The teen years: a new frontier

Attention fearful friends of younger children: I have crested the summit of adolescence, and it is good. Okay fine, so Ben has only been an official teenager for, like, 14 hours now, but age is just a number, and he's been acting liking a teenager for years now. Let me tell you, it's not so bad.

Yes, my oldest turned 13 today, and it feels big. I'll try not to bemoan how quickly time passes (God, it does!) and instead focus on all that is excellent about right now.

With Ben, our conversations may still be made up largely of the perfunctory "fine," "yeah" and "no" grunts of the teenage lexicon. Every once in a while, though, Ben will open up and talk about actual, interesting topics, and it's like a beautiful sunrise, a chorus of angels. I exaggerate, but only a little. It is so good, so gratifying.

In moments like the one when he excitedly told me about the book he'd happened upon and adored in his eighth-grade English teacher's classroom library, we have actual adult-like connection. I see glimpses of adult conversations he and I will share, and I'm filled with optimism.

Few things make me happier than choosing a book for Ben and having him like it. He's rarely so effusive as to say that he loves it, but watching him tear through books in his familiar speed-reading style fills me with joy.

I watched in awe this summer when Ben and his group gave their final presentation at his engineering camp. He spoke loudly, confidently and authoritatively. That day I set aside all fears that he may turn out to be as meek and nervous as his mother in front of a crowd.

I see the power and beauty of his mind in his academic achievement and his musical ability. I watch how hard he works in soccer and at running, and I'm proud not so much about his successes but rather his sheer determination.

My boy can be shy and serious, especially around adults. But he's the quintessential goofy, attention-seeking teenager in the company of his friends.

Ben has long since given up snuggling. Unlike his brothers, he's rarely outwardly affectionate. Yet I know he still needs and craves our love and attention. The infant who could barely sleep away from the comfort of my arms is now an expert at the half hug/half push away when I say good night to him before bed. Stolen bits of affection will have to suffice.

It's scary, often, to realize just how few years we have left with Ben (fewer than five now, not that I'm obsessively counting). Oh how I wish I could rewind or pause, but I have no choice but to keep going forward and watching in wonder as Ben speeds toward manhood.

As I shed a tear or two at time's swift, relentless march, I also savor this moment watching Ben in all his awkward teenage glory. The coming years are sure to be filled with their share of pain and uncertainty but also so much goodness and promise. Mark my words. This boy - he will become something special.

To everything, turn, turn

The level of ambivalence I feel about back to school says something about my state of mind. Usually by this time of year, I'm beyond ready for the boys to go back. Like most kids in August, they're bored and bickering. They may not be conscious of it, but they're screaming in every way but verbally for a return to structure.

Nothing is different with the boys this late summer; what's changed is me. I know I've belabored this point a bit lately, but our many transitions are messing with me. I've spent the last couple weeks trying to sort out how exactly we ended up here and wishing for a time machine to travel back to a period when life felt more predictable.

One of the changes I have yet to write about is our recent decision to leave the Catholic church. Perhaps I'll delve into that in a more in-depth fashion sometime soon, but I bring it up now, as it seems to serve as an allegory for the dilemma I'm facing.

Mark and I had long felt that we weren't in the right place in Catholicism. We felt other, like we didn't fit there. We struggled with many disagreements with Church teachings but soldiered on nevertheless, attending Mass regularly, bringing up our kids in the faith formation program, taking them through the sacraments.

It was Mother's Day. The unforgettable sermon of Mother's Day 2015. The deacon was delivering the homily that day. He talked first of the racial riots and protests in Baltimore. He spoke of the anger they displayed, righteous anger, he clarified, but anger nonetheless and therefore wrong. He went on to rail about the need for the government to stay out of religion.

I couldn't get past the wrongheadedness of it all. I don't long to court controversy, but I think some civil disobedience is in order in the face of the current state of race relations in our nation. And maybe the government needs to stay out of religion, but really I'm more concerned about keeping religion out of the government.

We haven't been back since. We've found a home, for now, at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I'm not sure if it will be our permanent faith community, but for now it's a place we can explore what we want for our family, what we want to teach our kids.

I realize this was a long walk to get to my point, but here it is: it would've been so much easier to stay. Yes, our reservations would have lingered, but it would have continued to feel safe. And comfortable. These two attributes are incredibly important to me.

I simultaneously long for lost familiar and know that on some level it was no longer what was right for me. Throughout this summer I've struggled with the same in all the major facets of my life: the change our dog's presence has brought, our move, my angst about my new semester of school beginning.

I spent the first months of the year, as usual, just wanting to survive the winter. In spring, the time of new life, Mark and I began to dream about change: a puppy, maybe a new home someday (but never did I think then that would come so soon). Summer is the halcyon time of year, the childhood of the seasons. We grappled with the reality of that puppy and set into motion a plan to move. We began to look at houses in July. We still had so much summer left.

Oh, how endings tug at my heart. There's nothing like the end of summer to remind me how finite life is, how few precious summers I have to share with my boys when they're still boys, still young.

Autumn is adulthood. I am in the autumn of my life. It's time to get back to business, with the kids and me heading back to school. It's fitting that this is the season that we have to reckon with the hard part of moving: both the time and energy demands of the actual move and the sorrow of saying goodbye.

Comfort is a beguiling friend, but it is not a reason to stay, to remain unchanged. I may still wish for spring and summer, but autumn is calling. It is the season, the season for change.

Change is easier dreamed than done

I have this long-held idea that I just might look amazing with a pixie cut. Never mind that when I was in sixth grade, I got my hair cut short and my classmates teased me mercilessly and called me Carol Brady. Somewhere in my mind, I still believe that if I just found the right haircut I could unlock my inner Charlize Theron.

This idea that happiness and fulfillment await me if I just take the right step is part of my ethos. Dreaming about what could be keeps me going.

The reality of taking a risk is invariably more complicated than my daydreams. I know I’d probably freak out if I ever made the leap and sheared off my locks. I’d quickly see the limitations of short hair and immediately begin to pine for long tresses.

Considering how averse I actually am to change, it’s funny that I keep pursuing the unknown when I know very well that it most likely will make me unhappy and uncomfortable, at least for a time.  

This past year, I’ve embarked on an unprecedented campaign of change. A year ago I never would have believed that in the next 12 months I would decide to go back to school, that my family would get a dog, and that we would put our house on the market. It’s no wonder I’m reeling.

After, say, Cooper poops on the kitchen floor, I like to lord over Mark that it was his idea to get a dog. When it comes to selling our house, however, I’m afraid the “blame” falls squarely on me.

I’ve received real estate updates from Trulia for three years now, longing to ditch our corner lot with its tiny backyard. I indulged in much dreaming about our next house, forwarding ones I liked to Mark, knowing full well that we could never act on any with our house nowhere near ready to show.      

Noting recently that our puppy’s kennel now takes up a sizeable portion of our bedroom, Mark and I began to more seriously consider moving. Mark sent me a link to a house one day: how about this one? “I’m in!” I replied flippantly.

Embarking on the process of looking for a new house was fun. As soon as we zeroed in on one that we actually loved, however, I began to have reservations. When we saw the house that soon will be ours, I recognized immediately that it was everything we ever wanted: more space, wooded lot with mature trees, quiet neighborhood. It was just a little farther from our current place than I would have liked, and I began to look for things to dislike about it.

After hearing the sad reaction of our neighbor, the mom of my oldest son’s best friend, I was ready to back out. Everything about our current house began to seem impossibly dear. Why not just wait another year or two?

It turns out you can only send your husband so many emails about interesting houses before he actually really wants to move. He was all in, and though I loved the house we’d chosen, I wasn’t sure I could live with the discomfort of change.

I set aside my reservations about ruining our sons’ lives, taking them away from all that’s familiar to them (mind you, the new house is just three miles from our current one). We made a contingency offer on the house we wanted and readied our house quickly and got it on the market, selling it five days later. It all happened dizzyingly quickly. There can be a strange sorrow that comes with having exactly what you’ve always wanted, and I am feeling it acutely.

Sometimes it seems like it would be easier to just stay put. Sitting idly by and daydreaming feels like a pretty safe choice. Doing that discounts some important details, however. None of the big decisions we’ve made in the past year have been reached flippantly.

I went back to school because I felt a hunger for more in my life. We got a dog because it was an experience we wanted to have the kids to have. We put our house on the market because it’s too small for three growing boys and a dog. We want to share some years in our “dream” house with the boys while they’re young.

When it’s time to bid farewell to our sweet, cozy ranch, I have no doubt I will shed many tears. Stay tuned, dear readers, for my lamentations on that. I’m reminded for the umpteenth time that joy and sorrow are hopelessly intertwined.

For now I will sit with my discomfort and uncertainty. It was time for this dream to come to fruition, so I will accept this change with excitement and trepidation. I’m sure new wishes will replace it in no time. I’m also going to table getting that haircut. I think I’ve had enough changes for now. 

Giving my blades a rest

When your oldest kid is nearing 13 and about to enter eighth grade, believe me, it does not escape your notice for a moment that the next five years will pass so quickly it'll make your heart ache. When you drop off that boy for a week-long camp at a university, that awareness increases a hundredfold.

Last Sunday, we drove Ben to the UW-Madison campus, where he would participate in a week-long engineering camp. Ben has never been away from us for more than three or four days, so that was enough of a mental hurdle. The eeriness of dropping him off at "college" unsettled me completely.

We took Ben as a family, thinking it would be "fun" to spend a summer afternoon together in Madison. We did enjoy a lovely lunch together before making our way to the dorm where Ben would stay. Ben hurriedly scarfed down his food, excited and filled with nervous energy.

He's exceptionally handsome. Just saying.

We arrived at check-in, and Ben was presented with the key to his dorm room (see how weird that sounds?). He had two-plus hours to kill, and the counselors told us we could stay or that he could just hang with the counselors and other campers.

We checked out Ben's room, hoping to meet his roommate and family. By this time, Gus was done. "I. Can't. Walk. Any. More."

I really wanted to stay to make sure that Ben was okay. I've read plenty about helicopter parenting and knew, however, it would be best for us to leave.

In theory, I think it makes perfect sense to give kids autonomy and freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. In practice, it's hard for me. I'm one who loves to nurture.

Every time I see a headline decrying helicopter parenting, I bristle a bit. For one thing, as a parent, it feels like just one more way to tell us, "You're doing it wrong!"

Also, a lot that I read and hear tends to focus on outlandish examples of helicopter parenting that seem way out of the norm to me. The parent writes the child's essays for him. A college graduate interviewee's mom calls the interviewer on her son or daughter's behalf. In reality, I think most of us fall somewhere between "free-range" and helicopter parent.

Wrestling with stay or go, I know that Gus soon will torture us all with his meltdown anyway, so I slow and then stop my helicopter blades. I set aside worries that Ben will somehow not figure out how to use his access card to get into the building or that his roommate won't show and he'll be all alone in his sad little room for a whole week. I resolve let him figure things out on his own.

I start to say, "Please try to text us at least something short each day."

I stop myself, give him the freedom but not entirely. "Let us hear from you at least a couple times, okay?"

I push my sunglasses onto my face to hide the tears springing to my ears and pull Ben in for a patented stiff Ben hug, no kiss, and say goodbye, that I love him and will miss him so much.

Later that night, Ben texts. "Had fun today, got a roommate named Cooper."

That's about as effusive as it gets for our boy. We all laugh that Ben's roommate shares the same name as our dog. At dinner, Paul spontaneously bursts into tears. "I. Miss. Ben!!!" Me too. It's weird without him here.

I've heard from Ben sporadically this week, texts laden with emotion: "Hey. It's the second day."

Me, hungry for details: "How's the food?"

Him: "Foods good."

In our quick text sessions and our one brief phone call, I want to pump him for information. I know, however, that whether I talk to him one of these ways or in person, I'll likely only receive grudging, monosyllabic responses.

I can hardly bare it, but next week, he will leave again for a few days to accompany his friend on vacation.This is his time, his time for pulling away, and I want, or rather, need to honor that. The fact that it's normal and expected isn't really enough balm to heal.

Over the next months and years, I'll aim to fall somewhere in the middle of the parenting spectrum. I'll obsess over his grades, but in the end I'll let him do some trying and failing, as that's part of life and growing. Maybe he won't become valedictorian, though I know he's more than capable. He needs to pursue his own passions and find his own way. I'll encourage him to make his own oatmeal in the morning, maybe even make him start making his own school lunches, but I'll secretly love to make him his favorite scrambled eggs with ham and toast.

I'll try to cool my blades, and painful though it may be, I'll let him learn to fly on his own.

The dog days

"If you knew what it would be like when we got Cooper, would you go back and change your mind?" Paul asks, searching my face with his big eyes.

"Oh ho ho," I say. "Best not ask me that."

Paul was referring to the chocolate labradoodle we brought home six weeks ago. It would be him, my most sensitive son, who would ask, not that my struggle with our pet hasn't been evident.

Yes, we've done it again, despite our two times failing at pet ownership. I still burn with shame when I think of surrendering first Rocky, our bearded dragon (if you ever think of getting one, seriously ponder the commitment it takes to have a pet that eats live food; I can still conjure the smell of reeking, fetid crickets), and then our rescue dog, Finn. My guilt probably never will subside, but shame is kind of useless, not to mention damaging, so I'm trying to let it go.

When we decided keeping Finn was untenable because of the way he behaved around the kids, I swore there was no way we'd ever attempt it again, much less nine short months after the painful day that we returned Finn to the shelter.

I'll never forget Paul's devastation. If you ever need to manufacture tears for some reason, imagine an 8-year-old boy wracked with sorrow but still comforting his crying mom, saying that it when it was time to say goodbye to Finn, he'd shake his paw one last time and say, "So long, buddy."

"You just haven't found the right dog yet," friends and family would tell us. Um, no. Sorry I'm out.

It was Mark who first brought up the idea again. We both really are dog people, and we couldn't let go of wanting our kids to have the experience of pet ownership. I was incredulous at first, but gradually I warmed to the idea.

We thought and planned carefully. As in the past, I had little interest in getting a puppy; however, we also reasoned that much of what went wrong with Finn had to do with the fact that he was 6 months old when we got him, and his critical socialization period had passed. Adults can cope with difficult dog traits but kids not as easily.

If we wanted to do this right, we'd need to survive the hardship of raising a puppy in order to have a chance at having the kind of dog we wanted. Tentatively, we began to look at labradoodle puppies, wanting a hypoallergenic dog.

We decided that if we did it, we'd surprise the boys. This part was all fun and smiles, imagining the boys shocked, joyous faces and all the sweet puppy snuggles. "It'll be an investment of time, energy and money," Mark and I sagely reminded each other.

We settled on a breeder whose chocolate labradoodle and yellow labradoodle had recently birthed litters of seven and 12 puppies (sweet Jesus!), respectively. We sent our deposit and were No. 7 in line for picking.

We knew what we wanted: a cream female. We were so excited. Mark and I talked of little else in hushed tones for weeks and could barely wait to meet our puppy.

When the day finally arrived, we quickly discovered that the lone cream female available had both a looser coat (not good for allergies) and a feisty personality. We hastily changed our minds and considered other options. When the husband and wife took out a chocolate boy who was declared the husband's favorite for his mellow personality, we decided pretty quickly.

We'd name him Cooper and pick him up in two weeks. During that time, I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Truly, I mostly focused on the sweet part of surprising the boys, though on some level I also knew that the upheaval would undo me for a bit.

Finally D-day arrived. Mark and I are perpetually, casually thinking about putting our house on the market, The boys know this and beg us to give up the idea. We picked them up from school and told them we were going to look at a house.

We were a little nervous that Ben might be on to us, but he was furious, especially as our drive stretched on. As we pulled up to the house, Paul clearly began to warm to the idea when the breeders' horses came into view.

Finally, we went into the house to claim our dog. Our story worked too well, and the boys' prevailing sentiment was puzzlement rather than joy. Quickly, though, smiles spread across their faces.

In his first days home, I was still excited. After that, I remained game for a bit. Inevitably, though, as I knew it would, the reality and implications of our decision began to set in, and I developed what I can only describe as something akin to postpartum depression.

I felt on edge and tied down. Home all day, I felt the burden of caring for yet another creature with many needs. The need to maintain constant vigilance when he was out of his kennel wore on me.

Sure, I liked some of it. He frolicked in the sunshine of our backyard as I looked on. He played sweetly and gently with the boys and my 1-year-old nephew.

I'm quickly snapped out of my reverie with every challenging incident. He really is pretty calm, but a couple times a day, he's hyper, and during these times I laugh bitterly at being duped into believing we'd gotten a "mellow" wonder dog.

He's a baby, I keep reminding myself with every outburst and accident. I've realized recently that the hard part with puppies is that really they're not like sweet, helpless babies at all; they're like 3-year-olds. Yes, they're adorable, but just like a 3-year-old child, if you turn your back for too long, you need to worry that he'll have an accident, bite someone, or put something he shouldn't have in his mouth.

With a child, most parents have a natural instinct to nurture, but I'm having a hard time finding that with Cooper. We share the same wavy brown hair, but beyond that he and I don't share the easy connection the boys and I do. A lot of times I feel little toward him but obligation and responsibility.

Right now I'm kind of going through the motions and looking to make it through his puppyhood. I suppose I'll miss his puppy days someday. There are few things quite as adorable as watching his chubby little body as he runs, but right now I long to be past it.

My apathy shames me. There it is again. So many friends and acquaintances love their pets madly, and I'm just not there yet.

We plunged headlong into something hoping for happiness. We'll get there. Sometimes love takes time. He'll be a good dog. It'll be an investment of time. And energy. And money. And until we get there, I'll wait, patiently at times, exasperatedly at others.  

Even when it's bad, it's so good

As we embarked on our trip to South Dakota two and a half weeks ago, I set aside all practical notions and settled on romantic ones instead. I new it would be a long journey and arduous. I knew there would be bickering, boredom and whining, but I'd handle it all with patience.

The truth is, I kind of like road trips. I like having the kids tucked snugly in the back, and Mark and me up front, enjoying a rare opportunity to talk as we conquer the miles before us.

We had it all planned. We'd rouse the boys as gently as possible and leave at 4 a.m. so we could cover two or three hours while they slumbered. We realized quickly that our plan had backfired, and all three boys and Ben's friend, who joined us for our trip, were excited and wide awake as we began our sojourn.

Mark and I took the setback in stride, buoyed by anticipation and can-do attitudes, and those took us pretty far. I really do love road trips ... until I hate them. That sentiment set it in right around Mitchell, SD.

After stopping for a picnic lunch and taking in Sioux Falls, we made a stop at Mitchell's majestic Corn Palace. We'd been forewarned that it was kind of lame, so I expected that, but it still managed to underwhelm us spectacularly.

We bought obligatory trinkets for the kids and were on our way, eager to get to our cabin. I can pinpoint the moment of desolation. It's when I saw the first mileage sign for Rapid City, shortly after leaving Mitchell. It read something like 280 miles. We'd already driven eight and a half freaking hours. We felt like we'd accomplished something, crossing into South Dakota. And we had more than four hours to drive (plus more to reach our actual destination of Spearfish).

After enthusiasm wore off, things got challenging for a while. The boys' devices had long since lost their charges, and they were getting restless. It began to set in that this was a really boring drive that really didn't begin to get interesting until we saw the Badlands.

Finally, we reached Wall. We'd seen one or two billboards advertising someplace called Wall Drug, but we were tired and decided to skip it. We did, however, stop in the city for dinner.

Stick racing

Mark sagely decided to eschew the familiar and pedestrian Subway in favor of an authentic South Dakota dining experience. We popped into a joint called Fat Boy's BBQ. The place was crowded, and the two waitresses were frazzled. I scanned the menu for something healthy or healthy-ish. Nothing doing. I settled on what I thought was the safest choice: tacos, and Mark ordered the barbecue pork sandwich.

The food the waitress brought us was filled with small errors, all of which we overlooked. For $8, I was presented with two paltry-looking tacos, but Mark's meal was the most hilarious. His "barbecue pork" was a giant piece of breaded pork on a small bun. We laughed and ate ice cream to make up for our lackluster meal.

We finally pulled into our cabin 16 hours after we'd begun our trip, exhausted and bleary eyed. In the morning, though, we saw how tranquil and idyllic the place was, mountains as our backdrop and a stream running through the grounds.

We soon realized that the beautiful little place we'd selected was set farther away from most attractions, and we drove a minimum of an hour and a half to see any of the sights. Our first day had Ben feeling ill, and visions of the greasy burger he'd eaten at the diner haunted him throughout the day.

Soon, the boys discovered their favorite activity at the cabin: racing sticks in the stream. This resulted in wet, stinky shoes, skinned knees, and much joy. The proprietor told us about a rugged hike we could take. It had three tiers, the first was the easiest, the second more challenging, the third, she'd never actually attempted. Just don't go at dawn or dusk, she warned, lest we encounter mountain lions.

Ben and his friend, also named Ben, took it upon themselves to set off on their own and hike all three tiers. It's a good thing I didn't know what it was like, because I never would have let them go. Later, they invited us to hike the first tier. It was steep and completely ungroomed, and I could barely make my way up.

The Black Hills were ridiculously beautiful, and I didn't tire of the scenery. We saw so many deer that I joked they were as ubiquitous as squirrels in Wisconsin. "Squirrel!!" I'd bellow whenever we saw one.

As we racked up the miles on our minivan, however, my tolerance for spending time in close quarters with the boys began to wane. The presence of Ben's friend meant he was always "on" and cracking jokes (the same ones ad nauseum), Paul couldn't help provoking Gus, and Gus incessantly sang the song, "If You Like Pina Coladas," from Guardians of the Galaxy.

On Thursday afternoon, after we'd spent a lot of time in the car exploring Custer State Park, I began to snap. We were supposed to go out to dinner for our last night in South Dakota. "If you like pina coladas, and you're calling my name, if you like doing yoga ..." Gus belted these nonsense lyrics from the backseat for 50th time. "What are we doing for dinner," he whined.

"We were going to to a restaurant, but you don't deserve anything nice," I blurted. "You're making everyone in this car suffer!"

Of course, my outburst served to make everyone uncomfortable, but I managed to claw my way out of my funk enough to enjoy our final dinner. It had all passed too quickly, as I knew it would.

As I thought about our trip on the long, long, loooong ride home, I decided that the thing about vacations is that even when they're going badly, they're so, so good. I'm sure that the boys might remember seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time, but when they reminisce someday, I suspect it'll be about the smaller things. It's all the quirky things and the mishaps that are truly memorable.

Remember that awful restaurant? When we climbed that crazy mountain? Stick racing? When Mom lost it in the car after Gus wouldn't stop singing that stupid song? When we rode horses for the first time and that crazy trail guide who kept railing against "tree huggers?"

I'm thankful for all of it: the glorious and the awful. We're ridiculously blessed to be able to have experiences like these: to see new places, to have best friends, to have one another.

Finding comfort with my own voice

A note from my classmate arrived in my inbox. I'll call her A, and she and I share two classes, and we were placed together for a group project for one. In this email she was asking my advice about an assignment in which we are supposed to interview someone who works in the social media field.

She had mentioned on a discussion board her struggles with social anxiety, and it didn't take powerful deduction skills to guess that this assignment would be outside her comfort zone. After replying to her with some practical advice about finding an interview subject, I couldn't resist sending a postscript offering her encouragement a short while later.

A is young, probably no older than 21, and I felt an almost maternal urge to nurture her. She reminds me so much of myself at that age. I wanted her to know that tasks that seem insurmountable can become doable with practice and repeated exposure.

I ought to know. I've written before about my past struggles with school, both socially and academically. I'm the latest of bloomers, still working on opening up fully.

For so long, I was afraid to make my voice heard. I had a speech impediment (that tricky letter R) that stuck with me through the beginning of high school. The funny part was I couldn't hear it myself (except, to my utter mortification, at the odd time I'd hear my own voice recorded), but my classmates certainly could and teased me for it. In junior high, I wished I could disappear and literally hated to talk.

You can throw me in with the crowd that fears public speaking more than death. I quickly read through my speeches in high school, eyes glued to my note cards. In college we were assigned to give an impromptu speech based on a topic we'd drawn at random. It was brief, but I stammered and panicked through my first attempt. I didn't make the time limit. I asked the professor if I could please just take an F for the assignment. She wisely refused. I made it through my second attempt, though I did little better than the first.

As I began to study journalism, I quickly discarded the idea of ever becoming a reporter, so nervous was I to make contact with new people. What if I sounded stupid or said something ignorant? I accepted, with comfort, that the copy desk was the place for me.

In interviews, I tend to fizzle. How long should I maintain eye contact? How should I hold my hands? I get so nervous, it's hard to act natural. I live in terror that the interviewer will ask me a question for which I don't have an answer. What do I do then? Perhaps my nerves about speaking in front of others have led me to hone my writing skills. If only I could submit my interview answers in writing!

As I've gotten older, a little, but not enough, has changed. I'm a proficient small talker and can chat up strangers with ease, one on one. Icebreakers, oh stupid, awful, icebreakers, still send me into a cold sweat. At our wedding, I wished I could have the nerve to take the mic and thank our guests at our reception, but at the last minute I fell back and left it to Mark.

Just months ago when Gus began kindergarten, I was at a loss as to what to do with my life. A big part of me resisted going back to school, but perhaps I was drawn to it like a Rosetta stone. Even as I signed up for courses, I nursed serious doubts, but maybe subconsciously I knew it was what I needed.

This semester I've grown in ways I couldn't have imagined. I beat back the urge to drop a class that intimidated me, and to my amazement, it has become one of my favorite classes. Each assignment I complete, I feel empowered. I never expected to mock up my own webpage, but I'm working on doing just that, and I'm actually having fun with it.

My biggest test will come in about two weeks when it's time to present my final project to my marketing class. I know that my classmates probably will barely listen to me, so focused will they be on their own upcoming presentations (or surreptitiously looking at their phones beneath the tables, if it's like a typical day). Consciously and perhaps subconsciously, I've been nudging myself toward this final goal all semester, volunteering answers in class, often acting as the representative for my group. I feel nervous yet capable of what's to come. I can do this.

When I was doing speech therapy for my impediment, one of my assignments was to say my exercises into a tape recorder. Even in the confines of my own bedroom, I felt embarrassed. This all came full circle when for my final project for my professional communications course, we had to create and narrate a screen capture.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom, speaking my script into the laptop balanced on my thighs. The sound of my nasally voice still made me cringe a bit (does anyone on earth not hate the sound of their own voice?). The Rs floated effortlessly off my tongue, though. I sounded competent and felt confident in my abilities, and maybe for the first time ever, I embraced the sound of my own voice.