Only Love Today

Tomorrow morning, Westboro Baptist Church will be protesting outside of my daughter's high school. For those outside of Kansas, this "church" is known for its vile hate speech, particularly targeted toward LGBTQ individuals, but also toward soldiers, different religions, politicians, anyone with a pulse. The signs that they use when they picket are absolutely disgusting and I cannot bring myself to quote them.

Westboro Baptist Church frequently picketed at Kansas State University while I was a student here 20+ years ago. My memory is that it was best to just ignore them, as the group thrived on attention and negative encounters. But I was a college student then - and not one of the targeted groups. How would I feel if I were a high school student, someone who felt personally vilified by this hateful rhetoric, arriving at school and to what should be a safe place - to see horrible signs abusively disparaging my very existence?

The high school has responded with amazing communication to parents and students alike, and in keeping the community abreast of how to best respond. Part of the email the principal sent to parents (also posted on the district Facebook page) read, in part:

"Staff members of Manhattan High School have independently organized themselves to create a human shield to protect our students, as much as possible, from being exposed to vicious ugliness. Furthermore, the entire staff stands at the ready to provide their love, support, and understanding to all students, especially those students innocently subjected to hate."

It makes me teary-eyed to think that our teachers and community are rallying to protect our students and make sure all only feel loved and supported tomorrow. And it also makes me sad to think that it sometimes takes horrible events to serve as a catalyst for me to remember that loving each other is the most important act we can ever take.

So tomorrow, and every day, my goal is to only show love. To make sure I make eye contact with every person I encounter. To make sure I think bigger about ways I could show love and compassion toward those who feel vulnerable. And to make sure that I am aware and paying attention toward who needs love the most.

More Time Than You Think

I worked 45 hours last week. This does not include time spent commuting, walking to my car, eating lunch, or whatever it is I am doing on campus when I am not actually working. I was inspired to track my time after reading a book on how "successful" women spend their time. The author's point was that there are 168 hours available in a week, and most people sleep more, work less, and generally have more time than they think.

I think this 45 hours a week is pretty accurate. This past week, Annika and I both had multiple medical appointments during the day - but really - it seems like there is always something out of the ordinary in any given week. I did not work much this past weekend outside of checking and responding to email, so some weeks may be higher, but I think working for 45 hours a week is probably on par with what I usually do.

I am not sure what I think about this number. Dirty secret: I work far less now than I have worked at other times in my life. As a CPA, I regularly billed 60+ hours a week - after commuting 45 minutes each way. As a PhD student, I regularly stayed up until 1 a.m. working. As an early-stage tenure-track faculty member, I logged many hours of work most night and weekends. I do wonder if I should do more now. There are other events that take up more of my time now than in different career stages, such as volunteering, and others that are purely restful, such as chilling around the house on a Saturday morning. I know that I could most definitely work more.

On the other hand, 45 hours a week seems like a very sustainable number. I feel that I could average this amount of time for the rest of my career and I would not burn out. I also feel that I start to have diminishing returns at work once I exceed a certain number of hours. Working 45 hours a week still gives me plenty of time for a rich, full life.

In the end, I agree with the premise that we likely do have more time than we think to pursue non-work pursuits. And I feel very blessed to be able to do so - and will likely still continue to work about 45 hours a week.

Little Kids, Little Problems

I often think of myself as a mom of young kids. This afternoon, I helped out an event at the zoo targeted toward preschool and early-elementary aged children. I was keenly aware after spending time at the zoo today that I am no longer a mother of young children. My oldest is in high school and my youngest is in double digits, signifying that I have probably moved on to a new stage.

One of my former colleagues had a saying: "Little kids, little problems." At the time, I had a 6-year-old and a 2-year-old and I found that saying somewhat annoying. I had just completed a PhD with two small children in tow. I had to be on every single minute my children were awake. I could not use the bathroom alone. I was physically exhausted.

Today, none of these same problems remain. I can shower at my leisure. I can leave the house to go for a run, or a coffee, or even a date with my husband, and no one bats an eye. I average around eight hours of sleep a night. I can have intelligent conversations with all members of my family.

I would not want to go back to those bleary-eyed days. And yet, as I peer back at those chaotic years in hindsight, they seem almost idyllic. No one mentioned wanting to become anorexic. No one ever verbalized being lonely or feeling isolated in the same way that is possible once awareness of one's peers become more pronounced. The stakes felt so high at the time (will my child sleep through the night? will they ever grow out of diapers), but feel so much higher now (will my child hold it together this school year? are my kids making choices now that prepare them for their desired future later?).

Another item I miss from when my children were smaller was the ability to discuss my concerns with other parents. I had no shame when they were younger at sharing my worries over developmental milestones, preschool issues, and picky eating problems. Now, I feel like I am walking a tightrope in choosing what to share or hold back. Privacy is such an important issue - how much is appropriate to share with friends online? Off-line? One-on-one? How would my child react to this person, or this group of people, knowing I had shared my concerns? I am a person who thrives on sharing with others as a way of processing, and am still adjusting with what is appropriate in this context.

I love the phase we are in now. I love my kids with every fiber of my being. But I must admit that I now better understand the perspective of my former colleague. Because big kid problems are so often different.

Best Friends Forever

I met Christine in 2010, when our family moved to Manhattan, KS. Christine’s family had also moved to Manhattan the same year. Christine was kind, gentle, patient, loving, accepting, gracious, sweet, beautiful. During her short life, she played so many roles to so many people. She was an amazing wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend. But today, I am reflecting on the many roles that Christine played in my own life - and how very much I miss her.

Christine was a book club member. I first met Christine when she joined our fledgling book group, coming over to our house one Tuesday evening. The first thing I remember about her is her infectious laugh, and how she could light up a room with her smile. Christine was there through the years of incarnations of our book group, from reading books to watching movies to painting pottery to holiday cookie exchange – always smiling, infectiously laughing, and up for anything.

Christine was a gardener and animal lover. She had a multitude of plants in her gorgeous backyard and inside her house, which required copious amounts of watering when she traveled out of town. Christine was a member of a Manhattan gardening club. She also had a variety of animals as pets - cats, bird, frogs, fish. One time, when we took care of Penny's frog at our house, our cat literally ate the frog. Instead of being upset, Christine bought frog memorabilia (frog cups, stuffed frogs) for our family as a joke.

Christine was a runner. We ran miles and miles and miles together. In the early morning and late at night – whenever it worked with my crazy schedule – we started at her house, ran up and around Cico Park, and congratulated ourselves on making it up the park hill without stopping to walk. Christine ran almost every 5K race in town. She trained with me for all of my half marathon races. One time, a car catcalled us as we ran down Candlewood Drive, and we burst into laughter as the car disappeared into the distance.

Christine was the coordinator of Little Apple Mommies, a large parenting group open for any families of young children in town. Her role as organizer was particularly a blessing for those who were new to the community, a consistent smiling face who made all feel welcome, from park playdates to opening her home to the community. One time, she hosted an organizing meeting for all who wanted to come, and graciously hosted more than 30 families who descended on her backyard, many of whom she had never met.

Christine was the president of the Bergman Elementary PTO. When her oldest daughter, Lily, started kindergarten, the completely new officer board was in need of a president, and Christine did not hesitate to jump in to lead the group - even though she had literally never sat foot in the school before. Just like Little Apple Mommies, Christine was a smiling, welcoming, involved presence. She volunteered at the Teacher Workroom every Monday morning. She organized and ran the school Carnival, walking around the school with a walkie-talkie while in control and smiling. Having served with her, she truly made the Bergman community a better place.

Christine was an adventurer. I remember the years and years of Sunday Family Swim in the evenings at the K-State Natatorium. In the summer, Christine lived at Cico Park Pool with her children, sliding down the giant purple family slide over and over again. She was never on the sidelines and was always in the water with her kids. One late summer evening, she texted me that the fireflies in her gorgeous backyard were amazing right now, and we should all come over and catch them right now! All of our children swung on the low tire swing while running around and catching fireflies in open Mason jars.

Christine was a preschool teacher. She was my own nephew’s preschool teacher when he started Child’s Day Out at First United Methodist preschool. Christine was so incredibly patient as he transitioned into this new environment, and would sit on the floor, reading books to him and holding him for hours at a time. Her training was as a physical therapist – and worked with Infant-Toddler Services in that capacity – but she truly garnered joy from teaching children.

Christine was a follower of Christ. During her time in Manhattan, she was deeply devoted to her church at First United Methodist. I was privileged to worship with her on the joint occasions where our Methodist churches joined forces, her children participating in events with us such as Vacation Bible School and joint Good Friday Services. Christine was particularly involved in children's ministries, both leading other children and volunteering, a constant ray of light for all.

Christine was a mother of three. When she passed away, her children were 11 (Lily), 9 (Penny), and 3 (John) years old. Christine was a mom of two sweet girls when I met her, and I remember sitting with her, drinking wine in the living room as she shared her hopes for a third child. Her excitement bubbled over when she learned she was pregnant, and again when she knew she would give birth to a son. I visited her in the hospital the night John was born, and the radiant glow she emitted is still just as visceral today.

Christine was an amazing friend. On the day of her Manhattan memorial service, one of my memories from three years ago popped up. "Is there something called hug therapy?," it read. "If not, can there be. Feel so much better after hugs today from my mom and a random-same place same time with Amy Hageman." I will always remember how comfortable I felt around Christine. How accepted she made me feel. How loved I felt in her presence. Above all, I will always remember how blessed I am to have had Christine in my life - and that I will remember her love and radiance forever.

The Family Years at the Two-Thirds Line

My children are four years apart in age. This means that by the time my youngest is 18 years old and is graduating high school, I will have been a parent for 22 years. Currently, I have been a parent for 14.5 years, which means that I am two-thirds of my way into the "Family Years" - i.e., the child-raising years in which your children reside with you under one roof.

Clearly, much can change. Perhaps my children will live at home while they attend college, or will embark on a completely different path. Perhaps our Family Years will be much longer. But assuming traditional models, we are about 66% of the way through our Family Years together - and are definitely in the downhill stretch.

I think about this often, how little time left we have with our high-school age daughter at home before she will begin the next chapter of her life. How very young my elementary-aged son still seems, but how very quickly I know the next few years will pass. How it seems that we have all of the time left in the world as a family unit residing under one roof, but how we actually have fewer years left with children in our home than we have already had with them.

There is still so much left I want to do with our children. I want to build their resiliency. I want to nudge them into expanding their preferred foods.  I want to take them to Alaska and Hawaii. I want to equip them now with all of the tools they will need to use for the rest of their lives.

I know that I will continue to be a parent long after my children go off to college and move away and begin their own lives. I will be a parent every single day of the rest of my life. But there is something truly magical about the Family Years, something fleeting and wonderful and ethereal about our little unit all living together in one house. And I want to make the very most of the one-third time we have remaining. 

Holiday Gift Mart

My 5th grader's school has an annual "Holiday Gift Mart" project that students complete as part of a financial literacy unit. Each student takes out a loan (to be repaid with interest and with underlying collateral) from their parents for up to $30. The student then uses the loan to purchase items to make and sell at a school-wide "Holiday Gift Mart." Students assemble at least 25 of each item and decide how to price them. Students then sell the items for real money during a December afternoon to all other students in attendance at the elementary school; students who sell all of their items display a "Sold Out" sign. 

My daughter attended a different elementary school and did not participate in this assignment, so I feel very much like a first-time mom with these parameters. My son came home from school today and announced he was going to sell "painted rocks." He enjoys painting and thought it would be a fun project, and was thinking that since his materials are cheaper, it would be easier to make a profit. 

I am struggling with how much help and input to provide. On the one hand, I am happy that he has a project idea, and firmly believe this needs to be his own project. On the other hand, I feel that the tacit understanding is that parents need to have some degree of involvement in this particular project - especially in guiding toward a project selection that might be received favorably by other elementary-school shoppers spending real dollars. 

And this is so true of life and our children growing up. How much advice to share, particularly when such advice is unsolicited. How much assistance to give when asked, or not asked. How much to stand back and watch our children make their own decisions, knowing that they very well may fail. How much to jump in and how much to watch from the shore. 

I am not yet sure what direction we will go. But I am trying very hard to remember that my kids are the ones who ultimately have to live their lives. 

I'll (Maybe Not) Drink to That

Sometimes I am in the mood for a soda, or dessert, or meat, or alcohol. Sometimes I am not. What is odd to me is that I have had to explain my choice to not feel like drinking alcohol far more frequently than my choice to decline a dessert or another beverage.

Just off the top of my head, here are comments I've heard around this decision - incidentally, almost all in work settings.

The most common: "Why aren't you drinking?"

"Do you ever drink?"

"We're all splitting a bottle of wine - you should have some, too!"

"You should just get one drink and then nurse it."

"Come on, just one glass."

I think all of these comments come from a good place. People are worried about others feeling left out and want to make sure that I am comfortable. I also think it is natural to want people to join you in the activity you are currently enjoying as well, just as when someone orders dessert, it is natural to want to encourage others at the table to order dessert, too.

But I think there is something a little bit different about alcohol. When I say I am not in the mood for dessert, I am much less frequently asked why not, and if I ever eat dessert, and that I should really eat dessert because everyone else is. When I say I am not in the mood for a glass of wine with dinner among people I have never met before, this frequently leads to a long interrogation of why I am not in the mood to drink tonight and that I really should just drink anyway.

Part of the problem is that I am not a complete teetotaler. I do drink alcohol on some occasions. But on many occasions, I would rather not. I honestly prefer grape juice to wine. I would rather have a milkshake than a mudslide. And I would take an extra basket of chips and queso over a margarita any day.

So maybe I'll drink to that. But maybe not.

Eighth Grade

Last night, Annika and I watched the movie "Eighth Grade." It is rated "R," which originally surprised me. given that the movie is purported to be a very realistic account of 8th grade. Annika, though, originally commented, "Mom, 8th grade is kind of R-rated in real life."

The movie is really, really good, despite the R-rating, and does an excellent job of highlighting all of the issues that middle school students are dealing with. Just off the top of my head, these issues from the movie include:

- Self-identity struggles
- Body image
- Acne
- Wanting to desperately to fit in
- Peer pressure
- Trying to be popular
- Changing family relationships
- Early romantic feelings
- Pressure to send explicit pictures
- Pressure to act sexually advanced
- Constant Internet usage
- Constant perfectly curated Instagram feeds

So many of these issues are different from my own 8th grade experience. So many of them are also untrue for my own daughter, who has chosen thus far to avoid social media. But the emotions surrounding 8th grade are timeless. Not knowing who you are. A body that seemingly has changed and betrayed you overnight. Desperation to find your tribe and "your people" but lacking the skills to do so. A sense that everyone else on the planet has it together except for you.

8th grade was probably the worst year of my own life. I made some really poor choices and acting cruelly to another girl who had only been kind to me. I was so desperate to please a friend and to cement her as a lifelong best friend that I ended up alienating her and everyone else around. I felt overshadowed, overlooked, lonely, desperate.

In many ways, Annika fared much better in 8th grade. She has a strong tribe of friends who have been together since early elementary school. She has avoided social media thus far and is generally unaware of others outside of her small circle. She at least does a good job of pretending to enjoy spending time with her entire family.

I would never, ever want to repeat 8th grade ever again. Watching the movie Eighth Grade last night brought back so many painful repressed emotions that it was almost like watching a horror show unfold in slow-motion at times. Annika is still close enough to her own 8th-grade experience that it may be hard to disentangle her own feelings, but I imagine that 8th grade will not likely serve as a crown jewel of her life.

But going through middle school in general and 8th grade in particular helped shape me into who I am today. And I imagine that is the same for everyone - struggling with body image, trying on different personalities and identities for size, facing constant pressure from all sides. And so it goes.

Get in the Picture

[Photo Credit: Amy Meng Photography]

I have a very odd relationship with photographs. I am all about taking photos and documenting my life. I have no problems taking selfies if there is no one available or willing to serve as a photographer. I am very comfortable sharing all of these pictures all of the time on social media. 

But I feel much more hesitation, shame, and worry over formal family photographs. Part of the reason is that everyday photos seem transitory, fleeting, informal, with imperfections easily explained away. Formal family portraits are supposed to be permanent, lasting, beautiful - and any flaws that remain are simply ones that are part of our being. 

I have been having a lot of body image issues over my weight recently. Because of my weird weight issues, I have been hesitant to schedule a formal family portrait sitting. I absolutely love and cherish every official family photo we have ever taken. The picture above was taken by my dear friend two years ago, and a large canvas of the print hangs in our stairway. All four of us have changed in the past two years and I have thought that we need to update it . . . but not until I get in a place where I am happier with my body image. 

I posted a poll on family pictures and body image recently, and the comments were telling. So many people, particular women and mothers, struggle with body image issues as well, which makes photographs emotional and difficult. But so many women also lament the fact that they have few images of their own mothers in their own time of childhood - and would give anything to capture those moments. 

So maybe it is time to persevere and move forward, body image issues and other hang-ups and all. Maybe years from now, we will long to have the same body that we struggle to love now. Maybe years from now, we won't care about crow's feet or sagging stomachs. Maybe years from now, we will be saddened by the lack of documentation of us in the lives in our families. 

Some people struggle more with candid photos. Others, like me, struggle more with formal family photographs. But regardless of our struggles, I think it is time for us to all Get in the Picture. Because we are worth it. 

On My Firstborn

When my first child was born, I was 24 years old (or, as I like to say, almost 25), and I thought I had my whole life figured out. Will and I had been married for almost 6 years. We had purchased our dream house in the Kansas City area, in which we thought we would live for the rest of our lives. Will had a perfect job as a laser engineer, and I had a perfect job at a CPA firm with a part-time schedule that would be perfect for accommodating our new baby. And as I reflect on that time 14.5 years ago, I cannot believe how much I have learned from becoming not only a mom, but Annika's mom. Here are 10 Lessons Learned from Annika Grace: 

10. How to Change Diapers.

I have a confession. Before having Annika, I had changed a grand total of zero diapers in my life. None. I also had never given an infant a bath before, fed an infant (unless you count the couple of times when I was age 12 and younger), or really ever taken care of an infant. As it turns out, changing diapers (and giving a bath) are both skills you can learn very quickly. And perhaps even more surprisingly, I learned that...

9. I Love Babies! 

Before Annika was born, I figured that the baby stage would be one to endure, but that I would really start to blossom as a parent around age 3. Oh, no. I love babies. LOVE BABIES. The baby stage is truly one of my favorites. I love breast feeding, Boppy pillows, Baby Bjorns, snuggling, you name it. Who knew?

8. How to be a Working Mom. 

When I was pregnant with Annika, I envisioned that I would work part-time in order to "perfectly" balance work and life. I did this for a short time, and then was a stay-at-home mom and a work-from-home mom during Annika's first year. But when she was 15 months old, Will and I chucked everything to move to Florida to go back to school full-time to work on our PhDs, and I quickly became a full-time working mom. While this was a rocky transition at times, I learned that children are resilient, that dads are 110% capable (Will was pretty much the primary caregiver for a while) - and that my daughter is now so self-assured that it is possible to do both roles that she can't understand why anyone would think differently.

7. In the End, It is Just Food. 

Oh, food. Did we ever have problems with food. Annika did not eat any solid foods at all until she was 9 months old, and this was followed by years of sensory issues, pickiness, food issues, etc., which baffled books and food therapists alike. But today, Annika is a super healthy 14-year-old who is the least likely of anyone in our family to ever be sick. Annika has taught me that In the End, It is Just Food. And speaking of helpful therapists...

6. There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong with Seeking Help. 

I had known for a long time that Annika had sensory issues but we were so afraid of her being "labeled" that we were never aggressive about seeking help. Finally, though, when Annika was 6 years old and we had moved to Manhattan, we decided to actually talk to people about what kind of therapies might be available for these issues, which led to Annika doing OT (occupational therapy) and food therapy (by a speech therapist) for a couple of years. These therapies have truly made a world of difference. I only wish I had done this earlier, but am now trying to encourage others by sharing how helpful these therapies can be for sensory issues.

5. How to Relate More Deeply to my Own Parents. 

I see so much of myself in Annika, from old pictures to old videos to memories of my personality. And I understand my parents so much more when they speak of my intensity, or quirkiness, or fascinations as a child. And even more, the type of love and worry that they must feel became crystal clear once I had Annika.

4. How to Love Will Even More. 

I read somewhere that two-thirds of marriages experience a decline in martial satisfaction during the first year after having a baby. I am not sure why, but Will and I were lucky enough to feel even more connected after having Annika. Adding a child made me appreciate Will even more. And watching Will interact with Annika showed me that there is so much love in this world to go around for everyone.

3. It Doesn't Get Easier, It Just Gets Different. 

I truly thought that after certain milestones, things would become so much easier. Surely once my child was 14 years old and a fully functioning mini-adult, parenting would be a cake walk, right? In some ways, this was true - it is certainly much easier physically when children get older, and being sleep-deprived is a surefire recipe for crazy-making. But having an older child is not necessarily easier, just different. It is deeper with the potential to also be more joyful, more painful, and more complex. Annika has taught me that *how* a child needs their parents changes, but *that* they need them is a constant.

2. Your Children Are Not You. 

This has become my parenting mantra: Your Children Are Not You. Annika and I do have many similarities, but she is is still very much her own person: she is artistic, loves drawing, dislikes organized activities, loves building things - the list goes on. Annika has taught me that there is no one on earth like her...including me.

1. The Amount of Love for a Child Truly Takes Your Breath Away. 

I had no idea how fierce the love you have for your own child is, or how raw and vulnerable being a parent can be. It is intense joy. It is intense pain. It is messy and it is beautiful. It is simply amazing. 

Whom Shall I Disappoint Today?

Some people have FOMO: Fear of Missing Out. I have FODO: Fear of Disappointing Others.

This is at the root of so much of my anxiety. I can start to have a legitimate panic attack just by thinking that there is a chance I may have disappointed others. This is a very unhealthy and self-destructive way to live much of the time, but there it is.

Current people I am afraid I have disappointed:

- The Amazon sellers who write and ask for reviews to support their livelihood. I do not have the energy right now to write a review on a product that stirs no emotional response in me.

- The Amazon shipment people who ask for me to provide feedback on the quality of the shipping materials. Shipping materials. Yes. Why is this a thing?

- The survey people on the Blue Cross, Blue Shield website that always pop up for a survey and I always decline because who has time for that but what if they really needed the survey and I am hurting them?!

- Bell choir, which I am currently not playing in due to my foot injury and is short on people.

- The FIT Closet, which I am also not currently volunteering at due to my foot injury, and feel like I am flaky and letting people down.

- A cause I am volunteering at right now, but where I feel like I am doing less than everyone else and not pulling my weight.

- My co-authors, because it takes me forever to get anything done, and, when I do, it isn't as high of a quality as I would like.

- The American Red Cross, which is really really REALLY short on my blood type. I even signed up for the most recent drives but the constant e-mails and phone calls have continued.

- My kids, who so often get the stressed-out version of me. I'm not sure if there really IS another version, mind you, so maybe they aren't really missing out. ;-)

- My husband, who is my favorite person in the world, and gets so little of my time and energy.

- Every single person who has a birthday on Facebook and who has a birthday fundraiser whom I love and adore but yet lack the energy to contribute to every cause.

 - Every non-profit or cause on social media that needs donations or money or time or attention and which I support in spirit but not in actual action.

- Society, which tells me I should weigh less than I currently do.

Obviously, there are some things on this list that are ridiculous (the feedback over Amazon packing materials) and others that are more serious (my children only seeing stressed-out me). But they are all united by this common fear that my action or inaction are disappointing others.

It would be awesome to close this blog with a nice vignette about how I no longer worry about disappointing anyone but myself (strangely enough, fear of disappointing myself didn't even make the list?). But that would be a lie. So I will close this entry just with the parting words that FODO is so very real.

Regrets, I Have Some

I do not have any major regrets in life. Getting married at age 18? Still going strong. Officially changing my major five times in college? It helped me find the path I am on today. My regrets are much smaller - including all of the times I have purged my bookshelves.

When I was in middle school, I remember discovering the second-hand bookstore The Reader's Corner on the corner of 13th Street and Woodlawn Avenue in Wichita, Kansas. Not only did this shop sell books - it would even buy them back! What could be better? I was on the cusp of high school and promptly sold all of the books that I relegated to a different era of my life, including my entire collection of The Babysitters' Club. Now, with my own children, I feel a palpable longing for these books, a sadness that I cannot simply hand them one of those paperbacks with the well-creased covers and the large cursive "Amy Stilson" scrawled inside.

Nothing, however, compares to the pangs of regret that I feel for the vast purge of our bookshelves that we carried out in 2015. We were moving houses in town and needed to stage our cluttered house to sell it. Having installed new flooring the year earlier in the living room, we had already relegated nearly all of the books that we owned to the spare bedroom in the basement. Purging them, we rationalized, would give us space and freedom and set us free. Instead, I feel an immense loss every time I think of one of the books we lost on our transition from six tall bookshelves in the living room to only two. Books that I would love to have our daughter read, such as The Westing Game, books that I would love to loan to others, such as The Help, or books that I would simply like to touch the spine and feel again, such as The Elegance of the Hedgehog.

In recent years, I have also transitioned into being much more of an e-reader than a physical-book reader. Not only do most of my reading selections come from the library - but when I do purchase a book, I tend to purchase the Kindle version for both instant gratification as well as easy access on my phone whenever I want to read a book for a few minutes. This leads to much less clutter around the house. But it also means that our bookshelves continue to be much barer than they were before and I feel a visceral yearning for the sight of the filled shelves from floor to ceiling.

So much of what we discard and pass on frees us to live our best life. But sometimes, we end up giving away parts of our soul - and feel a little emptier forevermore.

No New Ideas

One of the primary portions of my job is to research, write, and publish papers. Most of my research area falls within taxation, and within that, much of my focus is experimental, or using psychological theories and experiments to explain behavior regarding taxation. I love my research and find it fascinating. However, I am concerned that I am soon going to be out of new ideas. 

I have always felt I am a better worker bee than an idea-generator. This is true of so many factors - research, teaching, helping with committees and service projects, blog posts. I am pretty good at taking a rough outline of an idea and making it happen. I am not as strong at generating the rough idea in the first place. 

At this point in my career, I have made full professor, have an endowed chair, and am supposed to be considered an expert in the field. Unfortunately, at this point in my career, I am also supposed to transition from being a worker bee to being a "big picture" idea person. Consequently, I very often feel like an impostor, a fraud, a person who works hard and is collegial but does not have much of value to offer. 

This same impostor syndrome leaks over into so many other areas of work and life. On committees, I feel I am strong at taking notes and weak at helping to drive a group forward. I worry that I will run out of new ideas to blog about. I am concerned that I am unoriginal and uncreative in the classroom. 

Last week, I presented a workshop at university in Texas and met with the PhD students there, who were hungry for advice. One of the repeated questions: "Where do you get your ideas??" And I thought - goodness, I have no idea. Usually a germ of an idea comes from someone else. I very rarely wake up in the morning with a brilliant new idea of any shade - work or non-work alike. When I blog, usually it is in respect to a reaction to an article or some event that has transferred - and sometimes I even take a prompt from The Writer's Idea Book. When I work on research papers, the projects that I am currently working on tend to be offshoots of existing projects, or suggestions made by other co-authors. I feel like a fraud in the idea-generation business. 

But then I ran across this fabulous quote, attributed to Mark Twain: 

There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.

And then I thought - well, maybe that is okay. Maybe it is okay that I am very capable of taking old ideas and turning, turning, turning them through mental kaleidoscopes. Maybe I can keep taking those same-old colored-glass pieces and shake, shake, shake them some more and come up with something original. Maybe I do not need to invent glass in the first place. Maybe it will all be okay. 

Merit-Based

Kansas State University has long offered a Putnam Scholarship for students who obtain a certain ACT score and high-school GPA; the amount of the Putnam Scholarship has traditionally been enough to cover all tuition and fees at K-State. This week, however, K-State announced that they were eliminating Putnam Scholarships. In its place would be a replacement scholarship structure – but those who traditionally earned Putnam Scholarships (with all tuition covered) would now only automatically receive a scholarship that covered approximately half of tuition.

When I first read the news of this change, I was annoyed. In a time of declining enrollments at K-State, why would we want to decrease scholarships that attracted strong students to our university? We are already losing out to many of these students to KU or other universities, so why make this change? 

Part of the stated narrative for changing the structure of the Putnam Scholarships, though, was that it would open up the ability to offer more need-based aid. And that had me thinking - what is the proper balance between merit-based and need-based aid, particularly for a land-grant university? If we attract some of the very top students but miss out on so many who could be transformed by a college experience, have we fulfilled our mission? 

In a Faculty Senate presentation several years ago, I remember the Office of Student Life mentioning that the average student who drops out of K-State due to financial difficulties has a $900 gap. The amount of this shortfall surprised me, given that tuition is currently around $9,000 a year. This means that we have the opportunity to reach many more students if we can offer more scholarships to go around, rather than concentrating all of them on select students. Another anecdote stands out, from this afternoon's KSUnite event. The keynote speaker mentioned how attending K-State transformed his life - he went to serve on the Kansas Board of Regents and on a White House committee. But he disclosed at the end of his speech that he only had a 17 ACT score - and likely would not have even been admitted in today's environment. Again, if we concentrate on the highest-performing students, are we missing out on so many more who could blossom and bloom in college? 

I think some of my initial bitterness in hearing of the way that K-State is changing its scholarship structure is because Will and I both received full-ride scholarships to college. The narrative that I like to tell myself is that I studied hard in high school and all of my effort paid off - but in actuality, I was extremely privileged. Many people work hard in high school and have a much harder road to walk. 

So I think this change toward more need-based scholarship is a positive one. It likely will mean that some of the very best and brightest students may no longer choose K-State for their undergrad studies. But if we can reach more students who might transform the world - and close those $900 gaps - then I think we will have succeeded. 

Manhappiness

I lived in Manhattan from 1997 to 2002, then moved away. We moved back in 2010. I was reflecting today that not only have I now lived in Manhattan longer than anywhere else in my life, I have been back in Manhattan for just as long as I left.

When I first moved to Manhattan, I was still 17 years old, on the cusp of beginning college and adulthood and the next phase of my journey. I lived in Smurthwaite Scholarship House, on the corner of Manhattan and Claflin. I did not have a car. My exposure to the rest of the city was limited to what I could cover on my own two feet. I started dating my now-husband, who also lacked a vehicle, and we spent hours and hours covering the city streets as we walked together. Bluemont Hill. Aggieville. City Park. Once, we borrowed a car from my dear high school friend and drove all the way to the west side of town to play mini-golf on a dilapidated course. I was panicked as Anderson Avenue curved into the night, only accustomed to the grid-like streets of my hometown of Wichita.

By the time we moved away from Manhattan in 2002, both the city and our perspective had begun to widen. My husband and I had not one, not two, but three vehicles between the two of us, and the city expanded. We explored more neighborhoods and talked about where we would want to live someday. We were united that we would never move to Candlewood, a newer west-side development that we felt lacked soul (which only guaranteed that we would, in fact, buy a house in that area when we returned in 2010). Driving through the streets at Christmastime, we agreed that Sharingbrook was perhaps the fanciest neighborhood in the world, and wondered if anyone would turn us in for not belonging as we drove through to ogle the holiday lights. A Target and Home Depot opened on the west side of town. Suddenly, the east-side Wal-Mart gleaned a little bit duller.

My husband and I were fortunate enough to both be hired by our alma mater in 2010. When we moved back to Manhattan, I scarcely recognized the town. The entire east-side had previously been dilapidated, rusty warehouses. Gone was that district and in its place, a glistening Hy-Vee Grocery Store, Best Buy, Bed Bath and Beyond, Olive Garden, every store we had previously made pilgrimages an hour away to Topeka to shop. Wal-Mart had moved and was now a Super Wal-Mart; in its place was a Hobby Lobby. My husband and I were a little worried that living in a town we had come of age in previously would prove to be dull and provincial, and we accordingly made plans to purchase a boat. We could not have been more wrong, forgetting that adding children to the mix means life is never dull, and the boat never came to fruition.

As we close 2018, the town I originally moved to more than 20 years ago seems a relic of a different era. Instead of driving two hours to Kansas City, I now regularly fly out of the Manhattan Regional Airport. Streets in Aggieville are now one-way, continually confusing me when I drive. Much of the Kansas State University campus is now pedestrian-only and my ability to navigate campus continuously slows as well. We live in an area that I did not even now existed until several years ago, and love being able to walk to Old Chicago and Mr. K's Cafe and Bar just down the road. Colbert Hills Golf Course stands out like a crown jewel on the west side of town, a myriad of new housing developments surrounding the green golf course popping up overnight. Roundabouts continue to make their mark on the city streets.

I love Manhattan. I love living in this community. It is not the same community where I first fell in love, but I love it just the same.

Childhood's Last Stand

The summer between 4th and 5th grade was Childhood's Last Stand for me. I entered the summer nine years old, eager, confident, full of optimism. I spent most of the time with my sister, who was younger by three years, but felt as though we were on the exact same playing field. We got along so well that we even briefly pooled all of our saved money and resources, and spent our days playing with another child in the neighborhood, Jessica, who was my sister's age. I exited the summer 10 years old, unsure, hesitant, thrown off by the upcoming three elementary schools that I would attend that year, feeling that I was leaving childhood but unprepared for what would come next.

I witnessed the same metamorphosis in my own daughter. By her own admission, her self-confidence peaked in 4th grade, when her primary concern in getting along with her peers was that she was over-confident. By 5th grade, self-doubt, hesitation, pessimism were creeping up. Childhood seemed to be closing in on the finish line.

Perhaps it is different for boys, because my own son is solidly in 5th grade and I have not yet seen these same types of dramatic changes. He is happy to wear a tuxedo to school for picture day, comfortable in imaginative play, confident in his own opinions. But I wonder if the end of childhood will bring about a similar dynamic.

I feel like I have spent my whole life trying to recapture the confidence, joy, and freedom that I still felt at the end of 4th grade. I am almost 40 years old now, and, while I am light years ahead of the kind of inhibitions and doubt I felt as a tween and teenager, I still wonder why it is so difficult to live with as much exuberance as a child.

Eternal childhood would lack its luster, splendor, brilliance. But sometimes I wish that we could hang on to our childhood just a little bit longer.

Rocking My World

When Daniel was born in Orlando, Florida in 2008, I thought I knew all about being a mom. I already had a four-year-old daughter and I thought I had figured out most things about parenting. But I was so very wrong. Here are Six Ways Daniel Has Rocked My World: 

6. All about Boys
I come from a family of girls. It is just my sister and me in my immediate family. Seven out of nine cousins are girls. My mom is one of four sisters. Consequently, I knew nothing about boys. My only child before Daniel was born was my daughter, and I developed a strong mental script that my second child would be a daughter, too, named Adelaide Rose (we had already decided on the nick-name Addie), who would wear all of Annika's old clothes and would be a re-enactment of the two-girl-family that my own sister and I had shared growing up.

When the ultrasound technician announced at the 20-week visit that the baby I was carrying was a boy, I was incredulous. "Are you sure??" Consequently, one of our ultrasound pictures was labeled "BOY" with a not-so-subtle arrow. I panicked, because I thought I had no idea of how to raise a boy. Well. As it turns out, boys are children, too (just like girls)...but are so very awesome in their own, distinct away. The amount of love and exuberance and boy-ness that my son has is so over-powering that it can bring me to tears. Of joy. Usually. ;) 

5. Going By the Book Guarantees Nothing 
This was one of those things that I thought I had figured out from my daughter, but I really did not. With Daniel, I was determined to avoid so many of the "mistakes" I thought I had made with Annika. I was going to have a completely natural labor. I would wait to start solids until he was 6 months but would not panic if he did not want to eat solid foods until closer to a year. I also thought that some of Annika's behaviors were because of things I had done "right," so I would model absolutely positive behavior and my child would delight at my positive example and act so very positive himself. 

Instead, so many of my "by the book" attempts failed. I did have a natural labor and delivery, but my recovery was about 28 times harder than with Annika (who was a forceps-assisted birth). I did wait to start solids until 6 months, but it was ridiculous because Daniel was absolutely ready for them by 5 months and was so hungry all of the time; instead, I was fixated on an exact date on a calendar. I was so very positive, but when my son turned a year old, he was So Very Not. This is when I started to truly realize that going by the book guaranteed absolutely nothing with an individual child. And that...

4. Child as Aggressor is 1,000 times Harder Than Child as Victim

I was very proud of the fact that Annika had never hit another child and attributed it to the fact that Will and I were positive people who never hit anyone ourselves. Well. I learned very quickly that not only was that line of thinking completely ridiculous, it also is completely awful when your child is the one acting as an aggressor toward other children. Nothing breeds empathy faster than learning that your one-year-old is hitting all of the other children at daycare, the teachers are absolutely baffled, and you feel like the world's worst parent. And there is nothing like realizing that in the end, you can guide your child but cannot truly control their behavior. 

3. How to Balance Work and Life
When Daniel was born, I was completely off balance with work and life. I was at the end of my 3rd year of a PhD program and was completely and utterly obsessed with work. I would usually go into the office and work all weekend, leaving Will and Annika behind to hang out at home or go on father-daughter adventures across Orlando. Looking back, I am appalled at how off-balance I had become. 

Having Daniel utterly rocked my world and was a huge slap in the face with the fact that I was a work-a-holic. Ten years later, I still do not feel that I have completely gotten my Work Mojo back, but I feel 110% better balanced. I hope that I would have made this realization on my own at some point, but having Daniel immediately made a much better, more present, and more balanced mother. And I am so very thankful for that. 

2. How to be a Mom of Children Instead of a Child  

Before Daniel was born, I was the mother of a child. After Daniel was born, I was the mother of children. The difference is subtle but huge. With children, there are so many complex interactions and dynamics between them that you as a parent cannot always manage or intervene. There is a much higher level of chaos. There is the sense that it is impossible to ever fully attend to the needs of both. Parents of six children are probably laughing outrageously because two is really not that many children, but I have learned so much since Daniel's entrance into our lives about what it is like to manage the interaction between children. And how it is possible to love two people so deeply who are so different. 

1.  How to Live with Joy
Daniel is the person in our family who truly embodies Pure Joy. Seeing Daniel's pure excitement over finding a roly poly, asking questions about black holes, stomping in the snow, joining Annika on the trampoline - in all of these activities, Daniel feels emotions deeply and the highs are intensely high. Having Daniel in our lives reminds us that there is so much joy, all around us, every day.

I love you, Daniel D. Thank you for rocking my world every day. 

Cocoa Beach

When my husband and I moved to Orlando, Florida in 2005, I had never set foot in the Atlantic Ocean. While I worked at my job in Kansas City the summer prior to resigning and moving, we had told ourselves that all the money I earned would be used to purchase Disney passes. Those plans did not come to fruition. But we discovered a place even more magical than Disney: Cocoa Beach.

Orlando is in the middle of the state, nearly equidistant from both the rocky Atlantic Ocean and the smooth Gulf of Mexico. But the state is a peninsula, a skinny strip of land cut into the water, and our home in extreme eastern Orlando meant that we were only a little more than an hour from Cocoa Beach.

There were two ways of getting to Cocoa Beach - the 528, or the "B-Line" (aka "beach line"), or the agonizingly slow but free route of Colonial Drive. We had little income coming in and were increasingly worried about how well our savings could pad our living expenses, and always opted for Colonial Drive. We would pass through the towns of Bithlo, Christmas, Merritt Island. Crossing the Indian River, the smell of the ocean would start to rise, until at last the street ran no more, and the dead-end roads backed long wooden walkways down to the sand and beachfront. Cocoa Beach had plenty of ample parking thanks to the plethora of city parks that backed the oceanfront. Parking was generally cheap and easy and convenient, except when it was not.

The first time we went to Cocoa Beach, it was August 2005 and our daughter was a tiny 15-month year-old who still had not broken 20 pounds. We came unprepared, without sand toys or towels or even swimsuits. My husband carried our daughter in his arms as we snaked our way down the wooden platforms onto the sharply hot sand below. Our daughter was fearful and had begun developmentally regressing for a time, but as soon as we heard the waves brushing against the strip of sand, something broke free within her. She rushed down to the water, over and over again, joy and delight breaking her face wide open as the warm currents trickled in. I found part of an old email my husband sent:

We went Cocoa Beach yesterday on a whim and had a great time.  Annie loved to run into the waves and get knocked around.  She'd get bowled over by a wave, squeal in delight, and hop back up.

Cocoa Beach became a regular Saturday trip for our family. In the summer, we learned to bring copious amounts of sunscreen and to arrive late in the afternoon to avoid scathing sunburns. In the winter, we once watched two of our best friends tie the knot in an intimate ceremony on the beach. In spring, we began making joint trips with family friends of ours, the moms sitting under any form of shade we could find and the dads supervising the children as they built sand castles next to the water's edge. In the fall, we made long walks on the beach, picking up seashells in pink plastic buckets that grew far too heavy.

The last time we went to Cocoa Beach was in 2014, when we came back to visit Florida. It was just as special as ever. We now have a home with a pool and have the resources to take the toll roads to the ocean instead of the cheapest route. But I doubt that any regular venue we could visit now would ever be as magical.