(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.

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

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.

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.

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. 

Cracking the Shield

I knew motherhood would change me.

I fully anticipated a complete upheaval of my status quo. As I've said before, I steeled myself against screaming and sleepless nights and general grumpiness. And wouldn't you know, those haven't been my issues. Instead, I'm faced with a shocking wave of emotion. Not just having emotion—which is fairly new, but has been in the works for about five years—but having a specific, softening of emotions.

In other words, I'm now an utter marshmallow.

This softness blindsided me. I wasn't fully in the can for children yet, I didn't consider myself warm or inviting, and out of the two of us I was always a little more standoffish than Taylor. But as soon as they laid that squirming kid on my chest, it was over. I was hers.

And now I'm a crier. Pop culture that didn't penetrate my hard shell now annihilates me. Any children in peril, or separation from parents? Done. I'm done. After Alex was born, I tried watching Six Feet Under, but found it hard to continue after episode 11, where the mortuary prepares a baby who died of SIDS. I just finished Robin Roe's novel A List Of Cages. I started it in January, but had to put it down for a while after the descriptions of child abuse got too oppressive.

Essentially, I was a giant bleeding heart, which belied my carefully carved and crafted outer shell.

That brings us to Wonder Woman. The recent batch of DC movies holds little to no interest for me. This might be traced to my complete Zack Snyder disdain, or my recent weariness with superhero flicks as a whole. That being said, I did enjoy the teasing of Wonder Woman in BvS, she seemed to actually have a musical theme (saints be priased!), and oh yeah, women are important. Even if it sucked, I knew I would see this movie in theatres. It was my duty.

What I didn't expect was how watching it would fully crack my protective shield. It was a super hero movie! About I character I'd never connected with, even as a child, interpreting her as cheesy and a little bit exploitative! How could I have expected a film about her would rip out my heart and show to the world?

It began. I was fine. I saw a little girl running down the street. I was still fine. That little girl stopped to watch a bunch of muscled, fast, strong women training on a field. As they trained, she stood on the sidelines and copied them, little fists punching the air and feet kicking. And as for me? Oh yeah, I LOST IT.

via GIPHY

The sobbing was involuntary. My body trembled, my seat becoming it's own little earthquake as I tried to suppress the weirdly uncontrollable tears. I kept thinking, why? Why am I crying? This is amazing! It's also just another action movie, right? Wrong. I mean, yeah, sure, it was. It was pretty conventionally shot, not even too skillfully.* But the ability to see women performing actions that I'd only seen in the realm of men—actions that were pure and destructive and powerful, and without an overly-sexualized lens? That was incredible. It was overpowering.

And it happened over, and over, and over again.

Every time I watched Diana fight, I cried. I believed in the fact that representation matters, but I thought it mattered more for other people. I figured that I could watch my Batman and Indiana Jones and those men and just model myself after that. Easy. Except it wasn't, and I felt that in my soul while watching Wonder Woman. There was power in seeing women be strong, independent of a man. The Amazons were created to elevate humanity, to protect not just through emotion (which they had and valued), but through strength. Women had fought onscreen before, but it had been in tight leather with moves choreographed to accentuate every curve. It was, you guessed it, created for the male gaze. There is leather in the movie, and amazing curves, but it only serves to reinforce the idea that women are strong, women are capable, and women act for themselves.

Thinking about showing this to my daughter was exhilarating. That's actually one of the most exciting parts of parenthood right now—the thought of sharing the culture I love. Her first month, I loved playing Alex the Beatles and Bowie and Nirvana, reveling in the fact that there is the perfect, beautiful being who hadn't heard these things before.

Someday, she'll awake to those bands. And now I have more to awake her to. I've got actual models to point at and say, look darling. That can be you. Pure, unfettered, and minus any mental gymnastics. She can see that, and believe.

*I'm still sorting through my feelings on the slow motion. I didn't love it while watching the movie, and found it a bit distracting, but the more I think about it the more I do appreciate the display of a woman's body in full strength mode, so there's that.

Truth Lies Low

"If I don't do it, it's just more work for someone else. So it's like, well, I have no other option. Why should I even talk to her? It won't change anything. It will just cause this... friction. So I just need to do it."

It's been quite the couple of years, hasn't it, church? I have not had the happiest time being a Mormon. First there was the women thing, and the excommunication stuff, and then (oh, and then) the big policy reveal. And my heart ached, and I cried, and I stayed and stayed and stayed.

And I'm still staying, just to get that out of the way. No danger of abandonment yet.

Lately the struggle hasn't been the anger or the hurt, or the beautiful wrestling before God. Lately, I've been struggling with the nothing.

No emotion. No connection. No spirituality.

It's been consumed with the never-ending motions of the every day: the go-go-go to work, the go-go-go to spend time with my daughter, the go-go-go- to do housework and cook meals and lesson plan and get sleep so I can function. And oh yes, the barest of go-go-go to fulfill my church calling. The barest, and yet it's enough to make me dread those three hours every Sunday.

I'm in the Primary Presidency, and I spend the first hour stewing over sharing times and other undone administrative tasks, simmering in all my inadequacies. I spend sacrament meeting, that one hour where I could learn of God, consumed by the things I have to do and have not done. I spend the following two hours doing those things, those teaching and organization tasks that are so close to what I do during the week, but worse because it's with small children. I go home exhausted, wondering when restoration will come.

Where is space for the divine? If I don't get to recharge at church, how can I find space to do it myself?

I whine about the culture of the church a lot. My struggle with the Utah ideals I grew up with dominates my therapy sessions. A huge target of disgust is the idea of sanctification through suffering—how the more we sacrifice in silence, the better a person we are. It's pervasive. Good Mormons sit in silence and suffer through. We put our shoulder to the wheel.

But what if the wheel crushes us?

I talked to my therapist about what I can do with my calling. It seemed an impossible situation. I am called, and so I have to do it. What other option is there? Besides, the primary president has done so much for me, and I don't want to seem ungrateful.

In the middle of listing all the things the president has done for me, and the little I've done in return, my therapist said, "If she didn't want to do those things, she'd say so. That's what people do—they share emotions, they let you know if something's unpleasant or part of a bargain."

"Not where I grew up," I said. Cue lightning bolt.

Oh. I grew up seeing people, particularly women, serve and give of themselves far past the point of enjoyment, and often to the point of silent resentment. Usually that resentment would bubble up, siphon itself out on people. People, but never the person responsible. There wasn't direct conversation. There were clouds of anger, falsity, and a pervasive air of distrust. People wallowed in insincerity because everything was an angry, holy sacrifice. We were the sacred martyrs. Our suffering brings us close to God, even if we sink into personal despair.

And there I was, expecting the same from myself.

I don't have issues setting boundaries and expectations in any other setting. But church? Boundaries shouldn't exist. And although I give good lip service to defying that culture, I find it's unexpectedly buried deep. It's tightly woven into the fiber of my being.

Driving away from therapy, full of solutions and new resolve to be the change I want to see in the church, Andrew Bird's Are You Serious? played on my stereo.* The song "Truth Lies Low" began, and Bird's mellow voice resonated:

Here's a little game, you can play along

Oh you do the walk of shame

From the comfort of your home.

So here's another game, you can play along,

Where you empty all your blame

From your guilty bones.**

Album version here for better sound quality and less song-building.

I don't have to sacrifice. It's not worth my happiness, my sanity, my testimony. Yes, I can do it for now, but it's OK to say I can't do it forever. And it's OK to let people know I'm not happy—if I don't tell them, how will they know?

It's OK.

I don't have to walk in shame. There's nothing redeemable about guilt,

*Side note: this album is FANTASTIC. It's his latest, and finally managed to convert my husband to Andrew Bird. Listening to "Valleys of the Young" as new parents was a mind-altering experience.

**I can acknowledge that Bird probably did not mean to write about people tortuing themselves with guilt and self-loathing (especially considering the last verse referencing what sound like trolls), but that's the beauty of lyrics--it just takes one line at one moment to become part of a person's unique experience forever.

The Anti-Club Year

This is me, being 27.

Grand questions for this year include: will I ever stop feeling completely incompetent with selfies? Will my regrettable haircut* grow out successfully? Will this be the year I appreciate not being a world-acclaimed artist, since it significantly lowers my chances of joining the infamous 27 Club? What will my next year of teaching look like? Will Radiohead ever tour in my area? Am I going to be a good mother!?

Because oh yes, I'm about six months pregnant.

Can you blame that deer-in-the-headlights look I'm rocking?**

To reward those who visit the blog, have a bump picture. Facebook doesn't get this. In fact, it only exists thanks to the persistence of one Diane Robinson, whose requests/pestering finally wore me down.

Look upon my works and despair.

As has become custom, I have to say: this birthday felt pretty anti-climatic. My big present had happened the week before. I had to give a talk in church. And my over-whelming reaction to the actual age milestone was, "huh, didn't that pass by about five years ago?"

In fact, the most exciting part of my birthday was finding my first gray hair the day before.

I desperately hope this is the start of something, and not some random pregnancy-hormone-fueled fluke. I actively yearn for the signs of visible aging. I smile and laugh and grimace and crinkle my eyes in the sun deliberately, praying for crow's feet and laugh lines. I envy my mother's hair, generously salted with streaks of white. The wrinkles and whitening serve as benchmarks of a life well lived, trophies of survival I ache to flaunt. When my soul feels so wizened, shouldn't my exterior match?

I don't want vaulted "maturity," the posturing of knowing more than others and smugly throwing that knowledge around based on nothing more than years-by-the-number. I don't want to pretend to be in world-weary middle-age, the world-weariness a facade masking insecurity and true fear of the aging process, fear that life has slipped by unnoticed. That's not what the gray-haired are about. A gray-hair soul cannot be a douchey soul. Gray-hairs aren't cynical. Gray-hairs aren't full of regret. Gray-hairs don't chase after that which can never be.

Gray hairs come with acceptance and experience. Gray-hairs have sipped the wine of life, the sweet and the bitter, giving each sensation full acknowledgement and denying nothing. Gray-hairs don't give a damn what anyone else thinks, because they've worked and sweated and cried enough to reach a place of rare self-contentment. That being said, gray-hairs know the value of each person, each individual path, and they graciously choose to accept others with a full and welcoming heart. Gray-hairs exude warmth and humor and deep satisfaction. They've seen everything and know that, in the immortal words of Freddie Mercury, nothing really matters. Or to be more accurate, they know that very few things actually matter, so nourish those few things and leave the rest to worry about itself.

In aging, I hope to accept a gray-haired fate long before time forces my hair that way. I hope to embody a happy, optimistic age. I hope to pass the wisdom of the gray to my daughter, to quell doubts and uncertainty in favor of love. And if this year brings more gray? It's free to stay awhile.

26. 25.

*This current ode to David Lynch is the fixed version of truly, the worst haircut I have ever received. I've never seen a hairdresser so afraid of hair. It was an hour in the chair with his hand legitimately shaking as he trepidatiously picked up a lock, cut it haphazardly, observed my head for a few seconds, chose another lock at random, checked the mirror for validation from my glowering face, looked away as he made another cut, then looked back at the mirror for the whole process to begin anew

**To be fair, that's due more to selfie annoyance than any existential fear and gloom. Those emotions were reserved for the first five months. I'm mostly over it now, and on to nervous excitement.