"Oh, yeahhhhhhh!!!"

During this month of March, I have participated in the Slice of Life writing challenge in which writers blog daily and comment on their fellow challenge participants' posts. I did not "succeed" in the traditional sense of the word because my writing completely fell off around March 17th when I embarked on a 10-day family road trip. And then, upon my return, there were sleep disturbances galore (thanks Daylight Savings, time zone changes due to travel, sinus pressure, chronic pain, and out-of-sorts children) to contend with along with getting the household running back on routine. You see, normally I would view my "failing" in this writing challenge with frustration and shame. I am the kind of person who has spent her life Kool-Aid Man-ning through the walls of all my challenges; but in the past few years I've grown tired of what Darin Johnston, one of my fellow slicers, articulated so beautifully: “I’m exhausted from trying to be stronger than I feel.” And, I've spent the past couple of years trying to honor that exhaustion and let myself off the hook a bit. I'm not the Kool-Aid Man: I cannot continue to crash through brick walls with no physical or emotional fallout.

For folks like me that tend towards Type-A high expectations and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, these daily challenges have the potential to do the exact opposite of their intent if we let them: unleash our inner-critic that is the harshest of them all. I may not have blogged every day this month, but I have not failed in accomplishing my personal goals that were motivations for doing this:

• I have established more of a daily writing habit than I have had in years.
• I have felt encouraged and heartened by others reading and responses to my writing.
• I have connected with fellow writers and gained inspiration from reading their thoughts, including a small group of local friends that I hopefully helped to encourage through my reading and commenting during the first half of this challenge.

All in all, I'd say that's success!

Remember to be gentle with yourselves, friends. You deserve time, space, and lots of hugs.

Rainbow spotted on the last day of our family road trip;
a reminder to look on the bright side and celebrate all that you have accomplished
instead of dwelling on that which you have not.

Road Trip!

We've got our compression socks on and the Boogers are blasting on the radio -- Florida, here we come! We've made it out of our home state and there has been no bloodshed among our children, which is no mean feat, as we live 15 minutes from the border.

My 6 year old is already eating gummy bears and playing license plate bingo and chattering on as usual, my teen daughter just awakened from her sulk by spotting a sun dog (pictured), and our exchange student is in the way back of our van listening to her music. She shared with me that her parents back in Barcelona are so excited about this trip not because of our visit to Florida, rather the road trip itself. "What an American experience!" I guess it is... Traveling 14 hours by car from Barcelona would get you to a whole different country, like Germany.

Things we've seen so far:

• A sundog 
• A swamp with a ton of Trump signs (irony, haha)
• 2 small oil pumpjacks
• 2 deer standing on an outer highway road
• geese flying in a perfect V (we cityfolk rarely get to enjoy this site)
• 2 car vending machines
• Middle Tennessee Castle (yep, it's a castle)
• pretty waterfalls on roadside cliffs/exposed rock on hillside
• a handpainted sign announcing gas prices as "$5 Democrats / $1.49 Republicans"
• a collaged and painted sign reading "Making the Taliban Great Again" with Joe Biden's face superimposed on a stereotypical clipart of a Middle Eastern fighter clutching a Kalashnikov

***

It rained and stormed our entire second day of driving, so we saw a lot of gray.  However, our hotel had an automated pancake maker that infrared cooked both sides on the pancake as it was transported down a ramp and flip-flopped onto your waiting plate: this was the coolest thing my son had ever seen (according to him). When asked for a quote, he said, "I liked it because I got to see it get made and I liked how it was like the Pancake Olympics." 

Six Word Memoirs

Spring in the garden brings hope.

Hope: chickens hunting and ranging around.

Around the corner, contented chickens dust-bathe.

Dust-bathing on their sides, wings stretched.

Stretched and reaching, claws scratch, kick.

Kicking up a dust-storm, dirt flying.

Flying: furious flapping at zero elevation.

Elevation: dinosaurs evolved, tiny backyard raptors.

Retreat!

Where are all my moms at? Ooooh, ladies, let me tell you... I am writing while pissed! You know those mornings when nothing goes right? Well, that's been my morning.

I woke up this morning and, other than an inconveniently timed Zoom meeting, my day was set to be delightful. I was heading to an overnight writing retreat with my favorite teacher-writers from the Gateway Writing Project. And, it's the best kind of retreat: unstructured! The only schedule we have to stick to is the meal schedule; our small writing groups meet for sharing and feedback whenever we as a group decide. And I always look forward to our evening social when we enjoy adult beverages and lively conversation and, last time, Cards Against Humanity! 

The frazzled and exhausted author beginning
to enjoy a therapy donut once arriving at the retreat. 
Not pictured: therapy coffee.

Well, this morning, nothing went according to plan. The Zoom meeting was cancelled, so I was already getting a late start for no good reason. My husband needed the car this weekend to chauffer kids hither and yon so he had to drive me the 40 minutes to the retreat center, effectively erasing my decompression time between home and writing. My son had a meltdown because he was hungry and didn't like any of his clothes, so he wouldn't get dressed. Then he refused to come downstairs because a neighbor teen was over visiting. I was trying to pack my clothes and gear while the whole family was in my room and underfoot: my husband just wandering around dazed, my son still upset and loud-talking about his television and clothing hardships, and my daughter wanting hugs and the $5 I promised her. Despiteall of the distractions and slowdowns, I managed to get everything packed and downstairs where I then had to dodge three teenagers juicing and blending and chattering loudly in the kitchen just to get my water bottle and protein bar to-go. I managed to find the relocated charging cord (thanks, husband) for my earbuds (which I'd meant to charge last night, but there was another set of fires to be put out) and was ready to go. Then my son refused to come downstairs because he'd been crying and didn't want our neighbor teen to see him, he was embarrassed. I brokered a deal between them that she would remain in the kitchen until we left, which worked well until I realized she had parked us in our driveway. Thankfully, my son had overcome his self-consciousness and we were able to get out the door and on the road before any other crises could occur.

As we drove out of town, my husband started chatting with me about world events. It is rare that we are able to have a sustained conversation, so I was grateful for this time to talk like people -- despite being quite frazzled and trying to get into the writing and relaxation mindset. But as he continued on about our state's plans to follow Texas's lead in paying people to rat out friends and neighbors who cross state lines for abortions and then The Florida Project and Disney's hand in reinforcing poverty with their housing monopoly, I felt my stress and anxiety increase exponentially. Finally I asked him how he could think and talk about this stuff and be okay, because I was not handling it well and felt like I was going to freak the fuck out. I want to talk to you, I told him, and I don't want to make you feel like you can't talk with me about this kind of stuff, but right now after the morning we had, I just can't do it. He understood and was happy to change the subject to JK Rowling being trolled on International Women's Day, but we still ended up discussing the politics of wizard police, house elves, and TERFs who believe the need for better leadership is the only problem with "the system". You know, lighter fare. 😬 Oh, and did I mention our son kept proclaiming from the back seat that he couldn't hear the music and was brow beating us for turning it down and talking over it?

And then, just as I finally felt like I might be coming down from this bad trip of a morning, I realized I was completely fucked: I left my computer charging cord at home. The one time I have a number of pieces to do heavy revision on and I won't be able to use my computer! I have a journal I can write in, but I'd planned to continue cannibalizing them and typing up helpful snippets for a project I'm working on --  NOT rewrite works in progress by hand. Just no. So what? I use my phone? Teachers, we all know how well that works for our students, amiright?

My husband did the worst thing possible at this point: assumed my retreat was in some high tech place with a computer lab/writing center where I could easily borrow a charging cord for my antique Lenovo computer (haha) or borrow a laptop or print off my work. No, I explained, this is like camping in a spartan motel room. There are no fancy labs for checkout -- my plans were fucked! So, just stop trying to remedy it (unless he was going to drive the 40 minutes home and bring it back to me) and be sympathetic. Ugh.

And then my son, although maddening at times is a really sweet kid, told me all about he's seen a show on the TV where someone was able to recharge their cell phone using a potato. "So, Mom, once you get to the place, if you see any potatoes snatch 'em up and use Nature to help you!"

I tried really hard to get my act together, despite feeling like I was going to Hulk out, so that I could say loving goodbyes to the two people I love most in this world. I didn't exactly succeed, but I think they both noted my efforts to be kind and caring through my haze of anger.

So, now I'm here at the writing retreat and I've written this cathartic rant-y blog entry, watched the latest episode of Chicago P.D., and taken a two hour nap. I'm feeling much calmer now and ready to smash a big salad. And then, mayyyyybe, actually get some butt-in-seat (writing) time.

Fingers crossed!

Pivoting

Back in my dancing school days, I had no issues with pivoting. Put one foot forward in a tondue, shift your weight forward onto the ball of your foot, and then spin both balls of your feet around and *voila!*, you are now facing the other direction.

Somehow, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, pivoting became taboo. Changing your mind became flaky; switching directions became an indication of failure. Forward momentum was the only way towards success. And I, like many others, became anxious about breaking my momentum or moving backwards to "go back to the drawing board" because it seemed to signal some sort of character flaw or personal shortcoming or -- worst of all -- a bad omen for all future endeavors.

If you've been reading my blog this month, you've seen my many fits and starts and restarts of a memoir piece about parenting my daughter. I took it on last-minute and have exhausted myself trying to plow through the process in a foreshortened timeline. If I just worked hard enough, spent enough butt-in-seat time, I could churn something out. Right?

This is classic Caroline: she doesn't take no for an answer. She will do the impossible; bear down and move mountains; she is unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. I've lived my whole life harnessing my stubborn will and turning it into the brute force with which I will plow through any obstacle before me. But an entire lifetime of playing a more intimidating version of the Kool-aid Man has left me battered and bruised, physically, intellectually, and emotionally. Living life like this has taken its toll. It is not tenable and I am unlearning value judgments based on productivity and "success" and relearning the values of patience and humble acceptance.

This piece is not some assignment for a class that only the teacher will see.  This piece is extremely personal and high-stakes: I'm putting a piece of writing -- about some of the most personal aspects of my daughter's history -- out into the world and I don't want to do it half-assed. It's more important than just "get it done".

So, I have decided to pivot. My drafting of this piece (the "elfin girl child" pieces in this blog) has revealed itself as so many experiences that cannot, at this point in my journey, be turned into a narrative. I haven't even put together the past decade+ of parenting my daughter into any sort of mental narrative because it is not logical. Everything about it has been illogical, out of order, and counterintuitive. It's definitely not something I can shoehorn into a five-minute read-aloud for the Listen To Your Mother audience. I must honor this story for what it is and what it's becoming. I'm pivoting.

And I'm okay with that.

Hey Kids, YOLO!

I have a confession to make. Despite being a somewhat cool rockandroll scenester back in my day -- what I lacked in coolness I made up for in DGAF spirit -- I have been cultivating my Embarrassing Mom status throughout my daughter's 9th grade year.

I thought I had reached my pinnacle a few weeks back, when my daughter and I pulled into the school parking lot and I exclaimed "Hey look, it's Whatshisname!"* out of partially rolled down car window and pointed in a most indiscreet manner and smiled maniacally at her ex-boyfriend as we rolled by. "Ohmygod Mom, STOP. He heard you!" I widened my eyes, smiling, "What? He knows I'm a weirdo, it's okay. I mean, your friends know I'm a teacher -- they won't pay any attention to my antics." 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head smiling slightly and began telling me some funny school story as she climbed out of the car, retrieved her ginormous backpack (who my husband has named Hershel because it's the same size as our daughter) from the back seat, and slung it over her shoulder. She said bye and closed the door before I could wish her a good day, so I rolled down the window to call to her -- as one does -- despite Ex-boyfriend sauntering about ten feet ahead of her. "Have a good day! YOLO!" I yelled. I then began laughing maniacally as I realized my most-excellent improvisational prowess, sure to be cringe-worthy to any teen not attending high school in 2014. "YOLOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

Ex-boyfriend continued walking, pretending to he unfazed by the middle-aged woman yelling YOLO out of her minivan window and cackling. My daughter hunkered her shoulders down in a move I thought for sure would signal her ignoring my hilarity, but she turned back to look at me and she was cracking up! "YOLO!" I proclaimed at the top of my lungs and then puckered my duck lips as I flashed a sideways peace sign before pulling out of the parking lot.

Mic drop.

Meme Design by Embarrassing Dad

_______________________________________________

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of teenage ex-boyfriends.

Legacy of Grief (a poem)

 I became an orphan 

aged forty-two

Mother gone too soon

and stayed too long

Her limbs, trees bent at impossible angles

each joint unmoving, marked by gnarled knots

She clung tenaciously to this world, stubbornly rooted 

fear photosynthesized into obstinate will 

digging into earth turned soft 

Flooded by tears of pain, exhaustion, loss

Her sturdy scarred trunk waivered

as the ground she grew from eroded 

Sadness washing away the firmament

Worried winds of what-ifs and need-tos whipped through her leaves

pushing her crown askew and pulling her limbs

down and away

Come with me, they whispered

I held her hand 

bent my head down to rest on hers

my lips to her ear, I breathed

"Mom

It's okay if you need to go"

"But

I don't want to go," she said

"I'm not ready yet"

My proud tree of a mother

stood solidly rooted in this world, unwavering 

against the whims of nature

So the winds, now wailing

tired of waiting

heaved her over 

roots and all, mercilessly 

Torn from the tendered ground she lay

solid

branches still stretching out, beckoning

roots still clinging to earth

for life

Only Fate could fell this towering woman.

The groans of twisting wood 

the howls of angry wind

the suck of grit and strength 

wrenched from the slippery mud

are my legacy 

to remember and

to relive.

No longer a sapling

I possess wisdom in my rings

My branches have already begun to bend

in odd directions

mapped by small scars

always growing bigger

Until one day, when

the ground gives way and

the winds wail for me

"Come daughter,

it is time."

Haiku

Better some days to 

Reflect and feel, instead of 

Meeting the word count.

Springtime Whispers Awakening the Garden

For the past few weeks, spring has been whispering in my ear. I've found myself studying my back garden, mentally pruning here and clearing dead brush there, painting early blooms with sunshine. I imagine our three chickens pecking their way through my raised garden beds, keeping the heirloom tomatoes, little pickles, and sweet basil safe from pests.

Today we emerged from indoors, rebirthed after a long winter and a fallow summer. I hoed weeds from the garden pathways. My young son raked dead crispy leaves into a large crevice we will later plant with sunflowers. My husband puttered about organizing old lumber and picking up strewn trash. Even our teen daughter pitched in, scooping an entire season's worth of dog poop in exchange for some spending money. The family dog sat regally in the beam of sunshine beside the compost bin, keeping watch over our tasks as the chickens roamed the yard picking at bugs and weeds.

As we hoed and raked and pruned, I found signs that our garden is waking up. Fresh daffodil stems pushing out of the ground, their golden buds beginning to form. Tiny green fingers sprouting from the weathered clematis vines twisted about a rickety old arbor. A tender curled leaf, striped in shades of red, reaching up from decomposed rhubarb leaves like the hand of a small child.

Spring in the garden is much like nurturing a young child, waiting to see how she will thrill, delight, and surprise us next. We will tend to her needs and care for her with affection and patience until she is established and blooming, rooted deep in our love.

Voice, Ownership, & Breaking the Silence

I haven't made any official announcements here on my blog, with the exception of a badge, that I am participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge -- so, consider this my announcement; Or maybe a warning; Possibly a proclamation: I am writing with my pants down, so to speak, and it is drafty in here!

My friend Sioux invited me to submit a story to the annual Listen To Your Mother St. Louis Showcase and I've been mulling over what I'd like to write about, especially after my 2019 essay about my mom entitled "Flipping Death the Bird". Mom passed away in the summer of 2020 and I'm not yet ready to write about it... and her death is THE thing I have to write about her first when I decide it's time. My husband suggested I write about my grandma, but my memories of her feel like amorphous ink blots floating in my mind and seem a bit too far away (for now) to gather together and shape into a relatable picture. And then there's my daughter. 

My beautiful, complicated teenage daughter whose role in my life is a story begging to be told. For years I hemmed and hawed about writing this story. Just a few years ago, as I wrestled with the issue of voice and story ownership, I wrote:

Today I am the observer and the thinker. Maybe even the scribe. Because, while my daughter was most definitely the victim of her biological parents’ narcissism and willful ignorance and this is a story about her, this is also the story of me and our family and how we tried to shepherd her from victim to survivor and the toll it took on us. When she is grown, she can choose to tell her own story; but I am here to tell you that this didn’t just happen to her, it happened to us, too.

But even then, I still had reservations and I was never able to throw myself into telling our story. I wasn't comfortable putting all of that personal information about her -- my daughter -- out into the world for anyone to consume. I worried about her reputation and how people would judge her, I worried about her biological parents' reactions and retribution, I worried about her being disenfranchised from her story. 

I still worry about that. 

But, then I read this snippet from "Invisible Heaviness" by fellow Slicer, Amy, featured on the Two Writing Teachers site:

Our stories are our own.  They happened to us and they formed us into who we are, for better or for worse.  Our stories are all that we have.  When we feel the pull to diminish their importance or to dismiss the thing itself, we also diminish the impact that it has on us.  But the impact is really what matters, and it is not for anyone else to determine if it is valid or not.  In the telling of the story, we find an audience –sometimes an audience of only one–  and we are able to clear the air just a bit, releasing the tension and lightening the load.  In the telling about the heaviness, the veil drops and the truths are revealed.  And, ultimately, once that happens, the air thins out and the darkness recedes, at least for a time.

I am ready to break my silence. 

Service with a Song

 The sunlight streamed in through the neighborhood coffeeshop window and warmed my back as I sat a bit awkwardly on the hard and too-tall bench seat. I endeavored to gracefully hunch over the too-short cafe table in front of me -- a comical scene, I'm sure -- as I sipped my chai tea latte and munched on a chocolate sea salt scone. The man sitting next to me had just departed, introducing himself as he waved goodbye. We'd had an interesting exchange about mining in the Midwest, black lung, solar power, dead trees on city property, and the inept and corrupt state of our city's board of alder-people. This is why I love local coffeehouses: they are places where people connect.

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown came on the radio and the man across the aisle from me sang along to the first few bars before settling into a hum. An old memory came to life in my mind. 

It was pushing 4:00am and I was with some friends at Courtesy Diner. The service was predictably slow and surly, but the food was the perfect stomach putty for a bunch of scruffy scowly twentysomethings sweaty from rocking out at whatever local show we'd just stumbled out of. The diner guaranteed interesting characters around the clock, but the 2:00-4:00am crowd was probably one of the liveliest and concerning groups. Made up of truckers and bikers, drunk couples who'd just left the dance club, clutches of punks, and a very animated group of "bros", the Courtesy Diner clientele was primed for hijinks. There was always a line at the jukebox and that night was no different. A melange of classic rock, top of the pops, and the occasional hip hop jam pumped through the speakers. Slumped in our booth and too tired to make any decent conversation, my friends and I stared hollow-eyed at the cups of ice water in front of us as we fiddled with the straw wrappers and patiently waited for sustenance. And then the song switched, the first few notes of guitar meedled out and what started as a low but excited murmur of ohs and yeahs burst forth as a collective cry of anticipation when, suddenly, a dude jumped up to standing on the bench in his booth and air drummed the distinctive double snare hit along to the kick/hi-hat rhythm of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long". One by two, customers began to tap their feet, nod their heads along, sway in their seats, and dance in the single aisle behind the bar stools as Brian Johnson sang about "the best damn woman that I ever seen". By the time "the walls start shaking and the earth was quaking" the entire diner was ready to burst into song and let loose "You shook me all night long!" in what I can only liken to being witness to a 1980s John Hughes film come to life in South City, St. Louis, Missouri. The waitress rounded the corner of the counter with four plates of steaming pancakes stacked up her arm, wielding syrup with the other, swaying her hips and stepping to the beat as she sang her heart out "walking double time on the seduction line, she's one of a kind". Service with a song.

As I walked along the sidewalk admiring the cerulean skies I remembered something Sandra Cisneros once wrote, "You can never have too much sky." Usually March 2nd is a cold and dreary day, frequently overcast and often sleeting; but not today! Today it was 80 degrees and sunny, blue skies everywhere. Happy birthday to me. Like that odd night at Courtesy Diner, this was a special gift from the Universe; not for me in particular, but I was certainly happy to enjoy it! 

Fat Folx: You Are Not Responsible for the Re-education of Health Trolls

Last month I wrote a couple of blog entries about my experience living in a larger body, specifically about dealing with my somewhat clueless doctor and a ridiculously out-of-line massage therapist. These experiences resonated with many of my readers and I received quite a bit of appreciation from people who have experienced or witnessed fat bias and health trolling. Among such wonderful feedback, I also received this public comment from a somewhat estranged family-friend that was rather troubling. 

I love you and we are miles apart on this topic. I agree with much of what you say regarding the bias, but my training in Exercise Physiology (and my own history with weight gain and loss) is not on the same page with much of what you say on the physiology side of things. This topic and your history are complex, but I think we should chat sometime, so I can better understand your perspective and also offer you another viewpoint. 

I could hear the swish and flap of red flags waving as he breathed these words of concerned curiosity on my Facebook post. His commentary smacked of self-importance and the politely repressed anticipation of proving me wrong in the name of Science and the spirit of Dialogue. 

I was almost tricked into thinking this person actually cared about what I had to say and was interested in dialoguing further because while we may not see eye to eye, his response ended with an invitation to discuss these differences further. But if he was truly interested in understanding my perspective, wouldn't he have privately messaged me instead of very publicly performed his dubiousness surrounding my thoughts on being fat? Why perform this public display of dissent among so many affirming comments and shared stories?

As I composed my message to him, I realized that I had absolutely no interest in discussing any of this further with him nor to educate him about fat bias, mental health, and Health At Every Size. If my assessment of his personality and this situation was correct, he just wanted to tell me that I'm wrong and he's right and prove to me that he knows better than me. Here is how I responded:

I appreciate your offer and hope it will hold until I have the emotional energy to have that conversation. To be completely honest, I am just not in a place to fairly listen to the other side right now. Also, I feel like I've had the other side crammed down my throat for my entire life. However, if you can offer any readings you find helpful, I'd probably better be able to digest those. If you're truly interested in the viewpoints I mentioned, I'd recommend reading Anti-Diet and looking up the Minnesota Starvation study, as well as the 4th edition of Intuitive Eating. I also have an academic paper that has been recommended for sharing with health professionals. 

I figured if he was dedicated to showing me his truth, he could point me in the direction of the readings he found the most informative and maybe I would take a look. I doubted very much that he was as interested in understanding the work my perspective is rooted in; nonetheless, I offered him titles of the texts I've found most influential in my 2021 quest to deprogram myself from body shame and Diet Culture.

I sidestepped his passive-aggressive demand that I defend my experiences and I called his bluff on wanting to understand my viewpoint. I've been doing the work; if he wants to dive deeper into the beliefs, history, science, and studies of weight, diet, and exercise, then he is going to have to do his own work. So when he responded that he does not have any specific readings or research to recommend and that he does not have the desire to read anything, I was not surprised. A little disappointed, but not surprised.

It's so easy to fall into the trap of defending our experiences as people living in larger bodies in a world that is designed for those living in average bodies. 

But how can we begin to explain the isolation we feel when we have to wedge our substantial hips and bottoms between the constricting arms of waiting room chairs, wait as nurses search for the bigger blood pressure cuff that will actually fit around our biceps, and wince when we see the markings in our charts labeling us as "morbidly obese"? 

And how can we convey the frustration and anger we feel when we are constantly told that everything that ails us would be cured if we were not fat: that our pain, injuries, and illness are our own fault; that character flaws like weakness and lack of willpower are the reason we are fat.

We are constantly told that, if we just tried harder, we could fix all of our problems by shrinking ourselves. 

But we are people, not problems to be fixed. 

We are not broken, our healthcare system is.

We don't need to be fixed, the healthcare system does.

We don't need to be fixed, our society does.