The Witness of Change

 This is me, being 32.

This is me, holding a secret - or at least, a social media secret. 

See, this is me, being 36 weeks pregnant. A fact I kept off the Internet. At first non-intentionally, and then just because I could. Because I’d gone months without posting a staticky sonogram, or an artful shot of my gently swelling stomach, and why not keep it up?

Before I gave birth to Alex, the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie also had a child. She never announced it, did no publicity, and chalked it up to not wanting to “perform pregnancy,” a phrase that lives rent-free inside my head. I did not want to perform pregnancy. I was already a vessel to my wonderful baby boy, I didn’t want to become only a vessel to the world at large as well.

And although the pregnancy was just over half of this past year, it still seemed interminable. I look back at pictures from the before times, and wonder if it was all a glorious dream. Was there ever a time I wasn’t miserably pregnant? Truly, honestly?

And yet, as 31 dawned, I wouldn't ever believe I’d be in this precise place when it set. Life was drastically different. I had absolutely zero plans of being pregnant. I would have broken down sobbing to know that I went back to teaching. And I would have guffawed in your face to think that Texas, of all the miserably backwards places,* would be the closest I’ve ever felt to home.

As I type, I’m staring at my beautiful baby boy, all wide eyes and solemn stares. I’m coming off my best educational year ever (yes, this COVID-soaked, hybrid-teaching chaos of a year), hyped about unit plans and even data collection, spurred on by a teaching partner so amazing I’m still pinching myself that she’s real. And I’m sitting in a house with year-round Halloween decorations and a room dedicated to instruments.

There were two songs on constant rotation this year. This kick-awesome RatM anthem was one, as I re-entered education and took my power back after a disastrous school placement. And then, once it dropped, I became obsessed with this incredibly smooth Anderson .Paak/Bruno Mars collaboration. I mean, watch each and every video. It's astounding.

I enjoy those as a representation of my life. I'm deeply satisfied right now. Yet, as with everything, there’s room for better.

32, I took that power back, but I'll still leave the door open for more.

31. 30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*and yes, I do still find it politically and infrastructurally backwards, thanks to mewling conservative sycophants of a governor/other state reps. Vote them out! But this is a beautiful place! But down with misguided libertarianism! Oh, the conflicting feelings! My emotions!

(Girl We Got a) Good Thing

Today, you are four.

Four, and a force to be reckoned with.

You're all legs and arms and firmly set jawline, barreling into life with what I would almost call abandon. Almost, and yet your every move is measured. How are you only four, and already weighing risk and reward? How are you testing each boundary—physical, intellectual, and (heaven help me) parent-set—with wisdom and grace? It doesn't matter if it's a ladder at a playground, a lengthy book, or the safety measures I just told you. You will toe the line, perhaps even conquer it, and then look up at me with nonchalant triumph. Your approach to life is a cocked eyebrow and an attitude of, "Oh, really? We'll see." 

You remember everything. Books, melodies, promises, the past. I desperately wish I could fudge the words of some of your longer favorites (like the cursed Cyrus the Unsinkable Sea Serpent, which I've hidden multiple times to avoid a twenty minute bedtime read)(you always find it). But alas, after one read text is locked and loaded in your brain for eternity. If I skip a single word, you raise an imperious hand and say "no, no, no, say the right word." You still talk about Seattle every week. You remember conversations with your sitter April. You recall walks we took, sights we saw. Seeing sea-stars and collecting shells isn't a quarter of your life ago to you, it's immediate and real. I wonder how long it will stick.

Particularly since I find myself grasping at memories. I cling to moments, holding them because you're growing so fast. I blink and they're gone. And my dear, you are so enchanting, I truly don't want to miss a thing.

I want to remember the joy of checking on you after bedtime and finding you sitting upright, clutching an ill-gotten flashlight and surrounded by books. I don't think I've even been so happy, as I gave you a conspiratorial kiss and whispered "don't stay up too late." You didn't, by the way. A half hour later I peeked in. The flashlight was off and you were curled under your blankets.

You are too good.

I want to remember the way you beg for Weezer and the Beatles whenever we drive. The scowl and headbang during track five of Weezer's White Album. The way you always tell me that you don't like "Dear Prudence," but won't skip it because you know I like it.

You are considerate.

I want to remember your many laughs. The high, hysterical giggles when you have tickle fights with

daddy. The shrieks of joy when you see your neighborhood friend in the street. The triumphant "ha, HA" when you beat a level in Rayman, a video game you've mastered so well you don't bother asking me for any help. You know you're by far the better player. And my favorite, the deep and ominous chuckle you emit when you're doing something questionable, but immensely enjoyable. I never want to forget visiting Grandma and Grandpa McCarrey and going to Deception Pass. You spent your time racing down the beach and scuttling over rocky clefts, pursued by me, gurgling the throaty chortle of an evil clown all the while.

You are delightful.

Alex, you've grown immensely every year. This year, you advanced. You started school, made your very own friends, found interests we didn't force upon you (and loved some that we did). I tell you this often, but I'm so glad you are my daughter. 

You're my favorite Alex. Forever.

I love you to Jupiter and back. Happy Birthday.

1. 2. 3. 4.

Show Yourself

This is me, being 31.

This is also me wearing some makeup for the first time in... three weeks? Maybe longer? Even that was only for a doctors appointment. Before that, who even knows.

Welp. I'm older. What a time to be alive, amiright?

Last year, I referenced my "plans for shattering life the tiniest bit."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahahahahaha *wipes hysterical tears*

via GIPHY

Tiniest bit may be the greatest understatement I've ever made in a semi-understated life.

Things I did while 30:

• Left Seattle
• Moved to Texas (without housing)
• Found a temporary apartment
• Signed Alex up for preschool/daycare
• Started a teaching gig
• Bought a house
• Left my teaching gig
• Spent six months (and counting!) unemployed
• Hosted more visitors in the past six months than I did during seven years in Seattle
• Watched my dad die
• Spoke at my dad's funeral
• The world underwent quarantine for a global pandemic

And here we are.

It seems like every time I took a breath this year—every time I cleared a hurdle, squared my shoulders, and thought now, this is it, this is where I find a routine and things get back to normal—there would be an email, a phone call, a new urgent need sending me scrambling to find some sense of equilibrium.

And yet, despite that cursed list above, despite my constant anxiety and yearning for the world to just settle on down a skosh, there's been deep satisfaction this year.

Alex turned three and became my movie buddy. We've watched endless loops of Totoro, Rango, and Frozen. We've cuddled watching Avatar: the Last Airbender, crunched popcorn while giggling at School of Rock. Afterwards, her rush to act out scenes or continue the story with whatever doll or toy or simply her fingers and thumbs together like a puppet, electrifies me. She's not a baby. I have a goofy, stubborn, sensitive, creative kid in my house. It's a blast. 88% of the time, anyway.

Taylor, forever my partner, has cared for me and my family this year. He's talked to people, handled endless paperwork, held my hand, and comforted me through heartbreak. He's done all that while experiencing these strange events in lockstep, and been a rock through it all. I'm so grateful for all those choices that brought us together.

Texas. So. I love Texas? Believe me, I'm more surprised than anyone. We moved to a suburb, and I so love being part of a cozy neighborhood, one with a grocery and furniture stores and every fast food restaurant I would ever want within a two-mile radius. I love Austin itself, the warm night atmosphere, the patio lights and outdoor seating and omnipresent guitar strums. I love that the sky lives up to each and every giant testament, a limitless scope set off by perfectly scruffy treescapes. I love the wildflowers, the cactus, the river shores surrounded by dimpled rocks. I love seeing lightning again.  

Right now, everyone seems to be baking.* This year I am dough. I've been folded, twisted and turned and stretched. I've had to be elastic, to easily stretch to accommodate and mold into each new situation. I really hope something tasty happens now.

When Alex watches Frozen 2, there's a song that pulls my heartstrings and yes, brings me to suppress sobs. At this point I've heard it so much you'd think I'd be immune, but nope. It feels intensely personal. Almost written for me in this moment.** There's a part where Elsa sings "show yourself, step into your power," and I break into the chin-quivers. That is what I've always wanted. That is what I hope for.

31, let's get some power.

30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*I'm no exception. I've got the mason jar full of freshly established sourdough starter to prove it.
**Does it feel weird that this type of self-recognition comes from a Disney property? Yes. Yes it does. Now let's move past it and never speak of this moment again.

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.

New Year, Same Me

This is me, being 29.

There was only one aspect of my birthday I obsessively planned. No, it wasn't presents or dinner or an activity or anything that would fill my day with wonder.* For months, I mentally prepared my birthday breakfast. Trader Joe's chocolate croissants. I'd eyed their promised gooey chocolate filling and flaky crusts for months. Several times I'd almost bought them on impulse, but the overnight proofing process always thrust me back to sensibility.

But aren't birthdays made to shake off the sensible?

So I held off on the purchase, promising that a boring Tuesday birthday would at least be blessed with pastry. So I waited. Then bought. Then ate. And it was OK. Not the most incredible thing I've eaten, but perfectly satisfactory.

Source

Sometimes, I feel like that's life as I get older. It's not a non-stop adventure. A lot of things I pictured as I aged—being a respected artist, or a leader in a community, or a voice people listen to—are yet to happen. My life at this moment is not incredible. It's not a croissant from the corner bakery in Paris. My life is a perfectly satisfactory Trader Joe's chocolate croissant, a fine experience with shots of hot-melted sweetness.

Listening to a forever favorite as my first song of the year, then starting a playlist of all my signature songs? Sweetness.

Driving over Lake Washington into the blaze of the rising sun? Sweetness.

The students who brought me gifts and handmade posters, all of their own volition? Sweetness.

Taylor remembering the concert I'd told him about months ago and getting tickets? Sweetness.

Seattle deciding to be summer for a week, gifting me with sun, and 80° temperatures, and a chance to take a walk/longboard with my husband and kid in the evening? Ultimate sweetness.

I'll take 29. I'll savor it. Maybe I'll plan for incrementally more. Next year, I'll plan breakfast and lunch. And with those expectations, as with the rest of my existence, I hope to be pleasantly surprised.

28. 27. 26. 25.

*In fact, I didn't plan anything to do on the day. Taylor kept asking me what I wanted for dinner, and I had no clue. People would ask me what I was doing to celebrate, and I'd shrug. For the most part, this was an unplanned event. Which kind of worked. Honestly, I do think the key to a happy life is low expectations.

Rooted on the Brink

This is me, being 28.

Oh hi, wee hours of the morning. 

It is with great aplomb that I say—look at that! I've finally conquered the fear of selfies! So many selfies.

I'd like to thank Snapchat and the discovery of working my angles for this momentous achievement.
Also no, you can't follow me on Snapchat.

I let myself wake up at 5:20 this morning, a strange rush of sleeping-in rebellion that tasted so sweet. Here's the first song of my 28th year, listened to while I savored the rebellion aftertaste (as rebellious as a responsible working adult/mother can get):



Chased by this, and this, and this. And then a little taste of this and this in the evening. It's been a good music day.

Keeping with the tradition of eating delicious breads for breakfast on my birthday, I sauntered in to work with a warmed croissant from Starbucks. There, I enjoyed a full day of endless Diet Coke, courtesy of the best co-workers I could ask for.

After a day of caffeinated tribute from my colleagues/students, I returned home to a thoughtful, inspiring gift from my husband. I walked in the sunshine with my daughter. I ate steak and ice cream and chatted with those dearest to me. Did I have a great birthday?

It was the best.

It was the best, and yet nothing too out of the ordinary happened. I hope this is a sign of that age, how perfectly content I am with the small beauties in life.

Like my obsession with the sky. Sky in the morning of my birthday (left), sky in the evening (right).

Oh man. 28. Can you believe I'm that young? Didn't 28 happen, oh, five years ago or so?

No. Not for me. Five years ago is when my husband turned 28, a thought that fascinates me. For him, 28 marked the cusp of life. He was on the edge—the edge of marriage, the edge of leaving Utah, the edge of further education and career. For me, 28 is old and stodgy and pretty well progressed in the world.

I love it. Here, at the end of my 27th year, I treasure my capability. It's amazing to feel like I actually can do anything. And I'm not talking about "I'm a starry-eyed college student and the world is the limit I'm going to revolutionize the whole country!" sort of anything. I mean that I know how to work, how to talk to people, how I can realistically achieve goals. It's an eerie sense that anything I want to do, I can do. Yes, there's prioritizing, and working, but everything is feasible, plannable, possible. What strange and heady power.

In my career, I'm perfectly capable. Sure, there are things that I want to improve at, but I've mostly moved past the desperate fumblings of a total beginner. In my marriage, I'm totally capable. Taylor and I have figured out how to communicate, serve, and work together. In my writing, as much as I wish I did more, I feel like I can draft and edit and revise and have a firm, strictly "Cat" voice. I'm so capable, I managed to create a human life.

Which is the most awe-inspiring part of this year. Childbirth and motherhood terrified me, seemed like the most arduous task one could ever undertake. And I did it. I know how lucky I was. How lucky I was that pregnancy did not bother me at the time, and quickly became a new standard of normal. How lucky I was in delivery, so lucky my doctor told me not to speak of it for fear of giving unrealistic expectations. But the luckiest of all is Alex herself. I pictured motherhood as pain and sacrifice, late nights and ear infections. gritting as my soul was stretched tight by endless screaming.

How could I have know the joy? And it's very influenced by the fact that Alex has been so lovely, so patient, so endlessly full of happiness and smiles. There is sacrifice, but it's the kind of sacrifice Taylor and myself needed and are able to handle, the kind that has made us perfectly grow as people. Our family and home are exponentially sweeter. Alex has brought a completion I couldn't have understood.*

Probably my favorite picture of me ever.

Through motherhood, and each minute choice that comes within that minefield, I know I can. I can accomplish anything. I can trust my instincts. I can make choices, and those choices are correct.

And now, as I face down 28, I hope to channel that capability. I've become as settled and established as I wished to be. Now, it's time to push for more. In 28, I'm going to search. I'm going to reach. I will take this newfound capability and create something spectacular.

After all, I'm standing on the brink of sabotage. There's bound to be some explosions.

It's going to be a great year.

27. 26. 25.

*Which is the most cliched thing I've ever heard, but for us it is true. Note: for us. Not everyone needs an Alex to get to that point. She is what I needed to become softer and more compassionate. She is what Taylor needed to become more service-oriented. Alex forced us to grow in ways we didn't know were necessary before, and which I'm glad we experienced, but I don't think that parenthood is the only way to develop in that manner.