You Say Yes, I Say No

Every now and then, sentimentality rears up and bites your head off.

I knew Alex's third birthday would be one of those moments. Leading up to the day, I tried to steel myself against the inevitable gasp at time. I'm no fool. I've noticed how her shoes pinch at the toes, how she can suddenly reach countertops and each fridge shelf, how her sweet baby softness has leaned out, how she dive-bombs off the couch and shrieks with mischief. She's morphed into a full-blown kid. Her aging was inevitable, looked forward to even. Each new discovery and personality trait makes Alex that much better.

But this was a turn. A hard shift from our previous life, and into new modality.

The older she gets, the less sure I am about everything. It's easy to be an expert on a creature that waddles and coos. But a being with growing emotions and words to grapple therein? An entirely different kettle of fish. However, the more I doubt my own choices, the more faith I have in her. The more I see her strength, her resilience. Every day is met with the biggest smile. She is overjoyed that the sun is up and we are together. And in those moments, with her halo hair and squinty grin, I too believe that the world is full of discovery and wonder.

Alex is so steadily herself. She still greets each person with a cheery "I'm Alex!" and sometimes a handshake or hug. She is social. She is gregarious. She is hilariously dramatic, all eye rolls and exaggerated flops to the floor—typically accompanied with a stark "I'm dead," which of course requires resuscitation leading to giggle fits. She is precise and curious and an expert at turning every single question back on the questioner. And she’s passionate about things. Oh, how she’s intensely passionate.

Watching your child love the things you love is almost reason enough to procreate. It’s not just validating, it’s intoxicating. I get a serotonin hit every time the radio plays and Alex delightedly squeals that the Beatles are playing. When she definitively declares her favorite Beatles are John Lennon and Ringo Starr, I’m nourished with pride.* Showing Alex my favorite movies, songs, or books, and watching her eyes glow with rapt attention delights me. 

I may not know where I’m going with schools, or punishments, or friends or struggles or all the awful things that can await her. But Alex, all herself, will be fine. I can share my loves. She will find her own.

Alex, my child, my girl, you have made the world wide. It's scary. Terrifying, in fact, full of things that could hurt you and that I desperately would like to shield you from, but know that I shouldn't. And every time you handle those challenges—climbing at playgrounds, crossing the creek—my heart bursts as you exclaim "I did it, I did it, I did it!" You did. You're better for it. And it makes me braver for you. Suddenly, that wide world of unknowns is full of joy and creativity, because of you.

1. 2. 

*even though her favorite songs are “Hey Jude” and “Hello Goodbye,” so I’m just saying…#PaulForever

A Middle-Aged, Non-Crisis Type Thing

This is me, being 30.

I LOVE THAT CARDIGAN.
Birthday present to myself, purchased on the most fantastic ladies' weekend before my birthday.
Extremely worth it.

In 2013, Rilo Kiley released rkives. That year I walked a lot, listening to the dying strains of my favorite band while anticipating what I thought would be my final Seattle summer bloom. The best stretches of my walks reached over I-5, strips of sidewalk where I could lean over and gaze on downtown to the distant south. One day, I moseyed back home after watching a movie in a theatre that would later become one of my places, and "A Town Called Luckey" came on.

"Happy Birthday, you're halfway to sixty...."

I immediately whipped out my phone, scrolling about six years in the future on my Google calendar, and added a new event:

I set it so I got an email AND a notification, just in case I forgot I was getting monumentally older.

And now, I've crossed that event off my list.

I listened to a lot of Jenny Lewis on my birthday.* I made healthy choices, I taught adolescents how to write, I ate a burger so good it almost inspires weeping. **

The most extraordinary thing is how ordinary it feels. No massive rift as one decade moves into the next. No earth shattering moments, leaving an unblemished goddess surrounded by the ruins of my twenties. Just...me. Who I am. What I have. Life going on as marvelously normal as ever.

Thirty is good so far. Twenty-nine was great. Things are ...dare I say?... going well.

I do have plans for shattering life the tiniest bit this year. But, at the risk of exposing my overly-sentimental marshmallow core, as long as I've got these two people in my life, it's fine. 

Seriously, it was one of the best birthdays. Sun! Food! Family! Yes, in that order!

I'm halfway to sixty, and apologies to Ms. Lewis, but I don't have to sing myself towards freedom. I've found myself. Happy.

29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*It doesn't hurt that her latest album is FANTASTIC.

**See? I did plan a whole dinner this year! Uneeda=manna from the gods.

I wrote this at 11:40 PM, and went to work six hours later. I am old and now am tired.

The way to do something is doing it.

I once had a journalism professor—a famous, bloated wound of a man who harvested cliches and sprinkled them like fresh grown wisdom—relish in telling his classes that the cure for writer's block was writing.

Duh doy.

And yet, like all the best advice, it's the simplicity that makes the task so daunting. We (and yes, I'm dragging the general public into this) believe that there's got to be some other secret, a magic key that only reveals itself to the recipient at some opportune moment. There's a magical combination of words, or a ritual performed under the right moon, or even just the fallback of knowing the right person to make things true.

Some of those have a kernel of truth. After all, I do firmly believe you have to toss spilled salt over you shoulder. Rituals have weight.

But results come from action.

Last year, I lost weight and got healthier by exercising. At least thirty minutes a day, five days a week. No shakes, no programs, and I didn't count calories (though I know that's worked for others). I just did it. No exceptions. Not even at full capacity every day. The action mattered.

This applies to everything, absolutely everything, we want from life. Take any of my artistic ambitions. I don't know why it's taken me almost thirty years, much of which was spent editing the work of other writers, to realize that writers are people who write. I won't suddenly have more time. I won't suddenly have better ideas. I have to write. I have to put in the work.

Source

The past six months, I've written when my students write. I've given myself dialogue challenges. I've created characters. I've written fantasy and mystery and dystopia. Most are trash. Some are...intriguing. A few characters have stuck with me, and always the ones I discovered as I freely wrote.

I'm writing. And I can see a future, a misty-edged vision of morning pages and filled notebooks. I just need to do the work.

The cure is writing.

The Various and Diverse Ways I Fail at Motherhood

Or: How I stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb that has been dropped on my life.

Author's Note

OK. I am publishing this blog post on March 3rd, 2019. It was written on August 12th, 2016, when my daughter was a week old. I never fully finished it—I remember going back to edit, and never being quite sure how to end. I also remember feeling nervous about the reaction it would get. I was new to this whole "mom" gig, and I didn't want to alienate/enrage any moms reading this entry. This felt particularly potent as I tried to edit the breastfeeding section, as it seems to be the most polarizing of mom topics I could touch. I have a lot of natural/earth mama type friends I didn't want to hurt. I respect their decisions. But those decisions are not mine.

This week, one of my favorite authors, Lucy Knisley, released a graphic novel chronicling her experience trying to conceive and going through pregnancy and childbirth. I love the way she writes, and I kept reading and feeling the urge to write about my experience. It felt like fate that I suddenly stumbled on this snippet, written when it was all fresh and raw. Here it is, in unfinished glory. I couldn't write this now. I'm glad I did then.

I'm about three weeks into this journey of being a mom, and I fear I have already irrevocably doomed my child. Since the very first moment, minute decisions were made that will doubtless reverberate throughout Alex's future, sadly forcing her into lifelong mediocrity, idiocy, and abandonment issues. My poor, poor child.

Alex, 8-12-16. Six days old.

Mistake #1: Prenatal Lack of Investment

I didn't read the baby books.

I had them. At one point, there were at least four on my nightstand. Oh, I read a chapter here and there, especially in the first 20 weeks. But listen. I was working. A lot. I had stuff to do. And I figure, once you know the basics—drink water, don't eat things that make you sick, don't do extreme sports—everything else is just anxiety-inducing gravy, right? The more you know, the more you worry, so why invite aggravation.

I also did not have a midwife or a doula. I relied on my ten-minute monthly doctors appointments, with a doctor who seemed to take a similar ideological stance of "the less you know, the better." She'd check the baby's heart, tell me that all my concerns were normal and not to worry, and then usher me out the door. There was no warm maternal presence performing holistic ceremonies over my bump (that's what doulas do, right? See, I told you I didn't read the books!). No one held my hand through each stage of the process, and I'm sure I had the completely wrong birthing experience because of it. Which brings us to...

Mistake #2: She Got the Epidural

Yep. I did not have a "natural" childbirth. I was drugged up, and boy was it awesome.

Before going any further, I have to tout Jessi Klein's magnificent piece in the New York Times: "Get the Epidural." Read and be enlightened.

Obviously, I had a pretty laissez-faire attitude towards the whole giving birth thing. I suppose I had a birth plan, but as I looked at examples online they mostly seemed overblown with minutiae (particularly this one, which had a ridiculous amount of options, most of which were things I'd never heard of before, let alone deliberated on enough to develop a strong, unshakable opinion). Again, my attitude was whatever had to happen for the baby and my comfort, bring it on!

Which resulted in me laboring at home for a good long while, arriving at the hospital and being pretty dang far along, far enough along that they basically told me it was time for whatever pain relief I wanted. By this point it was late at night, the thought of not feeling contractions and getting some sleep sounded extremely desirable, so bring on the epidural!

Right before giving birth, I actually turned to Taylor and asked, "why wouldn't you get an epidural?" It was blissful. Not perfect, particularly how it only partially took for the first few hours, but for that last hour of labor and those fifteen minutes of pushing, I was floating on a cloud. I was happy. I was jazzed to meet this kid. I felt NOTHING. Everything waist-down was spun sugar, cotton balls, ephemeral body parts I knew in theory were mine, but I couldn't produce solid evidence of that fact.

And all those reasons why epidurals are so evil—drugs making your baby sleepy, slowing down labor to a stop, somehow leading to a longer recovery process after labor—to that I say: phooey. I could not have had a more magical birth and recovery process if I had explicitly planned out the ideal situation. My doctors guided me through pushing like champions. My kid was lifting herself off my chest and looking around seconds after birth. And I was walking around that day, no sign of jelly legs or terminal numbness to be seen.

Yes, that's a brag, but it's a brag with intent. Thanks to drugs, I was able to not only appreciate the moment my child came into the world, but I was happy during it. At one point during pushing, we were joking and laughing. For me, I can't imagine anything more wonderful than a child born into a world full of joy.

Mistake #3: No Encounters with the Boob Kind (aka, A Lack of Breastfeeding)

I tried. I didn't try for the recommended two months,* but I did try, and when it worked I enjoyed it. The hubbub about the connection breastfeeding can foster is somewhat understandable, because it did feel a little mind-blowing that the body can provide nutrients, and that our spawn can theoretically survive based solely on those properties.

That novelty becomes markedly less appealing when your beautiful, placid, well-tempered child is wailing every time they are approached by a boob. It becomes particularly less appealing when you, who has managed to hold on to ration and logic throughout pregnancy, whose hormones were almost more in-check during the past nine months, suddenly loses reality.

The few days I spent trying to breastfeed were the most out of control I have felt in my entire life. I'd sit and stare at the ceiling, fighting waves of hopelessness and terror. Tears would run down my face and I wouldn't notice until after they'd left dried salt tracks. I felt more possessive of everything in the house, while desperately wanting to be left completely alone and untethered. These feelings abruptly dissipated once I gave in to formula feeding. Maybe it was just the result of taking away one of many overwhelming responsibilities that comes with new parenthood. Or (my working theory) maybe my chemicals aren't equipped to handle breastfeeding. Either way, my formula baby seems  happy and healthy, and thanks to not being solely responsible for feedings, I can be too.

Also, how ridiculous is the terminology built around the cult of breastfeeding? It's like this entirely different entity, phrases like "the breast" thrown around in this tone imbued with holiness, as if referring to a magical relic too sacred to be spoken of in normal language. No, it needs an other-ing, so that conversations about it can reach maximum pomposity. And quite frankly, the talk around it can sometimes get too pedestal-y** for my taste. Breastfeeding is super cool, and awesome, and one of numerous amazing things the body is capable of, but it's not magic.

*which, seriously?!? Two months? It can take two months for breastfeeding to catch on? Yeah yeah, benefits and all, but has anyone researched the downsides to a child essentially starving for the first two months of life? Because I'm pretty sure those repercussions are at least as influential as the alleged benefits of "the breast." 

** a phenomenon that always smacks of devious patriarchy to me. Any placing of female experience in a removed, otherworldly sphere (especially when it's taking a function and separating it from the person, which the phrase "the breast" SUPER does) feels like it undercuts our humanity. Breast is great! Formula is great! Either way, let's remember there's a very real woman behind whichever choice is made. And I don't think that woman needs your stupid platitudes to feel powerful.

2018, In Many Words (And Phone Pictures)

It's popular to look back on 2018 as a dumpster fire. And yes, in the worldwide sense, it was. Somehow, beyond the scope of my imagination for the capacity of evil/party loyalty, Trump is still president. Hordes of broke Millennials are accused of lazy solipsism, while facing a world priced beyond what we even could have dreamed. And I'm living in Seattle, a city facing the hotbed of tech bro boomtown and Bezos greed.

And yet, 2018 was personally fantastic.

It was... comfortable. There's not much else to it. I keep wondering when I will stop being surprised that I'm an adult. This year I lived the closest to my ideal life. That's doing pretty well in my opinion.

So if you're so inclined, sit back and bask in what a year of Fairly Idyllic Cat Life©  looks like. At least according to the photos I took, because heaven knows I don't keep a diary, and heaven knows my mind...you know, I wish I could say that it isn't what it used to be, but honestly that ol' brain has been gone for as long as I can remember. So yes. Can't rely on the whole "memory" thing. All praise camera phones.

January

I am halfway through a year of exercising a half hour a day, five days a week. For the first time, I start lifting weights. I surprisingly like it. My mom visits town, and by the time she leaves my house looks cleaner, and Alex gets her first haircut and increases her vocabulary and knowledge level by about 100% (that may be an exaggeration). Taylor and I see Queens of the Stone Age for the second time. I didn't think anything could beat the first, where I was about fifteen feet away from Josh and died, but by the end of the night my socks are still rocked all the way off.




February

Alex gets old enough to wear pigtails. I run tech for my school's musical for the last time (but shh, they don't know that yet). I'm reminded yet again that sound crew is the best crew in drama. College friend Gary visits, and on what I swear is the coldest day of the year we take him to all the beaches (3) in our neighborhood. It is freezing. Foolish. Misguided. But oh my, what views!

Taylor and I try to beat the Seattle winter blues by abandoning our child and spending five days in Austin, TX. This plan backfires, as Austin shows off its overcast and foggy splendor. As a result, it pretty much feels like we spend five childless days in Seattle. We still find ourselves enchanted by Texas pride (tempered with a heavy dose of hippie-dom), Sixth Street, street art, and tacos. We also check out San Antonio and the Alamo. I fall in love with a grilled cheese brisket sandwich. My love is real. Lasting. I still think of that sandwich weekly.

March

I run a 5k! This feels like (and is) a huge accomplishment for this former couch potato. I celebrate by eating chocolate. Surprisingly, I don't completely stop running.

It seems like it gets a little warmer and sunnier. As a family, we visit Hendrix's grave and the Ballard Locks. My friend Liz moves here from Boston, which is a personal delight and a writing motivator. High school friend and forever favorite Ashley visits for an art conference. Using her shoes, I take what may be the best photo of Alex. It's my screen background at work to this day. Alex goes on her first Easter egg hunt. She eats too many jelly beans. Her inner sugar monster is revealed, much to my ongoing chagrin.

April

Card from a student.
They're nice sometimes.

I turn 29. It's whatever.

Alex and I visit my family in Utah, which is shockingly beautiful. It's my first trip where I am not angry at Utah whatsoever. Basking in the beauty of the mountains with no bitterness is a revelation. Again, Alex's learning increases tenfold. She leaves Utah with bounteous books and a new fascination with sea creatures.

May

My sister-in-law Leila visits to present in WE Day, with two of her kids in tow. Alex enjoys cousin time, and starts getting incredibly attached to them. I enjoy a marvelous dinner that leaves me professionally invigorated. For the first time in forever, I start getting excited about future career prospects, and I to understand what I enjoy in a job.

Oh, and Free Comic Book Day happens. I load up on comics. All is well.




June

Magical month! The school year winds down, and I stop teaching pretty much immediately, in favor of a self-guided project that lets students do what they please so I can clean up my room. The last week is pure perfection, which I've written about before, but I can't gush about the Boothbay Literacy Conference enough. It was the ideal way to decompress and feel excited about teaching again after a long, morose year. It was the ideal way to discover myself again, by solo-vacationing and remembering how I function outside a family unit (essentially the same, but with more pondering and spontaneity). It was the ideal way to remember what I love about the East Coast, something that's not difficult to do when you are staying on a resort with plenty of rocky beaches to scramble over.

July

I sink into the glorious lifestyle of summer Cat. Seattle sort of starts to get warm. I cut all my hair off. Don't ask me how, but that's the first step in my body feeling familiar. I'm at home in my skin for the first time since getting pregnant. My mental identity finally begins to resemble reality. I brunch with friends. I go to movies. I read books outdoors and play on beaches. Basically—I partake in every favorite activity. Life is a dream

I run a second 5K, like I'm some kind of marvelous athlete. Afterwards, they give me Swedish pancakes and I'm completely satisfied. Summer with Alex is pure bliss. We visit my family in Utah for two weeks, and she basks in the attention from cousins and uncles and aunts. I bask in the mountains, spending more time up there in the two weeks I visit than I did probably my entire high school career. What a waste.

August

Alex turns two! She's so old. She immediately turns into a whiny monster, but an easily distracted whiny monster, so she's still amazing (just more work). I start to get the jitters about returning to a non-blissfully luxurious life. The best parts of August: visiting favorite beaches, exploring tide pools, seeing Andrew Bird and the Punch Brothers, and spending time with people I love. The worst parts of August: the last two weeks. In the wake of fires, smoke settles over Seattle. We live in a post-apocalyptic haze. The populace take to wearing dust masks, which only enhances the sensation that the world is ending. It portends my dread, since my summer world is ending. I sink into pre-school year melancholy.

September

Ruining every previous record, I have my first sobbing breakdown four days in to the school year. Usually that takes until the end of October, but this year I miss summer so acutely I can hardly stand it. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I stare out my classroom window, you know, the one that looks onto a cement wall because I'm in the basement and my window opens into a water-collecting trench, and curse the lack of sunlight.

Still, things get done. I run a 10k, Beat the Blerch, where the reward is cake and a disgusting concoction called the burritonut (donut burrito, whose toppings could include: bacon, hot fudge, salsa, sprinkles, and ranch). Alex and I visit a fire truck. We eat more cake. In fact, many baked goods are consumed. I manage to keep reading a lot, even though school has started. It's a revelation in sanity-keeping.

October

Halloween season! I always feel pressure to enjoy a month where my natural spooky aesthetic is acceptable. While I love the atmosphere of October, the clear seasonal change (compounded with feeling like I have to savor every moment) can often lead to slight malaise. I am definitely malaise-y, and angry about it. I am angry a lot in October. On the bright side, that anger spurs me to regulate my exercise schedule and go back to therapy. Nice work anger, somehow giving me what I needed.

October was not without highlights. We go on a spontaneous weekend trip to Spokane, where Alex rides her first carousel and I eat a vegetable coconut curry soup so delicious I immediately replicate it at home (it's been on constant rotation since). I take a 36 hour trip to Austin to see my niece's baptism. Solo travel is incredible. I eat too much Mexican food. Being with family is a real highlight—power reverberates from having all the Cowan women together. I, for one, love it.

Halloween happens. Alex originally asks to be Mickey Mouse, and ends up insisting she wants to be an octopus. I spend hours crafting an skirt. Alex looks adorable. She also becomes, again, a candy-obsessed fiend.

November

A traveling month. First weekend: family trip to Portland. The menfolk see the Lakers vs. the Trailblazers. I'm on kid duty, which isn't too bad considering I get donuts, book chats, and an early bedtime. I eat a brisket that makes me weep with joy. Second weekend: Taylor participates in a Levinas conference, and I'm once again on kid duty. It's less terrifying than it sounds. Third and fourth weekend, aka Thanksgiving week: LA EXTRAVAGANZA! We road trip to LA, and it's all my dreams.


Last time Taylor and I visited his old stomping grounds, I was seven weeks pregnant and wanted to die. This time, we enjoy sunshine and long drives. Alex spends days playing outside with cousins, an experience that completely ruins her for regular life. We eat burgers and sundaes, than run and bike in warm air. We stay in a house with chickens in the backyard. I take a solo drive to Lompoc to see my beloved Mary. Stopping to get gas in Ventura is the only time I see the beach. And yet, still an amazing California trip. I thought I would leave there convinced that I would do anything to live in LA. Surprisingly, that didn't happen, but it did confirm my belief that I need more sunshine in my life. Oh, what a sunshiney week.

Thanksgiving is also good.

December

Christmas stress. I hate shopping in general. I also get terrible gift anxiety. And I hate the cold. So in essence, this month is made of everything I dislike. Despite conscious efforts to chill out and focus on being present and giving from the heart and blah blah blah, there's a frantic discontent to my existence in December. I drive. I run around. I spend SO MUCH MONEY. This year, I realize that as my family gets larger, I  need to start Christmas savings/shopping far in advance. Ick.

Still, it is a lovely Christmas. Alex understands the concept far more than last year, although she is pretty much done opening presents after three gifts. And who could blame her, after she gets all her heart desired: a "kookoolaylay." She loves that thing with all her heart. The Mickey Mouse bed presented afterward is just enough to make her brain completely explode. All in all, a successful holiday, even if it felt a little lackluster.

2018

And there you have it. 2018 was a good year for "adulting"—for keeping steady in careers, for taking advantage of where we live, for both Taylor and myself reclaiming and settling in to who we are as individuals and as a family. Still, we dreamed in 2018. We discovered what we want, and plotted how to make it happen.

With that, I hope that 2019 is the year of graceful change. I've had change before—oh, how change has marked the twenty-teens—and most of those changes were abrupt and painful. In reaching for higher in 2019, I hope it happens with the wisdom earned through almost a decade of rough growth.