It's Gonna Be May

Tomorrow is May! As parents of school-aged children know, May is the month of All the Things. But that's okay, because it means that the end of the school year is in sight - the kids have exactly 3 weeks and 1.5 days left! Without even looking at the calendar, I can tell that May and the end of the school year are on the horizon. Here is how: 

10. Everyone is Tired. So very tired. Partly this is because everyone in our house is at least low-level sick. But partly everyone is just plain exhausted, worn out, and ready for a break. 

9. I am thinking of expanding Lunchable Tuesday to Lunchable Tuesday/Thursday. Or really, why not just every day? I mean, we are in the home stretch. 

8. Bags of shredded cheese are sent as lunches. Okay, this event is from 2014, in the last week of school, when I realized about 30 seconds before Annika left for school I had neglected to pack her a lunch. Logically, I just threw random supplies from the pantry into her lunchbox, including a half-eaten bag of shredded cheese. 

7. My Planner Signing Skills are a New Low. Technically, this is because I have made planner-signing Daniel's responsibility instead of mine. But realistically, if Daniel weren't reminding me to sign it, this duty never would cross my mind. 

6. McAlister's for dinner is common. Or Panera. Although last night, we did nix McDonald's and had Health Food on a Plate for dinner instead, aka, tacos. 

5. Laundry? What's laundry? Will is the laundry-doer in our family, not by any explicit agreement, but because I am very lazy. Will is swamped with work right now with the end of our semester around the corner, and I have not stepped in to fill in the gaps because of said laziness. 

4. Reading Time is dying. We all love to read, but I cannot think of the last time we all sat around and read books during the evening. Partly this is because of a lack of time, but partly due to exhaustion. 

3. Library Book Notices are Flying. We are not great at keeping track of library books regularly, but there is something about the end of the school year that makes it even harder than normal to take the trip across town to return library books. 

2. Less and less is returned to school. Daniel has Lap-A-Thon this week, and it feels like an insurmountable task to return the packet to school. This also means I need to find the checkbook, which vaults it into Mission Impossible this time of the year. 

1. I am feeling bittersweet. I feel this way every year. As this school year comes to a close, this means only three more years until Annika begins college. Only one more year of any children in elementary school. Time is slipping like sand between my fingers faster than I can hold on. So even though I feel like I am crawling toward the finish line, letting more and more balls drop, I want to hold onto these moments as long as I can and revel in the memories of all that is magical. Because It's Gonna Be May only for a finite number of years. 

Beautiful Endings

Sunrises symbolize new beginnings, fresh starts, untapped possibilities. Sunsets are just as beautiful - but often symbolize the end. The end of a day. The end of a chapter. The end of a season.

It is easy to find beauty in the symbolization behind new beginnings. It can be harder to find strength in an ending. But sunsets remind us that endings are worth celebrating.

Tonight is my son's final soccer game of the season. He has expressed a clear conviction that this will be the last soccer game of his career, and perhaps the last athletic team event on the horizon. I am wistful I may never see him on the soccer field again, clad in bright pink knee-high socks and matching pink soccer cleats, the only player on his team who skips down the field in the middle of games. But I am grateful for the moments I have enjoyed watching him play, this season and in prior years.

Last year was my daughter's final band concert of 8th grade, and the last time I heard her play the clarinet. She chose not to continue playing in high school so she could use her open elective spot for art classes instead. I was wistful I do not get to see her in the marching band formations on the field at high school football games, that we do not need to purchase a black performance dress for future band concerts. But I am grateful for all the memories I have of watching her in band concerts, from the beginning squeaks in elementary school to rich full-scale expressions of musicals by the end of middle school.

Last year, almost to the day, was the last time I interacted with my father-in-law and saw him still alive. He passed away on May 1st, minutes before I had arrived at the hospital after driving up in the morning after taking my children to school. It feels surreal a full year has already passed. We are all heartbroken we will never see Gramps again in this lifetime, that we will never hear his voice on the other end of the line asking, "Well, what do you know?," that he will never again ask me articulate question about tax policy outcomes, that our children will never go on another fishing adventure with him. But we are so grateful for all the moments and memories we shared.

Sunsets are tender. Sunsets are hard. But sunsets are beautiful.

Clara Maxine

Last night, Annika and I watched the movie "The Grapes of Wrath," based on the Steinbeck novel. I have never read the book, but the movie is excellent. It focuses on the plights of Oklahoma migrants during the Dust Bowl and Great Depression.

The Great Depression feels impossibly far away now, but I realized last night I have a connection with the past my own children lack: My grandparents grew up during the Great Depression. My own children have never interacted with any relatives who came of age during this time.

Having a connection with someone who has lived through a period of history is only a weak link to the past, but it is a link. My dad's parents both died tragically young while he was growing up. My mom's parents are the only grandparents I ever knew, and they died before I could get to know them as adults in their own right, in 1988 and 1989. But I still viscerally feel the love from my beloved Grandma, and feel that because she lived through the Great Depression, a small part of me did, too.

Here is what I remember being told about my grandmother and her early life: She was born in the summer of 1920 as Clara Maxine Humboldt. Clara was the oldest of eight children. All her other siblings were brothers, except for her youngest, a sister, Ruby. When Ruby was born in 1932, Clara's own mother died in childbirth. So at 12 years of age, Clara became the maternal figure and household manager for the gaggle of small children. Clara went on to graduate high school, no small feat during the Great Depression and with her responsibilities at home. She remained in a caregiver role until her marriage to my grandfather in 1946, when she went on to become the mother to six children herself over the course of a decade. The most tragic event in her life was when her youngest son was killed by a drunk driver in the early daylight hours in the summer of 1978.

Much of Clara's time growing up during the Great Depression affected her adult life. She and my grandfather lived on a 100-acre plot of land in rural Kansas known as "The Farm," but my grandfather's own trade was not as a farmer, but as an aircraft machinist in nearby Wichita. The Farm had a modest house at the front of the property, with two small bedrooms upstairs and one tiny bathroom downstairs for all eight inhabitants to share. A large cellar down a rickety staircase contained provisions hoarded after a childhood of want during the Great Depression: Del Monte canned peaches, Smucker's strawberry jelly, Cambell's Condensed Tomato Soup. These provisions had stamped expiration dates that had often passed a decade ago, but were held onto as security against future wild economic swings. The nearby barn similarly housed every piece of faded fabric Clara had ever used to sew for her six children, the edges of the cloth later gnawed by rats and the decades of dust piling high in the folds.

I would love to hear more of my grandmother's stories, more of her first-person accounts of living through the Great Depression, of losing her mother when she was still a child herself, of mothering so many siblings at such a young age herself, of growing up in a world that changed with breathtaking speed. I will never hear these stories directly from her in this lifetime. But having that connection with someone, someone whose presence embodies love and acceptance for me, makes the past feel that much more alive.

Video Games and So Much More

I am embarrassed my children enjoy playing video games.

I did not grow up playing video games, and when I see my kids playing one, I feel irritated. I feel more annoyed with video games in particular than with general screen time. I am unsure why video games bother me on such a deep level. Intellectually, I realize the games my children enjoy playing are logic games, problem-solving games, creativity-enabling games. If they were performing the same activities with pencil and paper, I would likely not bat an eye. But video games, projected on our giant television screen, grate on me.

As with most areas that bother me,  I tried to keep my annoyance a secret. And as with most other areas, I failed miserably. All of this came to a head on Easter Sunday, when one of our kids expressed sadness I did not congratulate them on passing a level in a game. Instead of digging deeper and trying to figure out why this was important and/or what this sadness symbolized, I responded along the lines of, "Most mothers don't care about video games. It's perfectly normal that I don't care about this game or this level. You should just be happy that I let you play video games at all!"

All of this turned into a huge emotional upheaval. I was genuinely baffled why they were so upset about something I thought mattered so little. Our family came up with a new solution - the kids would have a reduced amount of video-game playing time. And, in return, I would do a better job of not acting mad or upset or not-so-secretly annoyed when I saw them playing a video game. So far, this new system has been working well. One child exclaimed, "I really like our new arrangement. I don't feel stressed that you will be mad at me about video games!"

As with so many parenting-related interactions, this conflict had so much more to do with video games than I thought. I realized that by acting like something our children are interested in has no value, it makes them feel THEY have little value. When I don't care about something they are excited to show me, it makes them feel I do not care about THEM and their interests. I do not have to share the same interests myself, but I can still support them in something they enjoy.

When I was trying to keep my annoyance with video games a secret, all I was doing was making them feel belittled. Partly this is because my kids can read me like an open book. But partly it is because all children are adept at recognizing sincerity, interest, authenticity, value, attention - and so much more. And we owe it to our children to support what they value.

Fine

This morning has been rough. There is no obvious reason I should feel like this, but I have tried to figure out why. Partly it is because we are almost to the day to the one-year anniversary of Will's dad's death. Partly it is because I am still missing my friend Christine in a raw and visceral way and am still having trouble processing and making sense of her untimely death. Partly it is because I have little scheduled, and lacking a defined layout for the day always makes me feel adrift, unhinged, rootless.

But sometimes, days are just rough for no discernible reason. Just as we can feel joy and peace and contentment without always being aware of the reasons, so we can feel sad on some days without having an identifiable trigger.

And this makes me think how much is lurking below the surface in our interactions with others. We are "fine," "good," even "great," but if we probe a little deeper, we may often be anxious, confused, broken, fragile. The teller at the bank may have just lost her beloved grandmother. The grocery store bagger may have broken up with his cherished girlfriend. The telemarketer who calls on our personal cell phone, interrupting our dinner, may just be holding back from the abyss of depression by a bare thread.

We are all muddling through life, doing the best we can, rejoicing in the good seasons and trying to push through the bumpy ones. I hope you truly are fine today. But if you are not, I hope you find the strength to keep going.

Holy Saturday

Today is Holy Saturday, sometimes known as Black Saturday. It is the day after Jesus’s death on the cross - but before His resurrection.

Holy Saturday is a reminder that while Easter is a celebration that the worst thing is never the last thing - Black Saturday means that the worst thing is still really terrible while we are going through it and can’t see what is on the other side.

I went to the Konza Prairie this week. The prairie is one of the largest native tallgrass preserves and is beautiful. It is also regularly burned to preserve the ecosystem. A patch of land on the prairie shows what happens when the land is never burned - the prairie disappears and is swallowed up by woodland. The prairie bursts forth with vibrant green grasses only because it is regularly burned. So it is with Holy Saturday. The beauty in the resurrection is that much more poignant because of the sadness and despair that came earlier.

This Holy Saturday, may we take comfort that when life is terrible and messy and heartbreaking and it seems like there is no end in sight - the resurrection is just around the corner.

A Celebration of Annika Grace

Today, our Annika Grace is 15 years old. 15! This feels like the march to adulthood is ever-accelerating - 15 means a restricted driver's license, part-time job eligibility, and creeping closer to college and independence. 15 feels like a Brave New World. 

When Annika was born, I was 24 years old, and I thought I had my whole life figured out. Will and I had been married 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. I cannot believe how much our lives have changed in the past 15 years. But even more, 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, 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 having Annika, I figured the baby stage would be one to endure, but 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 breastfeeding, 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 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 - and my daughter is now incredibly self-assured that it is possible to do both roles if you want. 

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 15-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 most of Annika's life that she had sensory issues, but 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 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 7 years old and a fully functioning mini-adult, parenting would be a cake walk, right? In some ways, this is 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.

Happy 15th Birthday, Annika Grace! It is a joy and an honor to be your mother, and I am thankful every single day for the lessons I have learned from you. We love your free spirit, your love of art and creative writing, and your courage to be yourself. I love you, kiddo!! 

A Celebration of Daniel D

Today marks a very momentous occasion...our Daniel D. is 11 years old. Eleven is a certified Tween, closer to college than being born, teetering at the edge of childhood. 

When Daniel was born in Orlando, Florida, eleven years ago to this day, 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. Daniel has taught me so much, including:

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 an area I thought I had figured out from my daughter, but I really had 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 wrong., it also feels 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 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. I hope 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 thankful for that shift. 

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 asking questions about black holes, stomping in the snow, emulating whatever Annika is doing - 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.

Happy Birthday, Daniel D. It is a joy and an honor every day to be your mother. We love your love of art and imaginative worlds, your insightful observations, and the way you experience life so deeply. I love you, buddy!! 

Build Your Obituary, Not Your Resume

I am turning 40 years old this summer and am trying to work through what comes next. I am happy working at my university and have risen as high in rank as I can without moving into administration. My kids are still very much in the thick of childhood, but will move on to college or whatever the next step is before I know it. I like my job. I like my town. I like my life. But I am my best self when I have a goal to work toward.

I recently told Will I wasn't sure what comes next. What are my career goals? What are my life goals? There are many places I would love to travel and experience, as seeing new places fills my soul with deep satisfaction. I love to write and have felt reinvigorated by focusing more on my blog. I am happy I am healed enough to exercise in some capacity again. Spending time with my family and friends is soul-lifting and a chance to just be myself. But while all these things - travel, writing, exercising, hanging out - are enjoyable activities, they are not the main event. My reason for breathing used to be to make tenure and take care of my family. What comes next now and in the coming years?

A wonderful mentor whom I have admired for many years gave me some pertinent advice recently: Build your obituary, not your resume. I like this so much that I, a Tattoo Virgin, am considering getting a tattoo just to wear these words on my skin. I devoted my 20s and 30s to pursuing my resume: Earning degrees and accolades. Publishing articles that would increase my research currency. Making decisions based on what would look best on paper.

Now that my 40s are approaching, I have the luxury of a slower pace, since I no longer have a ticking clock breathing down my neck at work. I have the luxury of increased time, once my children move on to their next steps and no longer need us on such an intense daily level. My resume is solid. But my obituary is not.

What do I want said in my obituary? That I was kind. That I was helpful. That I took time to value people and relationships and connections. That I spoke up for what was true in my heart, even when using my voice was difficult and costly. That I used my relative privilege to pull up others around me. That I loved others fiercely. That I was authentic and genuine and real. That I lived life fully as my best self.

May we all strive to honor our obituaries over our resumes.

The Gift of Acceptance

This is a hard blog to write. 

With my children, I often get caught up in negatives, weaknesses, areas in need of improvement. I think anxiety drives much of this rumination - I love both of my children fiercely and want them to be happy in life, and when I perceive certain hurdles along the way, I agonize over these areas.

Here is what I have realized and is hard to admit: My children pick up on my anxiety, and this often translates into their OWN anxiety. Our kids are more perceptive than we think. If we are worried, they are worried.

One of the best gifts we can give our children is that of acceptance. To make them feel truly seen and valued without judgment. To cheer them on. To trust they will figure out their own path, even if it looks different from others. To embrace them without anxiety. To love them unconditionally for exactly who God created to be. For being loved and accepted is the best legacy we can bestow upon our children.

4 Years In

Four years ago, I posted a poll on Facebook:

"Good evening! I have a ridiculous poll for you tonight, inspired by my ridiculous obsession. Would you ever consider moving from a perfectly fine house to a "better" house if it required changing to a different but great elementary school?"

This was followed a week later by: 

"Oh my goodness. We just bought a house!!! With a pool. And a creek. So very excited!!"

When we moved to Manhattan in 2010, we wanted to buy a house right away so we could take advantage of a homebuyers' tax credit expiring soon. I came over spring break and looked at ten houses on the market that day, came back for a few second showings the next day, and made an offer on one house that night, which the sellers promptly accepted. Will never even saw the house in person. 

This house was on Newbury Street, in Candlewood, and was wonderful in many ways. Multiple skylights brought in rays of sunshine. The house was a short walk away from Bergman Elementary. We had a laundry shoot to the basement. The lower level held a nice space for overnight visitors. This picture below shows the kitchen after we had put in new tile flooring. It was quite a lovely space. 

But there were features of the house that bugged me. The layout of the house meant rooms were difficult to fully utilize, such as the formal living area in the entry. The master bathroom was tiny. The house was spread out among four different levels and felt very compartmentalized. And, most annoying, the house backed a large apartment complex, which brought noise and lights into our space at all times of the day. Our master bedroom in particular was filled with engines revving at all times throughout the night from the adjoining apartment complex.

So I continued to look at homes for sale online, never with any serious intentions, but finding a more optimal space was always in the back of my mind. We went to several open houses and showings for fun and could dismiss other options - New construction came with expensive special assessments. Some houses were beautiful but had postage-stamped sized yard. Others were in ideal locations but would require extensive renovations.

Until one evening, I came across a two-story house online. It looked plain on the exterior. But inside, it was delightful, with updated touches throughout, but still many quirky details, like interior stain-glass windows, that made it unique. And outside was a dream come true: A well-maintained salt-water pool. A whole acre of land right in the middle of town. A beautiful creek flowing right through the backyard.

We saw this house on three separate occasions over a week, and each time, I felt more in love. It seemed like a ridiculous decision, as our current house was perfectly fine and there was no logical reason to move. But whereas purchasing our Candlewood house had been a logical, economical, sound financial decision, this new house, on the perfectly named Oz Circle, was a purely emotional love. We put on offer on the house in April 2015, which was accepted, and officially closed and moved in June.

Four years in, I have sometimes wondered if we made the right decision in moving. Our house has required far more maintenance, repairs, and upkeep than I had expected. Moving to a new neighborhood required Daniel to switch elementary schools. I wonder if we should have tried to make do with our older house instead of incurring high switching costs from starting over.

From a financial decision, staying in Candlewood would have been a better choice. But from an emotional perspective, my heart is happy every morning we made this crazy move. I love the house's floor plan, open windows from the master bedroom to the living room and all. Amanda Arnold Elementary has been a fabulous school for Daniel. I have gotten to know so many wonderful neighbors and friends I would have never met otherwise. Having a pool and space to run around in the backyard is glorious. It truly feels like home. The picture below shows our current kitchen.

There are no perfect answers in life. Perhaps there was no logical reason to move when we did. But four years in, I am so happy we did.

Last Place

In high school, I was an excellent student. I was also a terrible cross country and track runner. I was on the varsity squad my junior and senior year because I was needed to run a full squad. I often finished dead last in races. In one 2-mile race, I think I came in last place by a full minute. 

This would be a much better anecdote if I eventually improved. But alas, my running speed peaked my sophomore year, and I never grew faster. As an adult, I am even slower than before. I have not improved my times in several years and feel any residual speed slipping away as I grow older. 

But I honestly feel that this lack of success in running has shaped who I am today. It gave me empathy in what it is like to work so hard at something and not see tangible improvement. It helped me be less afraid of trying something new and failing. It provided me a perspective that even if you may be mediocre at an endeavor - that it is still worth trying your best.

A few summers ago, our family took part in the Little Apple Paddle, a 10-mile canoe trip down the Kansas River. Over 350 individuals signed up. Annika and I were assigned a two-person canoe together, and we both had trouble steering. Out of the hundreds of participants, our canoe was the only one that had to be towed. At the halfway point, our canoe was dead last and was so far behind we missed the group picture. I panicked over the embarrassment of being so inept at canoeing that our boat was noticeably struggling. But as I breathed in, I tried to soak in the fact I have been in last place before, many times, and have lived to tell the tale. Someone has to be last in every endeavor. And there is no shame if that person is me. 

So cheers to everyone out there, who may never excel at an activity, but is putting themselves out there just the same. We see you. 

One Year Later

We are approaching the one-year anniversary of Will's dad's death. So many events and nuances trigger reminders. The hazy smoke permeating our town from the prairie burning. The warmer air and budding trees. The natural rhythm and cycle of the academic calendar. Will is giving a test today in his Electromagnetic Theory class - the same test he was grading in the ICU last year when his father became unexpectedly, suddenly, intensely ill.

Here is the funny thing about grief: It is so much larger, more terrible, more intense, more awful than I ever could have imagined. I logically know that Will and I are much younger than our parents, and that, in the natural order of the world, it is likely they will die before we do. But processing this grief, processing the magnitude of a loss so great, has taken my breath away over just how terrible it is to lose someone who is such an integral part of your life.

I have learned that grief never gets easier - that you may end up with longer stretches of time when you forget the person is gone - but that when you remember on a deep, visceral level you will never see this person alive again in our current life - the intensity of that loss feels just as raw as the day they died. In some ways, even, processing death is even harder than in the immediate aftermath, when life is busy with logistics and plans and a sense of purpose to honor and celebrate their lives. When the dust has cleared and fellow mourners have also returned home is when the real sense of loss becomes clear.

When will we stop missing my father-in-law? Never, ever, ever, ever. But some days are harder than others. And this approaching one-year anniversary is one of those times.

What Obligation Do You Owe Your Passion?

My daughter is a talented artist. She has been Grand Champion at the county fair in art three different times. She has been recognized in various shows and exhibitions. When she began high school last year, she dropped band so she could concentrate on art. Music is important to me and I was initially sad she was giving up the chance to take part in high school band, but I quickly reconciled myself to the fact that art is her passion and that focusing on art for her electives in high school would bring her joy.

So it quite surprised me when Annika announced at winter conferences that next year she wanted to take pastry making as an elective next year instead of art. Pastry making?! When she has so much skill and talent as an artist? Annika made several good points regarding this switch: High school is a time to try new things. She would love to learn how to make pies and cheesecakes. Shouldn't she have at least one class she chose all on her own each year?! 

Once again, I realized I was being ridiculous in my expectations about what made for an ideal elective class. But, I countered, she should still take art classes, even if not in high school, but from the local arts center in town. She has so much potential in art and it was a shame not to further develop it. Why didn't she find a local art class to take next year?

Annika had opinions of her own. "Mom," she said, somewhat exasperated. "I enjoy drawing and painting and doing art on my own. I don't like art classes."

That's ridiculous, I thought to myself. How could you not like art classes if you enjoy art!?

Along the same lines, Annika has become very interested in writing short stories. She counted last night she has written 56 stories this year. The quality of her stories continues to improve, and she loves writing. Last night, as I drove her to her church youth group, I inquired, "Do you think you would ever want to major in English? You seem to love writing."

Annika burst out into loud peals of laughter. "Mom," she choked, "I don't want to major in English just as much as I don't want to major in art. I like to write and I like art but I just like to do them for fun and don't want anyone telling me what to do."

I have such mixed thoughts about this sentiment. I think developing skills and depth in areas of interest is such a critical life skills, irrespective of the area. Learning to handle criticism and grow in an area of focus will serve anyone well.

But perhaps hobbies and passions for fun could just be that - fun. Perhaps someone who enjoys jogging in the early morning light can just continue to pound out the miles without dedicating themselves to training for a specific goal race. Perhaps pianists can play songs on the piano without ever going before an audience. And perhaps my daughter can enjoy drawing and painting and writing stories without taking classes to further improve, without turning it into a source of stress, without making it her career. And perhaps that is just fine.

Conflicting Narratives

Our high school daughter confessed to us today she was very nervous about a particular group project at school. Her group had difficulties in pulling the assignment together and she was afraid its execution tomorrow might go badly.

But, Annika said, "Please don't be mad at me if I don't do well on the assignment."

I responded, somewhat automatically, "Of course I won't be mad if you don't do well."

To which she replied quickly, "That's what I am the most afraid of - that you and Dad will be mad at me. Please don't be mad."

This conversation is a common narrative in our house. Both of our children often express worry that Will or I will be upset over their performance in school. The level of anxiety they have over the possibility that we will be upset seems, to me, completely out of proportion. Will and I have joked that outsiders must think we beat our children with large sticks given their level of worry.

The narrative I tell myself is that I am a relaxed, laid-back parent who cares much more about learning than about grades. But the narrative my children have latched onto is that Will and I are rigid, unyielding Tiger Parents who care about external academic evaluations above all else and will be angry if they fail to achieve perfection.

Where is the truth in these conflicting narratives? Probably somewhere in the middle.  Both of our children strongly overreact to any perceived negative emotions or tone of voice and are apt to blow any disappointment out of proportion. But I also strongly underestimate the degree that my children can read emotions or nuances I do not consciously recognize in myself.

My instinct is to dismiss any conflicting narratives to what I believe myself. But I am trying to remember there are still large degrees of truth in other perspectives. And be careful I am not subconsciously contributing to anyone's anxiety.

Meeting Minutes

I read an academic post recently calling on men to take the meeting minutes, bring the meeting snacks, set up the room for the meeting. In the comments to this post, many academics also called on women to stop doing these tasks - that only by stopping to volunteer for these roles, or by refusing to perform these duties when asked, would traditional gender roles change.

I love taking minutes for meetings. At one point, I was the official Secretary for four different non-profit organizations, in charge of taking meeting minutes for all of them. If a regular meeting-minute-taker is absent, I am the first to put my name on the line for this duty.

And, sometimes, I am asked to take on this role because of stereotypes. One time at church, an older male, who is all other ways lovely, said, "Amy, we need you to take the minutes since you're the only woman on the committee - and we will know men can't take minutes!" I was annoyed at the time he had asked me to perform this duty because of gender - but still dutifully took said minutes.

But I regularly volunteer for this role because I enjoy taking notes. And I feel I am fairly skilled in this area. I am not always the best at contributing ideas on the spot amid heated discussions, but I am fairly adept at documenting issues raised. And I secretly sometimes worry that if someone else did the job, it would not be as strong, so it is better if I do it myself.

And this has me thinking about roles we take on. How do we effect change? Do we even want to effect change in roles we enjoy? Should I give up the role of volunteering for meeting minutes, when I enjoy it, so I do not play into stereotypes?

It is easy for me to over-think such signals. But maybe it really is simple: If you enjoy taking on any duty, regardless of how mundane or undervalued, it is okay to continue taking on this task. If you do not enjoy a particular duty, then stop volunteering and/or agreeing to perform it when asked. And perhaps the world can function smoother if we all can be in our element. 

Please Be Patient

I saw a sign on a car today - “New Driver: Please Be Patient.” I think this is a wonderful sentiment. Imagine if we could all have bumper stickers or buttons or neon lights that read:

“Still grieving the death of my best friend - please handle gently.”

“One of my children has an invisible disability - please don’t judge me.”

“PMSing right now - please bring chocolate.”

In the meantime, let’s all treat each other with extra compassion. Because everyone is going through something. ❤️