames so that others can stay warm. The graphic of Cruella de Vil totally speaks to me - trying to excel in my career, raise two kids, maintain a social life, drink enough water, text everyone back, stay sane, survive, and be happy is enough to drive anyone crazy, and trying to keep someone else warm on top of all of these demands can truly tip the scales. 

But one of the comments on this original blogger post was just as powerful to me - "Read both ways. Don't be the one looking for others to keep you warm. Be your own light." And just as the sentiment about not lighting yourself on fire spoke to the core of my heart - so did this reply. 

There is a scene in Rent, where Mimi, a drug-addicted young adult with so many problems of her own that she almost seems like a caricature, wanders around her apartment building, singing, "Would You Light My Candle?" There are so many ways to read the deeper meaning underlying his song - but one thing is true. Mimi keeps wandering back, claiming that her candle has blown out, wanting another light. 

And I think that is so true of myself at times. Instead of doing the hard work to be my own light, I sometimes feel adrift, curious if anyone has a light that I can borrow, wanting someone else to warm me up, not thinking that such a desire comes out such a high price for all involved. 

For whatever reason, some people, like my daughter, seem so self-assured, so comfortable in their own skin. And others, like myself, feel naked without societal approval - I got married when I was 18 and the hardest consequence of that decision has been the burning embarrassment that I did not operate in a socially-approved manner. I think that my desire for approval sometimes runs so deep that I start looking to others to keep me warm, instead of working harder to find this heat buried deep within me. 

So in all, I am going to try to do a better job of figuring out what I need to avoid setting myself on fire. And to light my own candle. 

Why My Daughter is More Mature Than I

I can't quit Facebook. Ever since I joined the site as a PhD student at the University of Central Florida in 2005, I have been addicted to following the pictures, musings, posts, and updates from friends and acquaintances across the globe. When I first signed on the Facebook, I had to verify that I did, indeed, have the required "edu" email address - and then was only able to view the pages of fellow students at my university. The entire concept of the newsfeed did not exist until 2007. Much of what was posted on Facebook in the beginning years consisted almost entirely of snarky college-student banter. The site in its infancy would barely be recognized compared to what it has grown to today.

My daughter is 14 years old. She does not have a Facebook account. She also does not have an Instagram account, or a Twitter account, or a Snapchat account, or really any social media account. The closest she comes to social media is a Recolor account, which is an art-sharing application where users can upload artwork. Similar to Instagram, fellow users can "follow" each other, give "likes" to fellow users' posts, and provide comments and feedback. My daughter seems to deeply enjoy being on Recolor. She loves viewing drawings on the site and uploading her own artwork, and she bubbles over with excitement when one of her drawings is well-received.

This afternoon, crammed around a small round table at the university dairy bar, my daughter confided that her experience on Recolor has taught her that she does not want to join any other social media accounts. "I think I am addicted," she says, as I lick my Swiss Chocolate Almond ice cream cone. "I get so excited when people like and comment on my artwork, and then I get so sad later if I have another piece and no one likes it. And this is just my artwork, with people I don't know! Imagine how it would be on real social media, where I know all of the people!"

I considered her words. How many times have I woken up in the morning, and instead of curling up against my husband's sleeping body in bed, have instead scooted over to the right-hand side of the bed to retrieve my iPhone lying on top of my cluttered nightstand? How often have I instantly clicked on the Facebook app, feeling a rush of dopamine as I saw a red symbol at the bottom of the screen illuminated with the news that I had nine new notifications? How often have I felt a jolt of adrenaline as people engaged with what I had to say, and felt embarrassed when a personal post was relatively ignored?

I bit into an almond nestled against my cake cone and responded, "But social media isn't all bad. You can connect with long-lost friends and foster relationships with others you may not know as well. You can be involved in groups with others with common interests. You can keep up with the community. It can even help you find your voice. Not that you need to be on social media. At all! But there is some good there."

My daughter looked at me, her short dirty-blonde hair falling over her ears and highlighting the bright-red streak near her temples. "Well, I'm not sure if my life would be better if I had never joined Recolor. Then I would never know what it was like to want other people to pay attention to you online. Then I would never have become addicted."

And in the flash at that moment, sitting at Call Hall with the whirring cheese-stuffed refrigerators all around us, I realized that my daughter is truly more mature than I am. And I love her so very much. 

Scenes from the Prairie Life Cafe

The café at Prairie Life Bookstore is up an entire flight of stairs and on top of another short set of stairs on the 2^nd floor. The Doris, The Iowa Review, Poets and Writers, and other magazines, flyers, and books are spewed across the counter on the left-hand side of the store. A chalkboard in front of the bar reads out the drinks of the day and the accompanying prices, with the notation, “*Tax included in price*.” At the bar, a barista sits at a high, backless stool, reading a tattered copy of the book Of Military Maneuvers and Tree-Lined Streets that she places face-down on the counter each time customers line up to order.

At the table closest to the bar, a man and a woman sit. The dark-haired woman with chunky glasses clutches her hot drink, half-filled with liquid but never bringing the mug to her lips. “Since he’s retired, he’s definitely become more conservative. It’s very interesting, because he doesn’t necessarily recognize a lot about me.”

Facing her, the man in the paisley shirt nods, his own iced tea with the disposable cup and straw shoved off to the side.   “At some point, you have to look pass the false belief and see the heart behind it.”

The woman interjects, “Well, it’s definitely become more dysfunctional.”

At a table to the right, two women speak to each other rapidly. “I think it’s, like, your space. We have a yoga studio, a coffee shop, a wine bar . . .” she trails off.

The other woman responds, “I guess, like, the reason….” She stirs the liquid in the cup in front of her and takes another breath. “Thank you for sharing.”

These two tables are the only ones occupied by more than one person – all of the remaining tables in the café are single-occupied, each individual typing at a MAC computer.

The bird clock on the wall behind the bar strikes out the time – 12:30 p.m. Nearby, people line up to order, gathering next to a large vat of honey and an empty water pitcher on the counter with no cups nearby. The man and the woman at the first table continue their conversation. “I live, actually, like 3 blocks away. Is it brand spanking new?”

The woman responds, “It’s on the older side of the development. It feels almost city-ish, but not quite. I guess, I was kind of, like, well, I need to be somewhere . . ."

The barista behind the counter calls out, “Quiche!” and a man rises from his chair to pick up the dish. A party of five enters the café, sitting at a high-top table with four bar stools, pulling up a chair for the 5^th member. Each in the party of five pulls out a MAC computer, opens the lid, and stares intently at the screen. The table is silent.

In the silence of the large high-top table, the man and the woman’s conversation carries through the café. “During the school year, there is actually a lot of spare time.” To which the man replies quickly, “Well, I would like to be on the West Coast.”

On Growth and Dying

But I will likely never again have the same growth. This thought pulsed through my head as scenes from that crazy week flashed through my mind. The text that my father-in-law was in the hospital. The decision to remove all life support. Dropping the kids off at school and driving for 2 hours up the long, flat stretches of I-70 to try to reach Dick’s hospital room in time. Arriving in the parking lot only to find that my father-in-law of 20 years had already passed away. Wondering if I should not have stopped for gas, or lingered less at home.

The next few days felt surreal and morbid and unreal. Going shopping with my children for appropriate funeral clothes. Walking into a funeral home with my mother-in-law to plan the cremation services and funeral. Making an appointment on my electronic phone calendar to “Pick up Dick’s ashes – 8:30 a.m.” – only to be topped by the surreal-ness of actually picking up Dick’s ashes at 8:30 a.m., which was itselftopped by the fact that the ashes were delivered in a very nondescript recyclable evergreen grocery bag.

The funeral itself was a beautiful service, with a flag salute and a heartfelt eulogy and the embrace of dozens of friends and strangers alike and dry ham sandwiches put together by a team of invisible women. I thought getting through the funeral would be the hardest part of processing my father-in-law’s death, but I was wrong. The next morning, I arrived at work promptly at 8:30 a.m. and was not able to get out of my van until well after the hour digit on the clock rolled over to 9.

I typed up a message to an online group of friends: “Help, My father-in-law passed away and I am sad. So very sad. I feel selfish saying this because it wasn’t my father who passed away, and my husband has it much worse than I do, and I need to be a rock for him. But I am still sad.” A friend responded, “Grief is just another sign of love.” The intensity of both my grief and my love took my breath away.

Now, some days pass in the chaos of backpacks and homework folders that need to be signed and overdue library books and boiling pots of spaghetti noodles. Other days pass with visceral reminders that my father-in-law is no longer with us, and we will never again in the history of ever be able to talk with him on this earth. A fishing rod leaning to the left-hand side of our dusty garage. You Can’t Always Get What You Want playing on the radio and erupting in a mash-up of organ and choral pulses. The phone ringing with my caller-ID displaying “Dick and Peggy Hageman” in blocky font, when “Dick Hageman” will never be on the other end of the line.  

My grandparents all passed away when I was young and I did not have the same emotional reaction from their deaths. I choked up during my grandmother’s funeral not because she was gone, but because I was not able to sit next to my favorite cousin in the church pew during her funeral service. My own parents’ deaths feel very far into the distant future, a fictional concept that may never come to fruition. My own father sometimes bikes 100 miles a day and my mother often runs more miles in a week than I do. Living through my father-in-law’s death, though, has me recoiling from the realization of how surprising the intensity of both love and grief that can bubble up can be. And I hope I do not have to experience this truth again for a very long time. 

Goodbye to All That

In my own life, no time has been more formative or painful or rewarding or joyful than the five years our family lived in Orlando, Florida. In 2005, my husband and I had a one-year-old baby, family nearby, a beautiful brick Colonial home, and good professional jobs, when we decided to chuck it all and move to Florida to each earn our PhDs. When we arrived in Florida, on the first night, we played a desperate game of Tetris to try to make all of our furniture from our previous four-bedroom house fit inside our new, moldy, two-bedroom apartment. Tears leaked from my face as I exclaimed to my husband that we had made a terrible mistake and needed to figure out a way to move back to our old lives.

And I was so very wrong. Because five years later, when we moved back to Kansas, two PhDs in hand and now with two beautiful children, I had come to love Florida in general and Orlando in particular as passionately and viscerally as I loved my own hometown.

Florida is the land of torrential downpours every afternoon at 4 p.m., ants that bite in bodily regions I never thought possible, infrastructure that means that a metropolitan area of 2 million people only has one non-toll East-West thoroughfare. But Florida is also the land of eternal optimism, of sunny disposition of both the weather and its people, the use of the term “Coke” for any soft drink, the rapid shifts in both the economy and the government, the melting pot of diverse cultures and races and regional backgrounds. Florida is truly the best and the worst of humanity, all thrown into one massive, alligator-invested state.

In Florida, when a party starts at 6:00 p.m., the implication is that 6:00 p.m. is maybe the time you should start thinking about leaving your house to start the agonizing drive on the only East-West thoroughfare. In Florida, flip-flops are worn as casually to the office as Dockers are in the Midwest. The sun in Florida pierces through a rich, cobalt sky all times of the year, driving people indoors during the summer months and resulting in illnesses spiking when it is hottest temperatures outdoors.

My time in Florida was also marked by a shift from being a well-respected, financially comfortable professional to being a poor, broke college student. Learning what it was like to be poor with children was one of the most humbling and embarrassing and memorable parts of Florida. When my daughter’s health insurance did not cover her childhood vaccines, we decided to go to the local health department to obtain her immunizations. During the four-and-a-half hour wait in an overcrowded lobby, we were recruited to be part of a research study targeting “lower-income families” who could learn the art of “better marriage communication.” I felt humiliated at the implication that those who were poor did not know how to communicate with their spouses, but we were broke enough that the $50 Wal-Mart gift card offered as an incentive was enough to lull me into participating.

Living in Florida also helped me realize my husband and I had previously held professional jobs that were afforded a level of respect not typically given to those who were students. As a laser engineer at a large corporation, my husband had previously been wined and dined by professors hoping to win funding from his company. As a student a few months later, these same professors would not even look at him in the hallway. Florida was a time when I realized how dependent I was upon societal approval and how naked I felt when approval was withdrawn.

I was my best self in Florida. I was intellectually alive, connected to strong community in school and church alike. I was my worst self in Florida, living far away from any family and being stripped bare to only myself as a person. When we left Florida, I left behind the most formative years of my life. We now have professional jobs and prestige and financial comfort again. But I will likely never again have the same growth. Or live under that rich, cobalt sky.  

It's Getting Better All the Time

I think it is so easy to focus on all of the ways that the education system for elementary students today is worse than when we went through school ourselves 30+ years ago. From high-stakes testing, the potential loss of classroom anatomy for faculty, a shift away from “traditional” education methods (although another faculty member talks of “New Math” textbooks published in 1954), and the potential loss of autonomy and independence for our youth, it is easy to feel negative and overwhelmed with a sense that elementary education today just isn’t what it used to be. 

Yet I think that in many ways, our children’s elementary education and school experiences are much better in today’s environment than when I was a child. I have based this assessment on the very scientific method of Comparing Anecdotes, which we all know is the most convincing way to make an argument. ;) I went to eight elementary schools in six years, while Annika and Daniel have each attended two elementary schools during their time in grade school (7 years for Annika and 5 years so far for Daniel). Based on this very scientific process, here are 10 ways in which Elementary Education Today is Better than It Used to Be.

10. Before and After School Care – When my mom went back to work when I was in 4^th grade and Julie was in 1^st grade, we became Latchkey Kids. When we moved to Junction City at the beginning of 5^th grade, we became part of a Whole Neighborhood of Latchkey Kids, who did fun things like roam all over frozen ponds, stomp on them until the ice cracked, and lose our shoes. I am not exaggerating when I say That! Was! Awesome! However, as a parent now, I am so, SO happy that both schools we have been a part of (and all of the schools in the district) to have had on-site before- and after-school care, where the children are very well-taken care of. I honestly could not imagine having been a working parent today, especially when I had younger elementary-aged children, without this wrap-around care.

9. STEM Focus – There were some years when I literally had NO science coverage in elementary school, and others where “science” for the year consisted of looking up an encyclopedia article on “the sun.” Our kids have had consistent, hands-on science coverage, from raising chicks and frogs in 2^nd grade to the many STEM clubs available in the after-school program, such as “What’s Inside the Earth?” and “Engineering in Action" to the STEM "special" that is a rotation for all kids just like P.E., music, and art. We love it. 

8. School Lunches – There is much press today over the lack of quality in school lunches. While there is obviously still much room for improvement, I honestly think they are much better, because (1) no one has ever been served green hot dogs and (2) fruits and vegetables are actually a part of every meal instead of a solid rotation of Super Greasy Fried Surprises.

7. Physical Education – This has improved in multiple ways. In every.single.school that I attended, P.E. was only offered once a week; our kids have always had P.E. 2 or 3 times a week at both schools she has attended. Even more importantly, there has been a huge shift to making P.E. focused on life-long health and fitness for all, rather than a potentially humiliating experience of Who Got Picked Last in Gym Class.

6. Special Education – I think this is one of the most amazing changes in the past 30+ years; a much, MUCH greater sensitivity toward children with special needs. I know that when I was in school “retarded” was a word bandied about by children and teachers alike as an insult. And not only that, but I think when I was a child there was a great deal of stigma in being “labeled” – it seemed that parents would go out of their away to avoid having a label attached to a child, even if that meant denying helpful services. I think there is a MUCH healthier attitude today and, in our experiences with our own children, the stigma by all parties been greatly reduced. 

5. Math – I am of two minds of this. On the one hand, I kind of wish that math instruction were more “traditional” with more rote memorization and “kill and drill” exercises. But on the other hand, I love the emphasis on actually understanding the rationale behind concepts such as multiplication.

4. Libraries – At every elementary school that I attended, the library was a very quiet place to be visited with reverence once a week to check out a book (and a place to fear if you were overdue in returning your book). Our children's library experience at their schools in Manhattan are completely the opposite – they can go to the library EVERY DAY to check out a book, and the librarian puts on a variety of hands-on programs. I think that this mirrors the (positive) changes in children’s programming at public libraries, too.

3. Less Competition - Again, another area that I am of two minds about. When I was in school, competition was really emphasized – we would do “Around the World” contests in math to see who was the fastest, lots of competition over spelling, etc. I am a naturally somewhat competitive person and enjoyed it. However, I know that Will hated these types of activities and given our kids' personalities, they are also not big fans as well.. There is a much greater emphasis now on cooperation and teaching the children how to work in teams instead of just throwing them to the wolves. For many students, like our kidsI see this change as a huge positive.

2. Actual Art Class and “Specials” – Out of the 8 elementary schools I attended, one did have an actual art class, so it is probably a stretch to say that no one used to have art specialists. But I love that our children have tons of hands-on art experience at school, including an actual kiln for pottery when they attended Bergman. There are also other interesting “specials” that I never encountered, including Math Enrichment, STEM, and Guidance.   

1. Inclusive – Overall, I think that this is the biggest and most positive change in education. There is such an incredible emphasis now on being inclusive of all children, not bullying, and treating everyone with kindness and respect. When bullying happened when I was a child (pretty much all.the.time, as I am sure it has since the dawn of civilization), the attitude of teachers was “kids will be kids!” I am super happy that there is not only an anti-bullying emphasis, but the children are taught what to do if they encounter such situations. (Annika would always say, “Be a G!” Whatever on earth that was…) When I once talked to Annika about bullying, she responded in shock and said, “No one is bullied at Bergman! We aren’t allowed.”

And beyond that, I love the emphasis on including all children, from making sure that Valentine’s Day cards are made for all students in the class to not sending out birthday invitations at school (unless all are invited). I know that there is a lot of concern that such actions might be going too far in the other direction. But I like to think we are really teaching our children how to live life with kindness and respect.

And I realize that this could be just our own experiences and others' may be vastly different - but - We love our Manhattan, Kansas elementary schools!