Reeling and regrouping

In the days leading up to this week’s election, a feeling of malaise overtook me. It occurred to me that no matter the outcome, large swaths of the population would wind up feeling extremely unhappy, and that just felt lousy.

I suppose that, in theory, this is typical of any election. But this one felt different. People seem more polarized than ever before. I find it increasingly difficult to live in a world in which we all seem to despise one another so much.

Granted, I was all but positive that my side would prevail and that I would take up the role of relieved yet gracious winner. Of course, things did not play out the way I’d expected, and I quickly learned that the gracious loser role sucks.

As soon as the election results started to trickle in on Tuesday night, I had a bad feeling. I sat riveted in front of the television, watching the increasingly bad news pile up. By 9 p.m., I couldn’t handle it any longer and retreated to my bed for a fitful night of sleep.

When my husband crawled in next to me four hours later, he confirmed what I already knew to be true: Hillary had lost. The person who I had bitterly laughed off for more than a year was going to be our next president.

The next day was one of the bleakest of my life. I awoke to a gorgeous morning that seemed somehow obscene in the face of such tragedy. A cartoonish darkness falling on the earth for the next four years sounded about right to me.

When my youngest asked me who had won, I could barely choke out the words. Yes, he’d taken up his parents’ mantle and was rooting for Hillary, but I knew that meant little to him. What got me was a deep sorrow at the world we were passing on to him.

At once all I hold dear felt vulnerable: racial justice, women’s and LGBT rights, environmental protection.

I fought to reconcile how this all could turn out okay. But you can only hear so many experts say that our president-elect can’t be trusted with the nuclear codes without being scared out of your mind when he actually comes into power.

Even if we avert catastrophe in that realm, so much feels at risk. Our environment is in a tenuous place as it is, and we cannot afford to spend four years turning back progress on that front.

I spent the next two days searching people’s eyes for the hurt and anxiety I felt. I found it plenty of times. I encountered it with one woman I met. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me how she worries for the future of her African-American husband and adopted Hispanic son. I saw it in a friend who said her Hispanic husband encounters racism on a regular basis.

I attended a special service at our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship and listened as so many expressed sorrow and fear. I reached out to like-minded people, and it felt good to commiserate. As I worked through the stages of grief, I resigned myself to being stuck in anger and depression for a while.

On a long drive this morning, I turned on my running play list. I’m an unabashed fan of girl power songs: Katy Perry’s “Roar.” Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song.” I know they’re a little cheesy, but they keep me going as I pound the pavement. As I listened, I grew inspired.

I may feel defeated at the moment, but it is vital for people of conscience to keep fighting. Flood out the negative with positive.

As I reflected on this election, I felt more than a twinge of regret for all the times I was asked and refused to canvass. I was too scared. Not my thing, I told them. I can’t handle the conflict and uncertainty of knocking one someone’s door, I told myself. But what if I’d done more?

I’ve decided I can no longer stand idly by. I can't afford to roll over. I’m going to take a stand against injustice. Show that we can be so much better than scapegoating other people for our problems. Have the hard conversations. Reach out to those who disagree with me and seek to understand instead of assuming the worst.

We need to counteract. Show the world that we're not about walls and bans. I want to be a part of that.

As Katy says, I’m already brushing off the dust, and like Rachel, I’ve still got a lot fight left in me.

Who’s with me? 

Can I get you a side of shame with that wax?

I'm one of those people who likes quiet. On the rare occasion that I treat myself to a massage, I check the "prefer silence" box on the form.

Getting  my hair cut is my favorite kind of pampering, and my stylist is the perfect fit because she doesn't feel compelled to fill in every gap with chitchat. She lets me just zone out and enjoy the quiet roar of the hair dryer and the aroma of expensive hair products that I'd never actually purchase.

When I received the message on Friday morning that my stylist had a bad case of sciatica and wouldn't be able to cut my hair, I was deeply bummed. 

My hair desperately needed attention, so calling back, I reluctantly rescheduled that same day with a different stylist.

It all started fine enough. I let her know what I had in mind and we headed back to the shampoo station.

As soon as I reclined, it began. "So what kind of shampoo do you use?" (Please indulge me and imagine a Valley Girl voice from here on out.)*

Oh, Lord. Can I pretend I didn't hear her or that I suddenly don't speak English? No comprendo.

I know where this is headed. I do not feel like going there. I wish I were Tina Fey quick-witted and could chime in with, "Whatever you're using!"

But no. I answer. "John Frieda?" I say meekly, feeling stupidly sheepish. (I think this is the desired effect.)

Her face screws up with distaste. "I'm not familiar with that, but any shampoo brand you can buy at the store spends all its money on fragrances and cheap cleansers. They're really bad for your skin.

"This is Pureology Fullfyl, and it feeds your hair 14 essential vitamins and minerals. It's totally worth the investment." (Trust me: the key word here is investment.)

Sigh. I wish she knew. The hard sell never works on me. In fact, it the opposite of works. I may well go out and buy an even cheaper drugstore shampoo in protest (even though I'm all stocked up on skin-damaging shampoo at the moment).

It continues throughout the rest of the appointment. The miracle styling cream. "Voila! My favorite hairspray that won't leave your hair feeling stiff or sticky!" 

I smile and nod indulgently, desperately missing, Kate, who, yes, tells me about the products she's using on me but is never pushy.

I've reached an age and stage in my life when, for my own sanity (and pocketbook) I need to stop caring so much. 

I've always worried about every little thing, from what I feed my family to the skin care products I use, but I've had enough. I educate myself, make informed choices and do the best I can. I am at peace with that.

As I head over to the counter to pay, the stylist shows me the styling cream. It costs $34. I quickly estimate that if I "invest" in all the products she recommends, I will be about $140 poorer, not including the $60 I'm already spending on my cut and eyebrow wax. (Mark, if you're reading this, I'm totally kidding. I do not spend $60 on my hair every eight weeks. Ha. Ha. Yeah ...)

I don't know what income stratosphere I'd need to reach in order for it to feel okay to spend $140 on four hair products, but I have not reached it.

I say no thanks, walk out the door and return home to my crappy store-bought shampoo and conditioner.

I've heard it's terrible for my skin. But at least it smells great. I will comfort myself with this as I compromise my values or give myself cancer or whatever.

*It occurs to me that this may be construed as offensive to hairstylists. Who are awesome. Crap. I'm sorry if I've been offensive. Consider this merely a tirade against preachy pushiness.

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.