The Witness of Change

 This is me, being 32.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

31. 30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

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

(Girl We Got a) Good Thing

Today, you are four.

Four, and a force to be reckoned with.

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

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

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

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

You are too good.

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

You are considerate.

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

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

You are delightful.

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

You're my favorite Alex. Forever.

I love you to Jupiter and back. Happy Birthday.

1. 2. 3. 4.

Young, scrappy, and hungry? One out of three ain't bad.

It’s hungry. I’m always hungry.

Some background before I get into everything: I’m a recovering Broadway addict, the kind who no longer keeps up with the trades, but who still jams out to The Last Five Years every now and then. I also enjoy rap music (Kendrick deserved that Pulitzer, though he got it for the wrong album). All things considered, it seemed like Hamilton would be right up my alley. But I’ve never so much as listened to the cast album. I decided early on I didn’t want to experience any of it until I could see it in person.

Disney+ provided that opportunity, and here’s the thing.

Deep breath. I can do this. Here we go.

I didn't particularly like Hamilton, and I'm scared to admit it. 

Parts were good! But I don't understand why this was such a Broadway darling, or why it set the world on fire. Is it because Broadway fans/white kids had never heard rap before? That's all I can think of. I'm honestly at a loss to understand the zeitgeist. It makes me feel old and a little afraid.

What I enjoyed:

• Many of the lyrics were clever and well-formed. The music was also catchy. Damnably catchy. Lin Manuel-Miranda is a fantastic musician/songwriter. I can’t get the songs out of my head. Granted, the main refrains did play approximately one billion times throughout the show, but still. They are deservedly earworms.

• How unabashedly it gloried in the history of founding a nation. As much as I will point out the many, many, many flaws in our political systems, I am at the core patriotic. I think it’s inconceivable that America exists as a nation. It shouldn’t. And yet, there’s something to the krazy glue and luck and sheer will that holds the states together, and I enjoyed Hamilton giving some credence to that.

• On that note, I loved the cabinet meetings/rap battles. Far and away the most engrossing part. I wish the entire play had been three hours of that. I would have been on the edge of my seat. Show me more debates about the treasury! I’m into it! Get more into your talking points, and make those personal jibes! Love. It.

• These performances: Daveed Diggs as Jefferson, Jonathon Groff as King George, Renée Elise Goldsberry as Angelica. Also, the true star of the show, Mr. Leslie Odom Jr., who made Aaron Burr come across as sensible and pathos-inspiring. I think I agreed with everything he said? Is that true? Maybe?

What I did not enjoy:

• The plot treatment, how it told without showing. Parts of it felt like a high school history project (granted, the best high school history project ever), because it quickly highlighted events without giving them much personal time to breathe.

• The choreography. I’m of the opinion that movement should serve the play. It should enhance what’s happening in the narrative. Since the narrative was thin, a lot of the movement seemed superfluous. It was distracting. Flailing. And far too often they relied on the stage turntable to add visual interest.

• The treatment of women. Put down your pitchforks, fans! But to me, any strength or sassiness on their part seemed shoved in the story to curry favor, and any later acknowledgements of the sister’s actual accomplishments seemed in service to preserving the legacy of more "important" men.* 

• On that note, the end enraged me. I was a frowny pants during the final number. So glad to hear 30 seconds of Eliza's story, which is basically that she bolstered Alexander's history? Cool cool cool. 
• Lin-Manuel Miranda as Hamilton. He doesn't have a great vocal or acting range. He's talented! Adorable and charming! But I kept imagining Daveed Diggs in the role. How would it have changed if there was a performer with raw charisma and magnetism? Would I have been more impacted by Hamilton’s pride? Would I have understood his “tomcatting,” a plot point Miranda was too much of a cute muffin to pull off? So much of the characterization was left to the audience to create. A stronger performer—like Goldsberry, who completely owned every line and made me an Angelica fan based stage presence alone—could have sold the role much more successfully.

And yet. I’ve woken up every morning for the past three days with songs reverberating through my head. I've found myself going down YouTube holes and reading articles to try and understand. I want it to stop taking up my mental space, but it's there. Lurking. "La da da da daaa, da da da da dai yuh dum." Please. Make it stop. So does Hamilton win this round? Perhaps, perhaps.

But until I completely and utterly surrender to the hivemind on this, I will claim this as my favorite song from the musical (click on it, please click on it, you'll be so happy you did):

And this as my chosen Hamilton, and what I will picture any time people bring it up in conversation. In turn, I'll contribute by discussing how great Dave Grohl was at the Constitutional Convention:

* Background on why this is a plot point I'm sensitive to, and why it infuriates me. In grad school, I noticed that every one of my male professors had a female graduate assistant (meanwhile, most of the female professors didn't have any assistants that I knew of... hmmmm). It opened up my eyes to see how those professors heavily relied on the organization and precision of hard-working women. And yet, when high-profile promotions or openings came up, the professors more often recommended the few male students, impressed with how "assertive" and "straight-shooting" they were. Once I noticed it in my industry, I noticed it everywhere. 
I'm tired of women's labor being in service to old white dudes.

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.

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.