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

The way to do something is doing it.

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

Duh doy.

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

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

But results come from action.

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

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

Source

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

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

The cure is writing.

The Various and Diverse Ways I Fail at Motherhood

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

Author's Note

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

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

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

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

Mistake #1: Prenatal Lack of Investment

I didn't read the baby books.

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

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

Mistake #2: She Got the Epidural

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2018, In Many Words (And Phone Pictures)

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

And yet, 2018 was personally fantastic.

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

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

January

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




February

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

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

March

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

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

April

Card from a student.
They're nice sometimes.

I turn 29. It's whatever.

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

May

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

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




June

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

July

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

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

August

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

September

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

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

October

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

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

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

November

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


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

Thanksgiving is also good.

December

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

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

2018

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

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

2017: On the Page

2017 was an epic reading year for me. I felt like I truly reclaimed reading, in I way I hadn't since childhood. I dedicated most spare moments to getting lost—lost in worlds and words. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone with reading material (you know, out of that comic-YA-modern fiction-repeat cycle), in large part thanks to a great achievement:

The glory!

I finished the SPL Summer Bingo.

That's right. Twenty-four books between Memorial Day and Labor Day, filling in whatever random criteria those Seattle librarians dictate. This list has haunted my reading goals since 2011, when I first learned it existed. Most summers I fill out about 6-10 books, then throw the list in the garbage to marinate in my shame and failure. But this year, it happened. It clicked. I read during Alex's naptime. I felt awake enough to read at night. I read outside in the sunshine, one of the most glorious and comforting reading experiences a person can have.* I utilized the library like a champion, finally mastering the art of the staggered hold list.** And in return, I learned to identify as a reader again. It felt like coming home.

*In my personal and completely correct opinion.
**Nothing is worse than an un-staggered hold list. You've got to plan these things, or else you'll have five vital books all come in on one day.

While I read so, so many gems this year, I also read a lot that was just a'ight. But that was part of the reader reclamation—the thrill of the grab bag, of discovery, and of not needing everything to be a winner.

Without further ado, the stats.

Total Books Read: 61. Super up from last year! I credit that beautiful summer of reading, where I read roughly ten books a month. It was glorious.

Books of Essays I Adored: Voracious, by Cara Nicoletti. I didn't love her writing necessarily, but the conceit of the book reverberated deep into my soul. She tracked her experience as a reader throughout the years, with a corresponding recipe for each significant novel. This is my BRAIN. Everything important in my life is linked with food, and that definitely spreads to novels. I still need to buy my own copy and try out some of the recipes (particularly the clam chowder. No, I haven't read Moby Dick and I certainly don't intend to, but that chowder sounds mouth-watering).
One Day We'll All be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul. I read many, many collections of essays this year—thanks in large part to human angel Katie Tamola and her excellent newsletter—but Koul's was by far my favorite. I love her voice, and she manages the rare feat of being introspective without an excess of navel-gazing. I didn't want to slap her by the end of the book, which is the highest essayist/memoirist praise I can give. I can't say the same for Erin Chack, whose book is notably not on my completed list, because that mofo most definitely got thrown against the wall and returned to the library ASAP. I'm talking three chapters in ASAP.

Fiction I Enjoyed: The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. It has been hyped, and as of writing this there is a movie out that I did not see but wanted to. In essence—yes. Everything you've heard is true. I cried, and thought it was important, and will be very interested in revisiting this in a few years to see if those emotions hold up.
The Little Friend by Donna Tartt, I'd never read Tartt before, and was really glad I started with this novel. It's apparently been held up as her weakest, and I can't yet speak to that (The Secret History has been on my bookshelf for a few months now), but I loved her style. The central mystery was compelling, the tone had an urgency mixed with a pleasing Southern lackadaisical overlay, and Harriet was the kind of cranky child that makes my heart sing. We need more unpleasant girls in literature.
To All the Boys I've Loved Before by Jenny Han. You know what? I sped through the entire series in a week. I even bought them all, because I didn't want to wait for the library. What can I say? Are they light? Yes. Are they fast reads? Yes. Are they completely, utterly charming? Unequivocally YES.

Comic Corner: This year I caught up on Scott Snyder. I hadn't been loving his latest Batman work, so I let him fade into the background. I finally bought the volume release of Wytches, which was a return to the psychological horror that drew me to his work in the first place.
I also read all three A.D. After Death books, and felt so fulfilled by them. Jeff Lemire's art is incredible, the perfect sketchy starkness with moments of profound glory in certain spreads. But it was Snyder's writing that drew me in. I felt like this was his chance to return to his roots after being a cog in the Batman wheel for so long. These books were barely comics. They were more like illustrated short stories (almost like Snyder's first book, which was just stories, no pictures). The material was thoughtful, and didn't go where I expected it to. I will warn one more time for potential readers—they were like short stories. If you know the popular narrative structure in that form, be prepared.

Books That Disgusted Me: The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter. The first book that made me go, "hmm, I think I'm over white dudes." Add in a white dude who used to be a journalist, and now thinks his story urgently needs to be told? NEXT.
Why Not Me? by Mindy Kaling. I'm over Kaling. Her schtick is no longer appealing. It barely was last book, and definitely isn't anymore. There. I said it.

Books That Vaguely Disappointed Me: Turtles All The Way Down by John Green. Am I over John Green? I might be. That being said, I still think this book was an interesting character study, and a great topic to try and tackle. It needed a plot though.
Carrying on the authors-I-championed-and-then-felt-let-down-by train, Genuine Fraud by E. Lockhart. I love The Talented Mr. Ripley as much as anyone, but I don't feel the need to write teen fanfic about it. However, it was very good teen fanfic. I think Lockhart is moving towards I style I don't find as appealing as the Lockhart that first captivated me. With this book and her last, We Were Liars, she's gravitating towards upper-class thrillers. I enjoyed her bubbly-but-introspective teenage girls. I guess I'll go reread Frankie Landau-Banks and The Boyfriend List to get more of that voice.*

*Spoiler: Did it, loved it, totally worth it. Adore those books.

Author Discovery: LIBBA BRAY! My friend Robin recommended Bray to me in 2015, and I am disgusted with the way I slept on her. Go read some Bray. Right now. She's delightful. I'm still not a Bray completist, as she has several series I haven't totally worked my way through, but I would definitely pick up something. My favorites so far have been Beauty Queens (my first) and everything in The Diviners series (which also has a spectacular audiobook, for the record).

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Imaginary Girls by Nova Ren Suma
• The Silver Kiss by Annette Curtis Klause
• Popular by Maya Van Wagenen
• The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart
• The Love That Split the World by Emily Henry
• The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell
• The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
• Why Not Me? by Mindy Kaling
• Saga vol. 7 by Brian K Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• Saint Anything by Sarah Dessen
• Black Science vol. 3: Vanishing Point by Rick Remender, Matteo Scalara, and Moreno Diniso
• The Fever by Megan Abbott
• Silver Screen Fiend by Patton Oswalt
• Paper Girls by Brian K Vaughan and Cliff Chiang
• A.D. After Death, vol. 1 by Scott Snyder and Jeff Lemire
• A. D. After Death, vol. 2 by Scott Snyder and Jeff Lemire
• A. D. After Death, vol. 3 by Scott Snyder and Jeff Lemire
• Wytches vol. 1 by Scott Snyder and Jock
• The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter
• Kiss Me Like a Stranger by Gene Wilder
• A List Of Cages by Robin Roe
• Today Will be Different by Maria Semple
• Voracious by Cara Nicoletti
• Echo by Pam Munoz Ryan
• The Little Friend by Donna Tartt
• The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
• Seconds by Bryan Lee O'Malley
• Too Fat, Too Slutty, Too Loud by Anne Helen Petersen
• Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya
• Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown
• The Wangs vs.The World by Jade Chang
• The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
• Haunted Knight by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale
• The Long Halloween by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale
• One Day We'll All be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul
• Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
• To All the Boys I've Loved Before by Jenny Han
• Tangerine by Edward Bloor
• P.S. I Still Love You by Jenny Han
• A Short Life of Trouble by Marcia Tucker
• Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith
• Always and Forever, Lara Jean by Jenny Han
• The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
• I Was the Jukebox by Sandra Beasley
• All the Lives I Want by Alana Massey
• Black Science vol. 4: Godworld by Rick Remender, Matteo Scalara, and Moreno Diniso
• Beauty Queens by Libba Bray
• Dare to Repair by Julie Sussman and Stephanie Glakas-Tenet
• Talking as Fast as I Can by Lauren Graham
• As You Wish by Cary Elwes
• The Diviners by Libba Bray
• The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead
• Lair of Dreams by Libba Bray
• Turtles All The Way Down by John Green
• Jinx by Sage Blackwood
• Going Bovine by Libba Bray
• My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows
• Everything, Everything by Nicola Yoon
• Genuine Fraud by E. Lockhart
• I Loved Her in the Movies by Robert J. Wagner and Scott Eyman
• Black Science vol. 5: True Atonement by Rick Remender, Matteo Scalara, and Moreno Diniso

Cat in a Cage

I wrote this two weeks ago, almost to the day, during a staff meeting where I felt no other emotional recourse but writing. I'd already excused myself and sprinted around the parking lot twice. That didn't work. I needed to work out the anger some other way, and writing was that way.

"I've thought for a while that your headaches are anxiety related, and that you might want to get medication for that."

So Taylor told me yesterday, after I mentioned my latest headache. I've suffered with monthly headaches—ranging from one week a month to three weeks a month—for seven years. I've seen three doctors about them. I've self-medicated with caffeine and Excedrin. I know my way around a headache.

I was livid.

I've suffered from anxiety (hi grad school!) and I knew that the way I've felt for the past month, past two, no three years, is not related to it. Maybe depression? Or, what I feel more accurate for these days, extreme frustration?

Taylor and I talked it out. I'm lucky to have a spouse who communicates well.

Then I woke up this morning. I read Anne Helen Petersen's latest newsletter. I read this Medium article. I went to work, straight to sitting through a staff meeting about equity. We watched this video on racial literacy. We reflected on where we were in our own personal cultural competency. We looked at our district's statistics on inordinate amounts of disciplinary action against our black and Latino students. We watched videos with Seattle's parents discussing race, about how students feel about their teachers actions, about redlining and classism and the importance of understanding.

I looked around at my fellow teachers. I knew which ones had voted for Trump. I knew which ones only cared about classroom achievement: getting work done, getting good scores on the test, following class rules to the letter. I sat down for small group discussion, and listened to my assistant principal come right out of the gate with "but what about our troubled white students?"

And all I could feel was white-hot rage.

It hasn't passed yet. It fades in and out, static on my emotional radio, but there underneath the fuzz it stands: RAGE. A constant, streaming burn of anger. Dinner is happening too late? RAGE. I feel snubbed by a co-worker? RAGE. I don't get to workout one day? RAGE. My desk at work is too messy? RAGE. My assistant principal devises a stupid game just so that we all have to change seats at a staff meeting? RAGE. Half of one of my classes doesn't turn in their final project? RAGE. The heads of my church recommend that women stay off the Internet for 10 days, all in the wake of a court-appointment that will harm women? RAGE. I have to commute for two hours every day? RAGE. I don't see my kid enough? RAGE. I miss my family? RAGE. I hate my job/doubt my faith/want to live someplace more affordable? ALL THE RAGE.

All of these are typical parts of life. They are things I've been living with, and handling, for multiple years. Annoyances that usually I'm able to brush off or push aside as I go my merry way. And at first I made excuses—I'm getting back into the swing of work, oh this is temporary, things will settle down. I keep waiting for the patience to return. It's not. Instead, a boiling baseline of anger permeates every day. 

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.