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!

A Middle-Aged, Non-Crisis Type Thing

This is me, being 30.

I LOVE THAT CARDIGAN.
Birthday present to myself, purchased on the most fantastic ladies' weekend before my birthday.
Extremely worth it.

In 2013, Rilo Kiley released rkives. That year I walked a lot, listening to the dying strains of my favorite band while anticipating what I thought would be my final Seattle summer bloom. The best stretches of my walks reached over I-5, strips of sidewalk where I could lean over and gaze on downtown to the distant south. One day, I moseyed back home after watching a movie in a theatre that would later become one of my places, and "A Town Called Luckey" came on.

"Happy Birthday, you're halfway to sixty...."

I immediately whipped out my phone, scrolling about six years in the future on my Google calendar, and added a new event:

I set it so I got an email AND a notification, just in case I forgot I was getting monumentally older.

And now, I've crossed that event off my list.

I listened to a lot of Jenny Lewis on my birthday.* I made healthy choices, I taught adolescents how to write, I ate a burger so good it almost inspires weeping. **

The most extraordinary thing is how ordinary it feels. No massive rift as one decade moves into the next. No earth shattering moments, leaving an unblemished goddess surrounded by the ruins of my twenties. Just...me. Who I am. What I have. Life going on as marvelously normal as ever.

Thirty is good so far. Twenty-nine was great. Things are ...dare I say?... going well.

I do have plans for shattering life the tiniest bit this year. But, at the risk of exposing my overly-sentimental marshmallow core, as long as I've got these two people in my life, it's fine. 

Seriously, it was one of the best birthdays. Sun! Food! Family! Yes, in that order!

I'm halfway to sixty, and apologies to Ms. Lewis, but I don't have to sing myself towards freedom. I've found myself. Happy.

29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*It doesn't hurt that her latest album is FANTASTIC.

**See? I did plan a whole dinner this year! Uneeda=manna from the gods.

The Various and Diverse Ways I Fail at Motherhood

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

Author's Note

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

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

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

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

Mistake #1: Prenatal Lack of Investment

I didn't read the baby books.

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

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

Mistake #2: She Got the Epidural

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2018, In Many Words (And Phone Pictures)

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

And yet, 2018 was personally fantastic.

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

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

January

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




February

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

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

March

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

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

April

Card from a student.
They're nice sometimes.

I turn 29. It's whatever.

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

May

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

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




June

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

July

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

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

August

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

September

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

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

October

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

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

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

November

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


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

Thanksgiving is also good.

December

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

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

2018

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

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

New Year, Same Me

This is me, being 29.

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

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

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

Source

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28. 27. 26. 25.

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

Years in the Rearview

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

OK, let's speed round this thing.

2015: The year of getting back on my feet.

Victorious!

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

2016: The year of the incubator.

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

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

2017: The year of settled

Feeling good.

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

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

2018: The year of future hopes

Bring it on, 2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All I Need

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daughter, I wish the world for you.**

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

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

I love you. Happy birthday.

1

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

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

Black Days

I was raised a sheltered kid. I listened to a capella jamz (ugh) and showtunes. In high school I "rebelled" against that upbringing by listening to classic rock and only classic rock. If the band had a hit in the past twenty years, I wasn't interested. In college, I became immersed in the local band scene, and naturally grew into an indie rock chick, black-framed glasses and cardigans and all.

Which is all to say—I didn't know the music of my youth. I'm pretty sure grunge was banned in Davis County. Apparently a few counties over accidentally booked Rage Against the Machine once, and that is still the terrifying stuff of local legend.

Chris Cornell first consciously entered my brain when I was 20. I sat on a couch in Provo with two boys that I loved, loved at different times and the same time.* We watched skate videos and "Like a Stone."



I was not a rocker at that time—the hardest music I listened to was The White Stripes—but I was immediately drawn in by Cornell's voice. I'd later learn to appreciate Morello's guitar skills, but the sheer melancholy of Cornell's singing floored me. I watched that video and saw and heard true despair. I didn't know a voice could rock while carrying that level of sincere emotion.

A few months later, I made a new friend. The first time we hung out we had a massive music swap, where I foisted Andrew Bird and Rilo Kiley on his iTunes. In turn, he filled a USB with all the 90s music I missed. He gave me entire catalogs of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog and Soundgarden. He told me to listen to Superunknown, that it was an album everybody should experience.** When I got home that night I turned it on. My bud Ashley came in and said, and I quote, "This is not Cat music."

No. It wasn't. But even I couldn't resist blasting "4th of July" at full capacity, because that song was magic.



That new friend who gave me Soundgarden? His name was Taylor McCarrey. I soon saw the beauty in his childhood music, fully embracing those 90s guitars. When we were still dating, we moved to Seattle. He was depressed. I was frustrated. We both experienced some extreme growing pains that summer. We visited Volunteer Park, and I felt a kinship with the "Black Hole Sun."



I'd never put Chris Cornell or any of his projects in my top lists when it comes to music, but I can't deny that he has had an indelible effect on my life. My sorrow at his passing blindsided me. His voice was there during the most pivotal times. Its raw emotion still haunts me. There's something warm and unnerving about the edge, that soft blanket lined with sandpaper. I can't shake it, and I wouldn't want to.



*It was as dramatic and painful and beautiful as it sounds.

**He also said the same about Stone Temple Pilot's Purple and Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. What can I say, my husband is a wise man.

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.

A Patriotic Burger Bloat

Last night, I became a red-blooded American. I can finally brandish my U S of A passport with pride, because I earned it. I earned the right to call myself a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Proud-To-Be-An-American, a champion of Ye Grand Old Flag, Ye High-Flying Flag.

Last night, I ate the Most American Thickburger at Carl's Jr.

I've never felt so nauseous* and so proud of my citizenship.

Since I'm officially a semi-certified burger critic, I couldn't let such a momentous occasion pass without documenting my experience eating this behemoth of a burger, this over-the-top spectacle. The Most American Thickburger is somewhat simple in its genius. Just take everything that could possibly be labelled American, save for the apple pie and thankfully the baseballs, and shove it between two buns. That's the only thought behind this gross(ly awesome?) display of nationalism on a platter.

The handmade bun, a little thicker and ten times slicker than your average Carl's Jr. burger holder, cradles one burger patty, lettuce, pickles, mustard, ketchup, a slice of whatever passes for cheddar cheese oozed on top of the beef, one hot dog cut lengthwise and criss-crossed on top of the burger, all resting on crunchy bed of Lays kettle-cooked potato chips.

Mm-mmm, good.

Here I am. Note my squeamishness, my frankly unAmerican skepticism in such a glorious meal. That was back when I was younger, foolisher, ten times more communist and at least ten pounds lighter.

I could barely get my mouth around this burger. The thick kettle chips resisted any compression efforts, and the more I pushed down the more the hot dogs slipped towards the edges of the bread, constantly threatening to pop out of the marvelous burger construction.

Eventually I managed to chomp into the thing, my mouth unhinging like snake jaws with every bite, but let me tell you. It was worth it.

USA! USA! USA! With every beat of my heart, slower and slower as the arteries clogged with grease, its rhythm matched this internal chance. How lucky am I to live in a world where this burger exists. The burger was meaty. The pickles were tart. The ketchup and mustard were gloriously mayo-free, just as any good burger should be. This burger is the Real Thing.

And that's without even mentioning the potato chips! I give those chips fifty stars in red, white and blue. They are the Greatest American Heroes. My Captain America, all full of crispity crunch to offset the gooey mess of whatever-it-might-be and the richness of two (or more) dead animals. It's a textural treat to sooth the wild masses.

If there is a chink in the impenetrable armor of this masterpiece, it's the hot dogs. I know, what a shock, but in the words of the immortal Joe E. Brown, nobody's perfect. The hot dogs were pinkish boiled cylinders. They didn't taste bad, per se, but the look and feel against the rest of the burger was a little unappetizing. But again, this is America. The hot dogs must be boiled. It's a nod to our war-time past. If we grilled those things, they might be mistaken for bratwurst, and this is not a German state. We won that war. Boil those dogs loud and proud! It's the American way.

All things must pass, as American hero George Harrison said (yeah, that's right, he's ours now. Suck it, Britain). And even this burger had to come to an end. I got down to one final morsel, a goopy bundle of burger and condiments and what must be cheese, trapped between soggy potato chips. Choking back sobs, both because my culinary experience is at an end and because my entire digestive tract is seizing up, I scarfed that final piece. As I did, I could barely keep from saluting this fine dining experience. Nay, this fine patriotic experience.

Take that, ISIS. Eat it, North Korea. We win. America forever, America the free. We fought through wars, strife, trouble, and it's all culminated in this, our greatest achievement. The Most American Thickburger. Cue the country singer and his leather boots, the waving flags, the fireworks, all of it, because it doesn't get any better. Welcome to the epoch of our country. Truly, we are the greatest nation of all!

Now excuse me, because I think I'll be completely indisposed for the next week or so as I slowly purge this experience from every pore. 'MERICA!

*This is not quite true. Nothing will ever beat the nausea of the Mall of America Deep Fried Oreo Incident of '04.