(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.

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.

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.

Super Trouper

Last night, Alex went down way, and I mean way after her bedtime. The day had been packed with birthday dinner and cupcakes and playing with her cousins/shunning her new bike, and by the end of the night stick a fork in her, she was DONE.

Which strangely worked out in my favor. While going through the bedtime routine, after the stories and songs, Alex did something she hadn't done in months, a gesture that disappeared around the time she started walking a year ago. A moment unmissed until it wasn't there anymore. I finished "Twinkle, Twinkle," and she slid into my elbow. Her body curled up against my chest, and her hand reached up to clutch at my collarbone, a tiny fist grasping the security of a body she once knew as her own. That deep snuggle was the snuggle of my baby, a baby that was already gone. I cuddled her closer, enjoying the intimate pose of trust.

And then she thunderously farted.

And that is Alex, age two. Unbearable sweetness, measured with hilarity (and stubbornness) all her own.

Alex, age two, loves to learn. She's quick, and interested, and has amazing stamina for following
through on concepts. I have no idea where she picks these things up. I suspect she has a good brain for quick memorization and utilization. After all, I'm not sitting down and going over letters and numbers with her, yet somehow she has them. All praise Sesame Street. Meanwhile, I do work with her on colors, and every time she is asked to identify "green" she looks at me like I'm insane, because that is not a color or name she's ever heard, ever, in her life. Go figure.

Alex, age two, loves music. She sings herself to sleep. She sings herself awake. She sings to herself while playing, eating, getting a diaper change. My new piano is no longer mine, but hers alone.* One of her first words was "pick," and she will search the floors for guitar picks so she can strum the guitars around the house. She's become quite a proficient booty-shaker, and loses her mind when her favorite song (by her favorite band, much to my chagrin, thanks but no thanks Taylor) comes on. She's also memorized a handful of Big Block Singsongs, and will bust out the moose and the monkey songs pretty often. True, they sound like gibberish to the untrained ear, but she keeps practicing.

Alex, age two, loves looking. She doesn't often sleep on car rides, because what's beyond her window is far too fascinating. When she wakes up, she wants her curtains open so she can see the cars and bikes and buses and wave hello.** In new situations she goes quiet, with an almost frightening stare of intensity, but she's just observing. She looks at what's happening for a while. Once she gets a handle on things, she throws herself full-bore in to the fray.

Alex, age two, gives me hope in future Alex. My wish for her is to keep this curiosity, this willingness to try, this passion for the richness life offers.

This morning, Taylor and I took her for another, vastly more successful spin on her new bike. At one point, after multiple warnings and attempts to move her away from the curb, Alex took a tumble. The crash scared her. There might have been a few sobs. Then she grasped those handlebars in her still-baby-chubby hands, and got right back on the bike. No hesitation, absolutely rejecting help from us, she could do it. She wanted to do it.

Alex, age two, you've got all you need. With all your loves, you can build something great. I can't wait to see where other years take you.

I love you, Cheeks McGee. Happy Birthday.

1. 2.

*If I dare to play in her presence, whether she's by me or not, she'll rush over to the piano with a worried chorus of "no, no, no," before gently (but firmly) dragging my hands off the keys.
**Oh, how this girl waves hello. At everyone, and everything, at all times. One of my first mother-heartbreaks is watching her cheerily reach out with her hellos, and having people ignore or not acknowledge her. I know that will happen to her over and over--her putting herself out there with friendship, and being rejected. That being said, I do hope she continues in her cheery persistence. Even if it makes grocery shopping a bit of a timesuck/pain.

Awake My Soul

I just sat on a dark deck, drinking in a thunderstorm. Lightning, thunder, warm torrents of water. The whole shebang.

I don't recognize how much I miss something until it directly confronts me. I knew I missed deserts and mountains, but it wasn't until the dusky scent of petrichor that I realized how long it's been since I had a summer storm, how majestic warm rain can be, how soul-electrifying it feels to witness light crack the sky.

These magical re-awakenings are gifts. Sometimes they are instances gifted after years, like tonight's storm. Sometimes, they are more systemic but no less surprising—like every July and August, when I meet myself again. The school year has a way of wearing me down to my barest elements. Out of survival, I retreat. I become an automaton: wake up, drive, plan, present, grade, drive, Alex, eat, sleep, repeat.

In the summer, I meet Cat. I usually only emerge after a solid week of sleep, sleep sudden and deep and always disorienting. Twelve hour nights. Naps, grabbed in cars and couches and movies. Quick descents moments after putting Alex in her crib, unconscious before she stops burbling to herself.

After that vicious game of catch-up, my brain awakes for the first time in months. I ADORE having a brain again. Knowing I am capable of thought and innovation and creativity blindsides me every time, since I've usually spent the past six months or so mourning its death and resigning myself to a life of boring mediocrity.*

So begins a whirlwind two months of discovery. Desperately, I try to stockpile experiences and explorations and epiphanies, hoping that some will sustain me through the next ten months. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the year I carry it with me all year long.

Here are a few things that bolster that hope, things I will try to jealous-guard against the school-year-soul-strip:

-Morning yoga in Maine

-Coastal scramblings
-Engaged veterans, those people who feed their brains so they, in turn, feed others
-Meeting a brain twin, a synced spirit long after I'd abandoned hope in such a person
-Water and rocks
-Reading, both for myself in for Alex
-Alex, all games, letters, numbers, bikes, penguins, happysaddramaticponderous
-Conversations with friends from a decade ago
-Interest in building new friendships
-Finding people interesting
-Story ideas

-Mountains: dust, deer, floral against sheer rock, still lakes and whispering aspens
-Family history, from blood to chosen bonds
-City walks and talks with my love. Encountering each other in daytime. Spending more than an hour together
-Brick houses, porch columns, hot cement
-An internal running commentary that makes me laugh, shake my head, and drives me to record snippets
-Writing, writing, writing, writing, writing...

*And no amount of pep talks convince me otherwise, Taylor. Although I do appreciate the effort.

Years in the Rearview

I haven't done a year in review since 2014.

OK, let's speed round this thing.

2015: The year of getting back on my feet.

Victorious!

Yes, it took the entire year. But although nine of the twelve months were spent with no steady paycheck and about 20 dollars in the bank, I loved 2015. I loved graduating with my Masters in journalism, an experience that filled me with unanticipated pride and excitement. I loved my internship at City Arts and having time to exercise. I loved seeing theatre and busing around and listening to podcasts while doing data entry. I loved interviewing people in crazy locations (like the roof of city hall!) and sizing up classrooms around Bellevue and Issaquah. It was a warm year in Seattle, with an insanely hot and dry summer, and I felt like the entire city was gifting me health and happiness after the mindwarp of Boston.

2016: The year of the incubator.

Man, pregnancy ravaged my appearance.
Pictures from 2016 hit that home.

This year is mostly a blur. That might have something to do with the whole "growing a human being" part of the year. I found out I was pregnant the first week of December 2015, and gave birth the first week of August 2016. So much of my year was spent with my pregnancy—and my desperate attempts to not think about my pregnancy, since I wasn't totally comfortable with it as a concept—forefront in my mind. In that sense, although it was arguably my most productive year, it was also one where I was not myself. I wasn't in control of my timeline, or my actions, or even my own body (which in retrospect, felt like and was constantly betraying me). I went to work, and sat, and grew something. Something that was gorgeous and completely worth it, but even after having Alex, 2016 was spent adjusting to this new role. I had very little control over this year. It feels like the slightest blip. I imagine it will seem even more minuscule further into the future.

2017: The year of settled

Feeling good.

Finally. This year, it seemed to all click. It was the first time in a decade I'd lived in the same apartment for over a year. It was the first time since 2010 I'd had a job for more than a year. As Alex crossed over into her second year of life, I realized that I knew what it was like to be a mother and to have a family unit. As a teacher, I was able to start a second year teaching the same curriculum and realized hey, maybe I don't suck as a teacher. I still...don't...really...love it, but it's becoming comfortable and I can say with confidence that I'm decently effective.

I feel like I have a grasp on the day-to-day act of living instead of constantly waiting. Waiting for a job. Waiting for financial stability. Waiting for a kid. Waiting for the next big thing. Now, I'm not waiting for life to begin. I'm just living, which is a lovely place to be. Coasting in the current is infinitely preferred to swimming against it.

2018: The year of future hopes

Bring it on, 2018.

Now that I'm all "settled," there's no need to rest on any laurels. That was 2017. I had that year. Now I can push for more, as always. I have hopes for the future, not in a "I wish I was there already and can't wait for that to happen" way, but in a "let's start doing the things I want for the future" way. Taylor and I started an exercise habit last year, which has been shockingly wonderful.* I'm starting to think about the food habits I'm passing on to Alex, and becoming better friends with produce and tofu. Speaking of passing things to Alex, I want her to see her parents as whole people, people who participate in the world around them. It's rough for me to force myself out of the house. It's easy to get into work-Alex-sleep mode. But I don't want her to think that everything is work, or everything is just family. I want her to care about others, to make good friends, to actually do the things that interest her. I'm responsible for modeling that. This year, I want to start becoming the type of person I want my kid to be.

That may be the most domestic thing I've ever written/said/thought.

I'm standing by it. In the quest to be whole, in 2018 I want to:

• Do something for myself every week, and have that thing be completely away from my family. 
• Write. Send my writing someplace (with the hopes of getting published again this year).
• Read half of Jesus the Christ.
• Become a director completist. I hope to keep this every year. For now I'm starting small, and will be watching every film by Guillermo del Toro.**
• Run a 5k.
• Do increasing push-ups every week.
• Learn how to do a headstand (heyyyyy, yoga).
• Try ten recipes from the Italian cookbook I got for Christmas.
• Go to a movie at the EMP. Fine, at the MoPOP.***

Here's to 2018, and the quest for extension outside the comfort zone. 

*I never thought I'd feel so good after working out. Ugh. It's like I'm one of those people who gets an exercise glow. I'm one step away from preaching the benefits of proper protein and form. Somebody stop me!
**I'm going to exclude films I've already seen, unless I want to watch them again. Because I have ZERO desire to see Pacific Rim again. There. I said it.
***I will never get over that name change. At least, not for another year or so.

All I Need

One year ago at this moment, I was trying to sleep. Slight contractions plagued me the entire day. They weren't debilitating, and I had roamed the streets of my neighborhood as they hit, timing and tracking and trying to find regularity. Once I realized there was no set rhyme or reason, my deathly fear of arriving at the hospital and being sent home led me to diminish the pain's significance. I took a shower to soothe the cramping. I thought I'd rest up for what would undoubtedly be a busy tomorrow. So at that moment, 365 days before this one right now, I was cuddled in bed listening to In Rainbows and waiting for glorious unconsciousness.

It wasn't long before a shattering 10+ minute contraction forced the headphones from my ears, rocked me down the stairs, out the door, and into a knuckle-gripping wait for a blessed epidural.

This is not meant to be a birth story. So I'll just say that about seven hours later, with unrealistic ease, my world exploded. When the pieces were put back together, I was shocked at how much the planet had expanded. Infinite vastness sat on my chest. Infinite vastness grew in my heart. I thought I had charted the edges of my universe, yet there it was, pushing outwards into possibilities I'd never imagined could exist.

I could write (and have written) extensively on this first year of motherhood. I could be wry, hilarious, philosophical, righteous, awed, or irreverent by turns in my observations. But for now, I'll try to keep it short and sweet, as sweet as my Alexandria.

I love my daughter. I love what her birth has made of my family. I didn't know that Taylor and I could be so content, had no clue of the mysterious peace we could carry with us.* I loved the way we've grown. I love my pleasant, curious child.

My in-laws have a birthday tradition. They bestow birthday wishes, hopes for a person as they trek through the next year. I've made wishes for myself on my birthdays, so here's one for the girl.

Daughter, I wish the world for you.**

Tonight, as I thought about your entrance into existence and how radically my life has changed, I took a nighttime stroll. Right now, there is a full moon. I walked barefoot on cement that held the vestiges of the day's heat. The darkness of mountain silhouettes cut into the night sky, and I felt immensely powerful. I felt the embrace of night and moon and stars, and I wished that power for you. I want you to walk through the world and feel fearless, because it is there for you, and you are there for it. There is so much for you to see. There will be so much for you to do. Don't be scared. Yes, it can be daunting, and yes, you might be nervous, but always tap into the strength I know you already have.

This is going to be a great life, my darling. And I hope that I can show you that.

I love you. Happy birthday.

1

*peace tempered with a giant helping of "wow, the world has so many ways a human can die, how does anyone survive to adulthood," but peace nonetheless. 

**so just a simple, tiny wish for this first birthday, no biggie. 

Oh, I Remember Yesterday

This song is fall 2007. My best friend had given me Pinkerton. Sometime after the album gifting, we had what I'll awkwardly call physical contact (NIGHTS OF INTENSE HAND-HOLDING!). During the following four weeks of our non-relationship, I watched this video over and over and over and over, volume up to eleven in my sad little hermity room. Oh, I'd be so good for you, and you'd be good for me.

A month after first contact (is that copyrighted? Somebody get Roddenberry on the line!), my friend asked me if we could go back to that, to just friends. I smiled and said yes. Two minutes later I drove down the street, passing his car while secretly blasting "Song for the Dumped." Freshman Cat was as classy as shut-your-mouth. At one point, our cars were next to each other. I smiled, one of those over-enthusiastic smiles that every girl has, the smile that shows no, you're totally fine, aw you're so nice, everything is happy and sunshine. We exchanged waves. Meanwhile, my toe was tapping the "give me my money back" beat on the brake pedal.

It all worked out in the end. We didn't talk for a year and a half, then after a chance meeting in the Wilkinson Center we picked up right on our friend path (with only the occasional moment of uncomfortable sexual tension). Now we are both married. We talk occasionally. It's all copacetic. 

Except, in all truthfulness, one of my greatest moments of personal shame revolves around this guy. For the record, hey Andy. I'm sorry about the Sufjan concert. I was a major jerkwad.

I had a point when I started typing, I swear. Not much of one, but a point.

I miss blogging. Not my personal blogging, mind you, but that era. The rule of the blog, when everyone had some little corner of the Internet. It wasn't as raw as LiveJournal—no, what could be?—but it had the same confessional, glimpse-behind-the-curtain effect. When you became friends with someone on Facebook, you'd check for the blog link, and over half the time there was something there. It was my chance to check out the psyche of the dudes I had crushes on. To judge their grammar. To peek at their music tastes. To roll my eyes at unabashed churchiness. To gawp at artistic talent. There was a thrill of excitement when new friends (and "special" friends) became followers on the blog.

Essentially, I miss being able to read honest stories about the people I liked/found interesting/respected. 

Part of me wonders—was there really this short timespan where people were writing freely? Was there actually an embarrassment of riches in blogland? Or, like everything, did it just feel new and special because I was eighteen and everything was new and special? Do those connections still exist, and are they just called Twitter and Instagram?

I still listen to Weezer more often than not.* I'm pretty painfully unhip now. My last concert was the Stone Temple Pilots with lead vocals by Chester Bennington (weird crowd, good show, and made me feel like an aging grunge fan in the worst way)(particularly odd considering I wasn't an original grunge fan, it's a new development thanks to That Man I Live With and Married, so this onetime indie chick is now just the mainstream of twenty years ago). I find myself gravitating towards the bands I listened to in college, all of five years ago, back when I was cool. Just leave me in my enclave with Ben Gibbard and Jenny Lewis and Rivers. We're good here.

It doesn't help that I lost my entire iTunes library in 2012. Now my beloved 160GB iPod Classic is a relic, a musical time capsule of my tastes. Nothing goes on for fear of losing what I have. When it dies, I will mourn. I will also forget well over 70% of the music I once owned.

Also, what do the kids listen to these days? Robot music, right?

But back to the point, why did blogging die? If people maintain blogs nowadays, it's designed and photo-heavy and "curated" (gag) to death. The words are gone. As a words person, I weep. I weep for honesty. 

Look at that sidebar, will you. Lists of names, links that date back years. All empty houses on the Internet. Abandoned buildings. And here I am, occasionally donning my explorer cap and poking in, willing there to be something different, something new.

In the true spirit of college Cat, I wrote this while procrastinating other writings. Real writings, for real places, because I'm a real person now. It doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

Welp. Better get back to it.

*Especially since their latest album, Everything Will Be Alright in the End, was seriously amazing. Best since Pinkerton, and that's coming from someone who actually liked "Hash Pipe" and Make Believe and went on record with favorable reviews of the Red Album. Please, please, everyone. Listen to EWBAITE. It's Rivers at his angry best (and even sweeter for us, the audience, being the subject of his wrath. Jilted Rivers is the best Rivers).