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." 

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!

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.

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. 

Progress v. Perfection

How many of you out there came out of this past year thinking to yourselves if I could just stick with X or I did great doing Y until Z happened and then all bets were off or why can't I just get it together and [fill in the blank]?

I've spent most of my adult life raking myself over the coals for these sorts of "failings". Why can't I just put my ass in a seat and write more? If I could just consistently plan my grocery shopping and meals ahead of time each week, I would eat more nutritiously. I was doing a great job attending water aerobics classes until the kids took turns being sick and I was home with them for 2 weeks, now I just can't get back into the swing of things. Why can't I keep my fucking house clean and tidy?

Well, I've got news for you and me: this is life! 

If your life is at all influenced by family, friends, colleagues, etc, it is never, Never, NEVER going to be simple, consistent, or without interruptions and roadblocks. These inner attacks (as my therapist calls them) do us absolutely no good and invalidate any progress we make in the name of imperfection. All we can do is strive towards our ideals and do the best we can.

Ideally, I want to write every day. I restarted this blog in January 2021 to gather an audience of readers to help keep me accountable. On January 1st, I came up with this idea.  On January 2nd I wrote, published, and shared my first entry. On January 3rd, I ran errands and then slept like the dead for the most of the day before dinner and family time and then slept like the dead again for most of the night until 6 woke me up this morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready for "mama school" (that's what we call it when I teach him and I'm keeping him home this week because omicron AND let me also say here how awesome his teacher is for sending me home scripted instructions for his daily lessons and activities). And here I am, on January 4th, post mama-school, writing this entry. Have I written every day? No. Am I about to publish my second entry of the year? Yes! That's progress and that's awesome!

Ideally, I want to buy groceries weekly in preparation for a well thought-out weekly menu. This probably happens half of the time. The other half of the time, we do not starve. Those weeks, we fly by the seat of our pants and rely more heavily on simple meals and partially prepared foods.

Ideally, I want to hit the pool three times a week: twice for classes and once doing my own thing. Lately, I've been getting to the pool once a week; but hey, once a week is more than no times a week (which is how often I was going last January-May). Progress! And looking on the bright side, classes are now being offered three times a week at a more convenient time for me, so maybe I'll graduate to being a twice a week regular. More progress!

Ideally, I'd like to keep my home clean, tidy, and company ready (don't worry, I have fairly low expectations for what this means) at all times. In the past I've done Apartment Therapy's January Cure, Clean Mama's daily cleaning rhythm, among other things to help me stay consistent. I've got news for you, people. I could be as consistent as the sun and this place would still be in shambles 40% of the time because I have two teenagers who live so far up in their own heads they wouldn't notice if rats ran across their feet let alone that they leave a trail of clothes and other crap in their wake no matter where they are in the house or what they're doing. I've got a designated "landing pad" in my entryway, coat hooks and cubbies for each kid, routines aplenty for putting everything in its place during transitional times after breakfast, after school, after dinner, and before bed. So long as I have a husband with ADHD and enjoyment of my own sanity, I will never have the house in the shape I want it to be and that is okay. I'm a mom, not a maid. It's not worth my wrath and resentment to micromanage every living being in my home to keep my house in tiptop shape. NOT. WORTH. IT.

Instead, I lower my expectations and leverage my power. 

When I began my stay-at-home-mom gig, I learned quickly that a good day consists of keeping my family alive and feeding said family. If I am also able to keep up with the dishes and do a load of laundry, it's a very good day. Now that my kids are older, a good day consists of keeping everyone alive, getting them all to school, and providing them with tasty strength and growth food. If the dishes are washed and put away, the counters are clean, and a load of laundry has been done, it's a very good day. All of this plus doing something for myself (writing or swimming or napping or reading) is my definition of success. These are simple expectations and they are a challenge for me to meet, and I'm okay with that!

As I stated earlier, I am a mom -- not a maid. As we know, moms carry the heavy mental load of care for those we take care of, including our partners. I take the lead on almost everything in our household: food, clothing, childcare, education, play/entertainment, child-related communication with school/parents/friends, behavior expectations and discipline, household management and assigning of domestic tasks, healthcare oversight and appointment scheduling, oversight of petcare/grooming/veterinary, and on and on and on. My partner works many hours and provides for us (we can discuss how squicky this antiquated setup makes me feel at a later time) and makes a real effort to support our household by endeavoring to do anything I ask him to do. I expect my kids to do the same; frequently, 14 and 17 do not feel the same way. Therefore, it is necessary for me to remind them that we all have our parts to play:

Mom, I need clean clothes. When are you doing laundry? Well, I asked you to sort and deliver your dirty clothes and linens to the laundry room three days ago; you did not. You need to do that before I can wash your clothes. And, by the way, your problem is not my emergency, so I will not be ruining my Christmas holiday by doing four loads of 14 and 17's laundry. Thanks, bye!

Mom, what time is my playdate with Best Friend? It's at noon, but we can't leave until your room is cleaned up. Come on, you pick up your toys and I'll vacuum.

Mom, why am I locked out of my phone? Why do you have missing assignments in your classes? OR Why isn't your room picked up yet; I told you to do this two days ago. OR Because you're acting like an idiot and texting with people you don't know in real life and dude is trying to be slick using a shared Spotify playlist to show you a penis pic. OR whatever because the power of the electronics are strong in this generation, grasshopper. Let me also say here that you can similarly leverage hangouts with friends, money requests, and fun non-necessities to which said child feels entitled.

Mom, have you seen my [earbuds, hoodie, book, whatever]? Look in the Box of Doom.  The Box of Doom is a sanity saver. That trail of stuff my teens leave behind them like a snail's trail that I cannot convince them to pick up despite asking a million times? I don't have to pick their things up and put them away, but I also don't have to suffer with their junk all over my house and in my way and harshing my vibe. Any of their crap that's in my way or bothering me, I just throw it in the Box of Doom. They can be inconvenienced -- not me! -- by losing their stuff and having to dig through the box to find it. Then, whenever I feel like it, I demand they clean out the Box of Doom; leftovers will go straight to the Goodwill.

Despite all of my talk about lowering expectations and leveraging power, it is my goal to raise my kids to be -- as Michaeleen Doucleff writes in her book Hunt, Gather, Parent -- "accomodido": I want them to notice the things in their surroundings that need to be done and then help out by doing them without being asked. That is going to require me to approach things a bit differently with my kids. I need to better figure out my boundaries, limits, and higher expectations so that I can narrate and demonstrate noticings of what needs to be done before we are in a crisis situation (i.e. me freaking out or the dogs without water or 14 without clean clothes) and then providing my kids with the opportunity to demonstrate their agency.

I'm still working on this from my own end and, you know what? That's okay.