Building sturdier walls out of the stuff that matters

So, I don't know how it could be a more stressful time. But after today, it also could not be a more wonderful time.

Jeph had been looking for a new job for about eight weeks. Two weeks into the search, we learned we were expecting. About three weeks ago, Jeph landed a job in Arkansas, and we found ourselves needing to find a new place to live, and to move in a very short period of time.

The boxes have been stacking up around me as I have continued to work, and to be waylaid by the trials and tribulations of the first trimester. I haven't eaten much but macaroni and cheese, French fries and cheese enchiladas in weeks. Swirled into the stressful mix was whether to continue working after the move or to become a house frau, and how we would handle the really important things like health care and keeping me healthy.

I had been managing a lot of the crazy pretty well up until a couple of weeks ago. We've lived in our house for fifteen years. That's the longest I have ever lived anywhere. To top it off, our house is in a neighborhood I fell in love with while getting to know Kansas City and trying to embrace it as my new home. It became the home I never really had before, and a place that I dearly loved--cracks in the walls, yellow kitchen, bumble bee bathroom and all. Change is hard.

And I'm not just the average, garden variety, crazy pregnant lady who doesn't like change. I also happen to be a survivor of some pretty unfortunate emotional abuse growing up. My mom and stepfather used to fight all the time. It was terrifying. I often found myself creating a fort on my bed by surrounding myself with stuffed animals. I believed they were protecting me, and I never wanted to part with any of them. They were always my favorite gift to receive.

But several times a year, my stepfather insisted that I must sort through my stuffed animals and choose which ones to give up. He claimed I just had way too many and that I simply couldn't keep them all. No matter how much I cried and protested, there was no exception to this routine. It taught me to be something that no one should be--very protective of my things. Sadly, that protective streak also has encouraged me to also be somewhat of a pack rat. I've written and joked about it in the past, but this week, it has proven to be very difficult.

Having not felt well for many weeks, my off time has consisted mostly of holding down the sofa and watching hours of television, often falling asleep in the middle of the day. The first trimester hasn't proved helpful in the sorting and packing of fifteen years worth of accumulation. Given the energy and a far better mental state, I would have been tackling the task along side Jeph. This week, there has been no choice. Things either go or stay, and there is very little time to consider the value of those things.

I've heard and read that associating things with memories and happy times can detract from the value of the moment itself. And while I logically understand this concept, the things I have become attached to are the fort that surrounds me when I am faced with things that create a sense of stress or worry. I don't think of them in that way, but as things were going into the recycling bins and wastebaskets this week, I knew that's what was really happening. My fort was being dismantled. My safe place was being taken away. The things I had control over were gone.

It reminds me of one of the final scenes in the movie "Labyrinth." Sarah is packing away things in her room that seem immature and silly for someone her age to care about. Hoggle reminds her that if she ever needs him or the others from the Labyrinth that they will be there. Sarah tells him that she does need them, and he seems surprised. "I don't know why, but every now and again in my life - for no reason at all - I need you. All of you." she tells him.

And when I think of scraps of paper, magazines, and any number of seemingly useless or worthless things, that's the thought that enters my mind. For no reason at all, I form attachments to things that represent memories and happy times for me, and when I am forced to make hurried decisions, or even no decision about what to keep, the walls I have carefully constructed are undone.

Last year, I miscarried our first pregnancy. I had purchased a pregnancy journal, but had never written a word in it by the time we found out there wouldn't be a baby. Along with that,  my copies of "What to Expect When you're Expecting," and "The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy," I packed away a few cards of congratulations we had received, and a pair of puppy dog baby booties. I wanted to be hopeful, but I just couldn't bear to see them any place in the house.

I finally pulled that box out about six weeks ago. I don't know what made me feel secure enough to do that at seven weeks, but I just did. The journal already has the wrong home address in it. I will have to find a new doctor and add that name to the section about my prenatal care, and I've barely bothered to touch "What to Expect" this time around. But that box of things symbolizes lost hope renewed. In the deepest moments of my pain from last year's loss, I easily could have seen myself discarding all of those things. They were worthless without the hope of a child.

The sonographer was having a good time. She's really sure this will be our Willow.

Today, we got to see our baby wave at us--just before she decided to turn her back to us. She will be a tricky child. I have a two or three foot strip of pictures of her. The moment I saw her move, was the first moment that I really believed she was truly there. It was the first time I have cried for the love of her.

I know all of the things in boxes, recycling bins and wastebaskets don't really matter. This new little branch on our tree is more important than the neighborhood we live in, the journal I have been writing in, or the silly hippopotamus bank I knew she had to have, before we had any reason to believe she was a she. And I know that I will rebuild my "fort" with other things that are more real than the things that I can hold in my hands.

It doesn't make the rebuilding less frightening. The lack of control I feel is no less unsettling. But this tiny little one will never know the worry of parents who do not love each other. She will never fear for her own life in her home. She may not have every physical possession that she desires, but she will know that things are just that--things. And she will know how to make choices that aren't tied to intimidation, fear, pain or loss. Those are the walls we will build for her. Those are the walls that last.


Magic Dance--David Bowie

Family actually IS what we make it.

So, I saw something this morning that made me think of family. One of my friends was expressing disappointment at her own family's failure to be a part of her and her children's lives. I really felt for her.

I know a little bit about the failings of family.

As I grew up, I was part of my stepfather's family. At the time, I was a child, and I went wherever I was told. That meant that I spent every other weekend at his parents' house. They lived out in the country, and for the most part, I always had a pretty good time. But spending time with them was very different than spending time at my real grandma's house. At their house, we weren't allowed to run through the house--there were too many nice things that we might break. We weren't allowed to be messy. We always had to make our beds. We had to drink Kool-Aid or iced tea--never soda.

My real grandmother also lived in the country, and on the rare occasions I was able to spend the weekend at her house, we would take magical side trips on the way there. We stopped at parks. We stopped to pick wild flowers along the road. And I can't count the number of box turtles that became weekend pets. My grandma always let me help her out in the kitchen, which I am sure was more of hassle than a help, but she didn't mind. She was always sewing or making things, and she always allowed me to play with scraps of fabric and whatever was lying around the house to "make things" right along with her. At her house, I ate and drank anything I wanted to.

Sadly, as I got older, I didn't appreciate the magical times with my grandma. I felt like she treated me too much like a little kid. I preferred the expectation of behaving more maturely and sitting at the dinner table with the more sophisticated adults at my stepfather's parents' house.

My stepfather was a maniacal, controlling and abusive individual. As I reached adolescence, he exerted greater control upon me, and became an even greater nightmare to me than he had been throughout the rest of my childhood. When I finally was free to reveal his abuses, his family, which I had come to think of as my very own, shunned me. I was disowned by the very people I had counted on and thought would always be a part of my life.

As I had grown up, my mother never kept it a secret from me that my biological father hadn't chosen to be part of my life. I don't fully know why, but I never felt slighted by this. I accepted that he and my mother had been much too young to face the realities of raising a child, and that certainly I shouldn't hold anything in my heart against him for that.

At about the same time that the family I had known all my life shunned me, my father decided to make himself known and be a part of my life. He seemed to be everything I would ever have wanted my perfect father to be. He was interested in learning. He wanted to improve himself and his life. He was gentle and encouraging.

Sometimes, things don't work out even when they seem perfect. The complications of the life he had already built for himself and his new family made it very difficult for us to stay in each others' lives. We tried for several years, against the current, but things unraveled. It has been many years since I last heard from him.

With all of these difficulties, my relationship with my mother also became strained. I often think the challenges of raising a child, as a child herself, made it impossible for her feel completion in her own life as it was. She is ever seeking ways to draw attention to herself, and she frequently envies any happiness my sister or I find in our own lives. Sometimes she does very hurtful things--even unforgivable things. And I don't remember a time in which she has accepted responsibility for harm or mistake.

All of these family failures culminated in a deep sense of loss for me. These family members are living, but in many respects, they are dead in my own life. In the past, when I have thought of them and the fact that they cannot be a part of my life, I have felt horrible sadness.

Sometimes, you have to learn the hard way that family is what you create yourself, not always what you are born into.

I was on my way home from work recently, and found myself listening to National Public Radio. This particular night, I happened to catch part of one of my favorite programs, This American Life. The particular piece was about a man, who as a kid developed an intense connection to the writing of fantasy author Piers Anthony. He was obsessed with his work.

This kid wasn't particularly happy. He was an oddball at school and he didn't get along with his family. He started to consider that maybe he if he could just find Piers Anthony he would be able to convince Mr. Anthony that he would be a perfect in his family. Eventually, he was successful in locating Piers Anthony. And while he was kind, Mr. Anthony declined to let him stay more than one night. Sadly, this boy wouldn't be able to create the fantasy family he had imagined.

I was so taken by this story, that even though I reached my street half-way through, I kept driving around my neighborhood until I got to listen to every last word. I knew what it was like to wish I was part of a different family. I knew what it was like to feel like I didn't belong anywhere.

Sadly, the feelings of not belonging sometimes follow you. When you realize that you don't fit, or that you are unwanted, it's a difficult feeling to overcome. You look for resolution in the weirdest places. Sometimes you're lucky enough to find it. Sometimes you don't.

Those of us who long for belonging and family struggle to understand that family isn't a group, it's a feeling. Sometimes it takes years to understand that your family is whoever gives you that feeling you are looking for.

With Jeph by my side, I'll always have my family.

For years, my husband has had a saying. At times I have felt sad and lost in my struggle to fit into places in which I want to belong, and he reminds me that we are a 'nation of two.' No matter what may happen in all of these settings in which one or both of us seems to be struggling to belong, we are family together.

I still forget sometimes. It's human nature to want to fit in and to belong--to be a part of something. But I have come to believe that family reveals its true self to us through the people we love most, the people we can always count on, and the people we want to be there for. Family is the connection we feel to other people's hearts, even if at times we find our hearts have been broken.

That tiny line is our child six weeks into this adventure. 

I'm sure that there will always be times when I wish things were different with respect to my own family. But, I have my husband, I have my dog, and in six months, we should have a child of our own. Jeph's mother has become my adoptive mother, and I know that as much as I have loved her, she will become an even bigger part of my life moving forward. My grandmother still forgets that I am forty-one years old, but I am okay with that now. I seek advice from my two half sisters (who are actually whole people), and there are friends who are as dear to me as sisters as well.

I have family. I do belong. It may not be the way that most people have these things, but it's better than good enough.


Good Enough--Sarah McLachlan

Acts of kindness are never random to the recipient

So, a few days ago, I was walking out of a grocery store after picking up my Sunday paper. A little boy and a woman were walking in. I'm not sure why, but the little boy made eye contact with me, smiled and waved.

I don't know why I caught his eye, but I smiled and waved right back. As I made the rest of my way to my car, something made me think about what it would be like if I hadn't responded to him. I wondered if he would feel slighted. I wondered if maybe his smile would have turned into a frown. It made me consider how the tiniest show of kindness to someone--sometimes even someone we don't know can make or break a moment.

That same night, I was watching the HBO series "True Blood." In this week's episode, Sookie is attending a friend's funeral. The friend's widow has been called to speak, but she isn't ready. Because she is a telepath, Sookie hears in Arlene's mind that she isn't ready to say goodbye and she isn't ready to speak. Normally Sookie's invasion into her mind would not be welcome, but when Sookie stands up to speak, the small act of kindness gives Arlene a few more moments to collect herself before she has to tell her husband goodbye.

Sometimes the tiniest blossoms bloom the brightest.

Waving to a child, giving someone a reprieve--these are small acts of kindness. And sometimes that's all any of us needs.

I've written about the up and mostly down times with which my family and I have  been challenged lately, but it's really good to acknowledge the kindnesses along the way.

We recently shared with family and friends that we are finally expecting a child. It finally feels safe enough to talk about it.

 I had been wanting to reach out to a friend, whom I thought might be able to share some good advice about maternity clothes and things I thought only she would understand. I haven't been the easiest friend in the last few months, so I worried that I would be one of the last people she might want to help. But out of the blue, she reached out to me, and though a small gesture to her, her invitation to share her shopping secrets with me absolutely made my day.

I recently started working with a new team. And while I have been awkwardly working through my transition, this group of people has not only accepted me--warts and all, but they have made me feel so welcome, and like they could not be happier to have me. I was scared to bond again, but these women have made it impossible for me to do otherwise.

As my husband and I face a challenging move at an already crazy time, we know very little about what the next few weeks will hold in store. At moments, we worry that we will end up living apart for a brief period of time until some pressing issues are settled. One of my new teammates extended the offer of a place for me to stay should some of the moving parts prove too difficult to overcome.

This is a person who has known me for just over two months. I could not help but tear up at her offer. I know she has dealt with many challenging moves and her own struggles, and yet without any reservation, she extended a kindness I could never have imagined. And she did it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Certainly the offer of a place to stay is more magnanimous than smiling and waving to a child, but the result of any kindness is immeasurable. When you extend a kindness to someone--no matter how big or small--you can't know what that kindness might mean to that person.

I don't know what that little boy saw in me, but it cost me nothing to return his cheerful greeting. And when I think of the kindnesses that have been extended to me, I know that a smile and a wave seems trivial. But how often are we able to brighten someone's day or someone's outlook in the midst of whatever storm they are trying to push through--and without deep personal cost?

It makes me think it's a muscle worth stretching.

Days later, I still see that little boy's face, and his smile makes me just as happy every time I do. I hope, even if he doesn't remember my face, he remembers that I took a second to smile and wave back. And hopefully he somehow knows I needed his smile as much as he needed mine.

Ordinary Miracle--Sarah McLachlan

Living life is red

So, I am already catching tiny bits of flack about it from my cool friends, but I went to see Taylor Swift for a second time last night. I have made no secret about my scarlet TS of shame, and so I just laugh off the flack and claim insanity.

This post is about last night, but it's not a manifesto about Taylor Swift. It's a manifesto about feelings.

In recent months, T-Swift has been catching plenty of flack herself. Critics and many ordinary folk have noticed that she has a pattern of dating and dropping, then writing songs about it. What was surprising to me is that she actually addressed this pattern, and more subtly the criticism. She made no apology for falling in and out of love and using her craft to process all of it.

It occurred to me as she stood up there seeming to explain herself for what most of us experienced sans limelight, that it was a little bit unfair and that the expectation that she would handle her life any differently was almost ridiculous. True, she has chosen a life in the spot light and in doing so, her every blunder is subject to millions of eyes. But when I think of the average 20-something and their standard string of dating failures, is it really so remarkable that she's having failures too? None of us would even know about it, except for the fact that she is famous. Not many of us make our personal "diary entries" public. But that's what creative people do. They process things through their craft. Most of us who craft just don't get to be famous for doing it. That's what makes her different. Taylor Swift may be a multi-millionaire, and she may live a life that the rest of us can only dream of, but her pain is no less painful.

In the same moment that I was impressed with her open conversation with a crowd of tweens who really couldn't care less about what other people think about her, I thought of a conversation I had had with a friend I am getting to know better just yesterday afternoon. She asked about my week and about some ups and downs my little family and I have been experiencing. She then shared with me a challenge she and her husband are trying to deal with. Immediately following that share, she was quick to say that her problem was not as significant as what I have on my plate.

Over the years, I have come to believe something a little "out there." I used to feel guilty for moments I wasn't supremely happy about my life. I used to compare my pain and my problems to those of other people. It's almost like I was punishing myself for feeling things. I don't know what makes us do that. The one thing I know for sure is that everyone is fighting their own internal battle with something. We just don't always realize it or see it. And one person's pain isn't any less than another's.

People who are doing battle often can't take time to look out of their own windows. They are too busy trying to arm themselves and develop weaponry against being injured even more. It makes them very difficult to be around, and so most people reach a point where they stop trying to look in.

What many of us don't realize is that there's usually a way around or through that armor, and the person inside probably wants us to get in. Sometimes those routes are as simple as expressing care, or taking steps to remind those people who they really are. Many times, in the midst of being clobbered repeatedly by demons, they have long forgotten who they mean to be.

A few weeks ago, another friend took a step toward me, even as my armor was still in place. She asked how I was doing. For a moment, I was disarmed. For a moment, I put my weapons away and told her what I was going through and what was happening to my little family, and I confessed that I hadn't been coping well and handling myself around others as well I should be. She said she wished there was something she could do to help. In the moment, I realized that she just had, and I told her so. Surprisingly, just a few words that made me feel like someone actually cared made a huge difference to me. I actually think about that conversation every single day. Though I had the opportunity to tell her yesterday how much that conversation had meant to me, I don't think there's any way I can really express it to her.

While more abrupt, I think sometimes throwing a rock at someone's armor can have a similar effect. During all these months of battle and armory, I have forgotten the person I usually am. I have forgotten that everyone is going through things. I have forgotten how to look out my own windows. It might have been painful, but sometimes, a verbal slap to the side of the head can wake us up and remind us who we are. It can help us start to remember the world outside of our own pain.

My challenge to those who see people arming themselves and fighting their own demons is this: if you care about someone and you see them slipping away from themselves, throw them a line. Find a way. If you don't you can lose them forever, and just as bad, they can lose you.

Taylor Swift talked about the feelings she writes about, and while it's a little gimmicky and "out there" she described them as "red." Obviously, her current album title, and a single from said album. But when I think about it, when red is around, you can't get away from it. Red is an in your face color. When I reach for lipstick, it's the color I always take pause with, because you can't wear it without a little bit of gumption. Red is hot, burning and engulfing. Most of the feelings we experience the most intensely are as well. Love, pain, anger, embarrassment, defeat. It's all about the way our souls are burning every moment.

Most of us try to hide what we're going through. We try to keep our battles to ourselves. We want people to believe that we are somehow making it. The reality is, when we aren't making it, everything is red. Everyone sees it, even if we are trying not to see it.

The difference between most of us and Taylor Swift is she is living her "red" out in the open for all of us to see. Being creative is a sort of turning inside out of your soul. Whether you like her brand of pop-bubble-gummie music or not, she owns it and she shamelessly bares her soul. As someone who writes, that's exactly what I strive to do. We may do it in very different ways, but to stand out, sometimes you have to wear your red like a banner.

I'm planning to wear red lipstick tonight.

 Red--Taylor Swift