A Conversation with My Daily Affirmer

Her:     Hi there! You’re doing great!

Me:      Whatever. Why are you here?

Her:     Because you need me! Also, because you are wonderful!

Me:      Whatever. Will you be staying long?

Her:     Oh, I think so. Or, for as long as you need me.

Me:      Cool. Well, then, you should know that I don’t need you. You are free to go.

Her:     Wow, you are so strong. That’s great. So glad to hear it. So then, is she leaving too?

Me:      Who? What are you talking about?

Her:     That chick over there with the storm cloud over her head and the scowl on her face. Is she staying? Cuz, if she’s staying, I’m staying. I love a party.

Me:      Her? I hardly even notice her. Don’t stay on her account.

Her:     Wow, how can you NOT notice her? I mean, she’s actually growling at you.

Me:      Look, I didn’t invite you here, I don’t even know how you got here.    

Her:     [playfully] Oh, so you invited her then, did you?

Me:      What? No! She’s just…she’s always been here. At least as long as I can remember. Look, she and I have an understanding. A long standing unspoken agreement. She’s fine. She gets to stay. 

Her:     OK, you’re the boss! She stays!  So, what does she do?

Me:      What do you mean, what does she do?  She doesn’t do anything. Just hangs out. 

Her:    And talks, right? Seems like she talks too. Can’t you hear that? 

Me:      Oh, well, yeah, she talks. Kind of a lot, actually 

Her:     And LOUDLY!  She’s working herself into quite a lather over there! 

Me:      She’s not always that loud. I think she’s trying to be heard over YOU.  

Her:     Cool: I love a good competition!  So what’s she saying?

Me:      Does it matter?  Don’t worry about it.

Her:     Oh I never worry. Not about you, anyway: you’re a strong, incredible, smart woman. But I’m super curious – curiosity is kind of my thing: what is she saying? Can you translate that growl into something intelligible?

Me:      She’s just…giving me her opinions. Like, all of them. It’s OK though, I’m used to it. It’s fine. And anyway, she never actually gets OUT...just hangs out and makes a lot of noise.

Her:     Hmmmm. Yeah, call me crazy, but I think that’s the whole problem. The whole “never gets out” thing. Doesn’t that mean that she spends all her time in here, shouting or mumbling or whatever? In your head? That’s a lot of growling and scowling to be happening inside one person’s head. Oh my, now she’s spitting at you! At beautiful you! 

Me:      Well, I think you’re upsetting her. She’s sort of used to being the only voice around. I try to leave her alone and let her do her thing. You should do the same.

Her:     Oh I see...her thing!  What is that exactly?

Me:      [blank stare]

Her:     I mean, what does she do for you, that she’s earned the right to be the only voice that gets to stay?  

Me:      [long pause]

Well...she...um...she...keeps me accountable? And..uh...humble. And..um, stuff like that. Keeps me in line, so to speak.

Her:     Fascinating. Accountable, huh? And humble? Those are both great things to be! I’m so curious how she does that when she seems so...nasty and un-fun. Where’s the love, man? Where. Is. The. Looooooove?  

Me:      The lo—oh geez, it’s not enough you’re always cheerful, you gotta be a hippie, too? Let’s just say she doesn’t let me get too big for my britches. Like, when I am a little too confident, she brings me down a peg or two.  Whips me back in line and keeps me safe.

Her:     [raised eyebrows]

Me:      She can be a little harsh, I guess. But she keeps me safe.

Her:     Well, safety is cool. Love that. We all want to be safe. Harsh doesn’t sound so good though--who needs that?  And how exactly does she keep you safe?

Me:      Oh for cryin’ out loud, what’s with all the questions? She just does, OK? She tells me stuff.  Stuff I need to be aware of. You know, she tells me the truth.

Her:     Which is…?

Me:      Damn, you just don’t quit. Honestly, it’s annoying, especially with that perky smile plastered to your face.  

Her:     Haha! Yes, I do smile a lot! It’s my favorite thing EVER. So, what’s this big truth that whatserface over there bestows upon you?

Me:      Oh, I DON’T KNOW. Just, she keeps me safe, she keeps me here, she tells me what’s what, that I’m better off inside. No risk, no failure. No risk, no rejection. Also that I’d screw up if I tried anything anyway so what’s the point.  

[pregnant pause]

ME:     That sounds bad. It’s not like that. She keeps me a realist. She keeps my expectations in check. Protects me from rejection. It’s a valuable service, OK?

Her:     Goodness gracious, who on earth would ever reject YOU? Ha! Only a crazy person! That doesn’t sound like the truth to me!

Also, why does rejection matter again? I mean, if you’re out there just doing your thing, why does it matter what someone else thinks? You’re just being your beautiful self, right? Not hurting others, not breaking any laws? Just being you?

Me:      Well, yeah, but…

Her:     But what?

Me:      I just know it matters. I can’t explain it. It just matters.

Her:     Yeah, I don’t think so. Also, you’re fantastic and there’s no wrong way to be you. You’re great, and I’d love to see anything you want to do in the world happen.

Me:      Oh for pete’s sake, knock it off. I see what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work–it’s just a bunch of bubble gum psycho-babble.

Her:     I love bubble gum, don’t you?  [smiles teasingly] Or do you prefer deep, dark, liver-and-onions psycho-babble? Me, I’m going for the bubble gum every time.

Me:      You would.

Her:     Actually, bubble gum or pilates. They’re both pretty great, if you ask me.

Me:      True. I do enjoy a good pilates sesh. Feels so good.

Her:     Right? Oh my goodness, pilates is just the best. I wonder what she thinks of pilates. Have you asked her?

Me:      I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Like I told you, we have an arrangement; she wants to say so she gets to stay.

Her:     OK, it’s your psyche! You can have anything you want in here.

Hey, does she have a name? No? Oooo, let’s give her one! Not like a real name, cuz we don’t want that whole Karen thing to happen. Everyone deserves to love their own name, don’t you think?  But something we can call her...like...I dunno...how about Blah Blah Blah?  LOL.  I like that!  We can refer to her as exactly what she sounds like anyway!

So, I wonder what Blah Blah Blah thinks of pilates? I mean, who could be anti-pilates, ammiright? 

Me:      Uh, I have no idea what she thinks. She’s usually not around during my Zoom classes.

Her:     Really? Isn’t that interesting??? 

Me:      Well, honestly, sometimes she tells me I look ridiculous while I’m trying to balance on one leg, or that there’s no way I can do that plank move. But then she goes away. Mostly, she’s not around.

Her:     Well I think that’s just fascinating. Blah Blah Blah is mostly not around during pilates….you feel good during pilates...think there’s a connection?

Me:      Oh good grief, do I have to think about this?

Her:     Oh gosh no: you don’t have to do a thing. You’re already doing so much! Honestly, you’re like a super woman, I don’t know how you do it. Your job, your family, pilates, dealing with Blah Blah Blah over there–that alone seems like a full time job and it’s only ONE of the many things you are managing every single day! So impressive. So inspiring.

Me:      [Fingers to my temple, eyes closed] Oooooookaaaay. I get it. You’re here to prop me up. To counterbalance the negative voices.

Her:     Blah Blah Blah. Say it. It’s super fun.

Me:      Ugh whatever, you’re here to counterbalance Blah Blah Blah.  OK, you’re right, that was fun. And yeah, I admit, she is pretty annoying sometimes.

Her:     I KNOW, RIGHT?

Me:      Yes. Fine. She’s annoying. And mean. And nasty, like you said. The other day, she told me I’m never going to get any better at fiddle: that made me sad. But maybe she’s right and I should just give up.

Her:     She SAID that? Geez, she just interrupted you like that, while you were playing? How RUDE!

Me:      No, it wasn’t while I was playing; she’s not around then. I think she started talking about it cuz I haven’t really been practicing that much and feeling kind of bad about it; I think she was trying to help–to give me a reason to stop and just let go of it.

Her:     Aha! THE PLOT THICKENS!

Me:      Gonna regret this, but what are you talking about?

Her:     She’s not around during pilates; she’s not around when you’re playing the fiddle. Those are things you really enjoy and make you happy! Seems like there’s no room for her then!

Me:      You want a nickel for that insight? I can’t do pilates and play the fiddle 24/7 now can I?

Her:     Now THAT would be pretty awesome, LOL, but I guess you’re right. What else has she said to you?

Me:      Well, there’s the thing about how I’m a not that great of a mom, how I’m a disappointment to my friends, how my writing is stupid, my opinion irrelevant, yadda yadda yadda, then there’s a whole topic about how socially awkward I am–that’s a popular one. That one can keep her spinning for days, it feels like sometimes.

[another pregnant pause]

Her:     Just sayin’, I’d never do any of that to you. That’s all bullshit and you know what? I think you already know that.

[a third pregnant pause]

Me:      Wow, she’s kind of a nightmare: a noisy, never shuts up, really awful nightmare. God, why do I let her have the run of the place? Why can’t she just shut UP for once?

OMG, I freaking hate her.

Her:     Right ON! Me too! She is literally no fun at all. No one wants someone around who just gnashes her damn teeth and predicts disaster all the time.

Also, she’s so totally wrong about you. And really, that’s why I’m here.

I’m gonna give it to you straight, no bubble gum, no cheery cheeseballs, no fairy dust up your backside, just truth: you got this. You got EVERYTHING. Life is gonna be sad and boring as HELL if you listen to BLAH BLAH BLAH and don’t do things just to avoid a little rejection or failure. And the POINT, to get back to your point, of trying things is to enjoy them.

You’ve got a million things you love to do and want to do: I know that about you. And wow, you have so many people you love and who love you, and not a single damn one of them wants you paying any attention at all to Blah Blah Blah when you could be out there living life and being your badass self.  No one wants you to hide your light under a bushel. Well, Blah Blah Blah seems to want that, but she’s a bitch and half in heels.

Oooo, that made her mad!  Now she’s spitting AND throwing a tantrum! Wow, I think she might be barfing a little bit too. GROSS! Ooooo, girlfriend is a MESS! Hahahahahah!

Me:      Whoa. Look at that. She’s slinking away! She’s–actually–leaving! I had no idea that was even possible! How did you do that?

Her:     Like I said, I like a good competition, and I looooove to win. Ask enough questions, and those nasty bitches get tired of not being center stage. While you’ve been “wasting your time” talking to me, she just did her spoiled only child thing and stomped away all mad. Pretty awesome, don’t you think?

[silence]

Me:      Wow.  Listen to that. Listen to the silence. I didn’t even know she was spewing out all that noise pollution until it was gone. I could get used to this; it’s sort of beautiful.

[silence]

Her:     Of course it’s beautiful.  It’s you.

Me:      [rolls eyes.]

[more silence]

Me:      Wow. I feel so peaceful. She's...gone!

Her:     She might come back. But I can too. I can come back whenever you want or need me to, you beautiful person, you.

Me:      Wait, what? She might come back?  

Her:     In my experience, Blah Blah Blah doesn’t give up quite that easily. Yeah, she’ll be back, at least for a while; she’s had quite a home here for a long time. But I’ll come back too and we’ll deal with her together!

Me:      Uh..do you have to come back? I mean, this is kind of embarrassing, that I even needed you to be here.  

Her:     Hey, you do you! Just know that I can come back anytime at all, and I’m pretty sure if we start talking about pilates, or music, or the sunset, or some heartbreakingly lovely thing one of your kids did, or really anything that makes you happy, we can kick her ass to the curb whenever we want. Whaddya say? Sounds fun to me!

Me:      [resigned sigh] OK, fine, sure...I guess...but can we keep this whole relationship just between you and me? No self-respecting sarcast wants the world to know she’s got a...what are you again?

Her:     A daily affirmer! The best friend you’ll ever have! Also, I’m available daily, weekly, monthly or on demand.

Me:      Right, well that just made me cringe myself into next week. Seriously, I’ve resisted this whole daily affirmation thing my whole life.

Her:     Imagine if you’d put all that energy into resisting Blah Blah Blah.

Me:      Got it, you’ve made your point, she’s a total bitch and I don’t need her. So, we can keep it to ourselves? Our whole relationship?

Her:     Oh sure. Whatever you need. You’re in charge here, and you’re SO GOOD AT IT. You’re amazing, you know.

Me:      OMG alright already! Just Stop! Except don’t. I mean– I know you’re right, it’s just–  WEIRD, all this affirmation is so WEIRD and unfamiliar, and like water in a desert and so strange at the same time–  I mean, OK OK OK:

I AM amazing! Hell, yeah! I got this, and I can pretty much do anything I want!

Her:     And for now, my work here is done! God, I love my job: career satisfaction is AMAZING, let me tell you.  

Me:      So happy for you.

Her:     Thank you! I’m happy for you too! So what are you going to do now?

Me:      Gosh, I don’t know. I feel pretty great right now. I’m thinking of picking up my fiddle and playing for a bit.

Her:     Of course you are: that is so like you, to want to CREATE something.

Me:      That’s true. That is like me. If you’ll excuse me, my axe awaits.

If You Stick It on the Dining Room Table, They Will Use It

Not quite as lyrical as If You Build It, They Will Come, but just as true and wonderful!

* * *

Have you seen my dining room table? (You know, like, before COVID...) It is quite a sight.  A good percentage of it is covered with paint, marker, glitter, colored pencil, hot glue, and more.  Since COVID, graffiti has also popped up, including "Tallulah Likes Cake" in black sharpie.  We rarely enjoy an actual dinner or any other meal on this table, because it's typically full of art and projects of all kinds.  From where I sit in the next room, I spy a large mirror frame that needs to be fixed, a half-finished clay fairy world, and several rocks in various stages of being painted.

I have often yearned for a dining room table at which I and my family actually dine. It is a yearning, in part, for normalcy, a wish for something that feels like what "normal families" have and do. But of course, we should always be careful what we wish for, and today I was reminded of this nugget of wisdom.  Here is the story of how I came to be thankful that we do not have a normal dining room table. 

A week or so ago, Rick announced that he was going to put one of his manual typewriters on our dining room table, in the hopes that our kids would use it. In typical Rick fashion, he outdid himself, with not one, not two, but THREE typewriters!  As I write, there is one on the table and two on the floor next to the table. His timing was endearingly typical of us, in that the machines landed in the dining room just as one of my Normalcy Yearnings was ramping up: I had been eyeing the dining room longingly for the last couple of days, plotting to finally and yet again clean it, organize it, transform it into a place where people eat their meals and give thanks to the chef and then get up and cheerfully do all their chores without even a reminder.  So I had that moment -- perhaps familiar to some of you -- where you like an idea your partner has suggested, but it means you won't get to make your idea a reality, at least not for awhile, and so you just sort of roooooollll with it.  I rolled. I like typewriters. I like my kids. I love Rick. So yeah, sure, let's put a typewriter on the dining room table and see what happens.

What happened was this: after threatening for days to become another place for mail and dust to collect, today the typewriter got its moment to shine: Tallulah decided to learn how to type. As with All Things Tallulah, there were many questions:  "How do you put the paper in?" "How do you do capital letters?" "Can I make it type in different colors?" "Can you come get my hair out of this round thingee where the paper goes?" (At least she got to learn the word platen!) 

Once her head was no longer stuck in the machine and she had the basics down, her imagination began to flow and her fingers started to dance on the keys.  In no time at all, she had a story!  I am proud to present her breakthrough type-written work, entitled, simply: RICK.

I'm sure that's hard to read, so here's the text, exactly as typed:

This story is Called : RICK

By tallulah Alatorre

There once was a little man named rick.  He love d food, poetry, his five kids (although he loved his youngest the most) books, art, soccer, and so much more. HE was really really really short.

THE END

P.S. His shortness was charming.

That right there is straight up literary art, and today I love my dining room table and the creativity that emerges from it, and I don't care if I never eat another meal there if it means I can have more of this fabulosity in my life.  I say PFFFT to yearning for normalcy, and YAY to embracing the little wierdnesses of my family, and I say we are all weird and that is as it should be.

Also, if you would like to try a little experiment of your own: Put stuff out.  Leave it there. And watch what happens. Perhaps one day, your experiment will bring you great delight. 

Enjoy more bounty from our table:

And yes, I have a tablecloth that works nicely for the very rare holiday meal where I make everyone sit down to eat and they all look at each other like I'm conducting some weird psych experiment and no one knows how to act.

Embrace the Face

Every wrinkle, a memory.

Every crease, a story.

Every line and bump and spot and blemish, part of the soulful journey of my life, the trips around the sun and to the grocery store, the steps taken in joy and in pain.

Every imperfection a testament.

I embrace them all, and wear them as badges of my strength, power, resilience, and capacity for love.

Age, I embrace the lessons you have to teach and the joy you have to cultivate.

* * *

Whatever. I don't believe a word of that, but my teenage daughters are all about manifesting shit, and what the hell, it's free, I thought I'd give it try.

If you need me, me and my wrinkles will be over here waiting for transformation.

* * *

image source 

Recipe for a Happy Life

image source

For Rick on his birthday. 

Find someone who delights in words, marvels at them, picks them up like precious stones, turning them this way and that to see colors and variations.

Someone who sees possibilities in angles and spaces and movement, for whom patterns are beautiful.

Someone who protects and curates your bottle cap collection, even if you don't have one.

Someone who wears work shoes for work purposes.

Someone who speaks, who gives voice to what needs to live out loud; you won't always understand, but you will be more grateful with each passing day, week, month, and year.

It also helps if he loves — truly loves, with deep devotion — a tree. 

Find someone with the gift of thrift, who will discover perfectly soled sambas, sturdy backpacks, the sweetest little ceramic bowls, more glassware than any kitchen cabinet can hold, and endless treasures you did not know would bring you joy.

Someone -- that special someone -- you can't wait to annoy for the rest of your life.

Someone who is interested in the world, in art and ideas, culture and stories, in how things get made and how beauty is created.  Someone who knows that books, poetry, and music are essential, and introduces you to sounds you've never heard before. 

Someone of faith, who knows that endless mercy has the power to see, understand, and bring us home.

Someone who will be present and steadfast on bumpy roads, in sickening pitches, and through sudden, harrowing turns. You’ll need it. 

Find someone who will heal, perfect and exalt you, and for whom you will do the same.

Stir yourself with this person, day by day simmering and changing with the pressure and intensity of being alive, and together you will lay the table of a happy life.

10 Things I Am Still Grateful For, Plus a Few More

 Seven years ago I wrote a post on Thanksgiving with a list of the things I'm grateful for.  Today, I am grateful for that list, because in this crazy mixed up totally effed up year, it's nice to see that some things remain true.  Actually, it's not just "some things" but the most important things -- those remain solid, constant, more true than ever.  I am still grateful for every single thing on this list, so I am reposting it, and adding a few wonderful things I am newly grateful for, since 2013.  Here's what I wrote in 2013:

# # #

I have only 16% power left on my laptop and I'm too tired and comfy to get up and find the power cord, so I better rip off a thankful list right quick.  And so:

1. NPR.  My life would be less than it is without everyone at NPR.  Thank you from the bottom of my well-informed heart.
2. Coffee.  My children would be in danger without coffee.  Thank you for keeping me sane, which in turn, keeps them safe.
3. Good pillows.  Nothing feels better than laying down my weary head to rest each night.  I usually sleep with two pillows, but one of them has been missing for weeks.  I finally found it in the dolly crib today, and I'm back to pillow bliss tonight.
4. Friends who give pie.  Every Thanksgiving, some friends of our give us pumpkin pies from Bake Sale Betty.  This year, I am especially grateful for these pies because we are not hosting Thanksgiving, and I get to bring the pies to my sister-in-law's house tomorrow, meaning I did. not. bake. or. cook. a. single. thing.  I like to cook, and I've enjoyed hosting in the past, but this year?  It's a blessing of monumental proportions that I don't have to do a damn thing.
5. This blog.  Because I get to write about whatever I want, silly, fun, serious, thoughtful, boring, or sentimental, and it's MINE ALL MINE.  And I like it when people like what I've written.  That's pretty awesome.
6. My awesome job.  I love my job.  I have a job I love, doing things I am good at, learning things that are helping me grow, with people I respect, in a family-friendly environment, for a good cause.  See?  Awesome.
7. My kids.  Seriously, yes, even the kids.  They are impossible.  But I guess that's why I'm grateful because they show me that the impossible is possible, every single day.  Sometimes, that runs more towards the "Is she REALLY going to refuse to put away the Rush Hour game, just to mess with me?  Is she REALLY going to take the smallest possible steps between here and the bathroom to brush her teeth, just to see my head spin around on top of my neck???"  Sometimes, it's more of the heart-catching variety, where I see a child of mine do something good and generous, or I get to the end of the day and realize I did more good than harm (score!), or the questions they ask challenge and stretch me as I try to answer them and then the gift of a great conversation comes my way…all of it seems impossible.  All of it happens anyway.
8. My husband.  Not because he makes delicious pizza, and delicious hot toddies, and awesome old-fashioneds; not because he vacuums like a maniac; not because he makes sure all the doors are locked and lights are off each night.  Because he is the other half of me and I know he's mine forever.  We are not a fairy-tale husband and wife; we annoy each other greatly pretty frequently and his snoring alone makes me want to rip my ears off my head and serve them to him for breakfast.  But he's not going anywhere, and I'm not going anywhere, and I'm grateful that he is my constant.  
9. My mother and father.  Five days ago, we moved my mother into a board and care facility; it was one of the hardest days I've ever had with my parents, one of the hardest they've ever had themselves.  I am grateful for the privilege of being present to them both during the past several months of struggle.
10. The ability to change the wi-fi password.  Because nothing says I love you to my sons like turning off the wi-fi in the middle of an Instagram post so they can get some sleep and keep growing strong and healthy.  

# # #

For 2020, I would add that I am grateful for:

1. Fiddle: Playing it, listening to it, seeing the beautiful instrument in my house, sometimes on a pile of laundry.  And for Maria, who made my life long dream of being a real live fiddle player come true.
2. Kids who drive, because it's every mother's dream to get actual real help, even if that actual real help also comes with a side of terror.
3. My fingers.  They do a lot of good things for me, including typing.
4. My dog Zuzu, who is proof positive that happiness doesn't come from things being perfect: happiness comes from love and messiness and neurotic pets who are way more work than even you --the mom, who should know better-- anticipated.
5. Friends, so many friends, who save me every day, which has never been more appreciated than in this whacked-out cluster of a year.

What are you grateful for?

My First Beautiful Thing

Cold kitchen, whistling kettle: the water is ready, the ground awaits.

Now for the pour-over: watching steam rise, Chemex fill, and sparkly diamonds dance as the water settles and filters – suspends me every time.

I lift the good, heavy pot from the gleaming chrome and pour.

The warm, puddle-y sound, quiet but lifting, rising in pitch as the mug fills, is dark and swirling.

A splash of cream and voila! At this early hour, 

I've done my first beautiful thing.

I Recommend Remember When

Parenting is hard.  There are many things I’ve gotten wrong over the past 20+ years, and I feel those failures acutely and often.  Some days, these people I am raising seem like a pack of cynics, a swarm of pessimists, a horde of disaffected youth.  My 16-year-old daughter said just yesterday: “We’re all just riding around on a giant rock. Nothing matters. There’s no point to anything.”

Parenting Fail?  Teenage angst?  High School junior feeling deep in her core that final exams are cruel and unjust?  In weaker moments, I’m sure their negativity is all my fault.

But on this fine, cold morning deep in the heart of 2020, the Marx Brothers might just prove me wrong.  Last night, the kids hopped on one of those fabulous memory trains, riding “Remember when…” moments endlessly through the evening.  

Remember when all the girls slept on toddler mattresses lined up on a futon frame in their tiny bedroom not fit for three?

Remember when the boys accidentally locked themselves in their own closet?

Remember when dad would make us fires in the morning before going to school, back in the days when we actually WENT somewhere for school, and we would have hot chocolate in the wee hours?

“Remember when” usually includes a few confessions, things the kids experienced together that we, their parents, weren’t aware of at the time.  Case in point: Remember when Elizabeth and Tallulah wanted to be in the older kids’ club, and the older kids said OK, you can but first you have to eat dirt and walk barefoot over these thorny brambles, and when the two youngest screwed up the gumption to do both, the older three abandoned the clubhouse and went on to other pursuits?  

Ahhhhhh, good times.

Remember when makes us laugh.  Remember when turns family lore into an exquisite cloak of nostalgia, the shared experiences of recalled moments wrapping us in love and hilarity. Thankfully, the ride continued:

Remember when Tallulah used to think yogurt was a finger food?
Remember when Sam made fun of us for pretending we were wearing jetpacks?
Remember when we used to eat paella by the backyard firepit?

And then this: Remember I Love Lucy?  And the original Batman series?  And Annie Get Your Gun?  And the Carol Burnett show and Tim Conway and the airplane sketch?  Remember Groucho and Harpo?

Watching them laugh as they remembered Marx Brothers and Carol Burnett sketches, I felt a certain pride that we had shared those particular American treasures with them when they were small.  That laughter will serve them well throughout their lives.  Surely, children with these memories to sustain them, with those particular cultural references embedded in their psyches, cannot help but emerge into adulthood with some joy and optimism!  Hooray! We did something right!

And so, on this fine, cold morning, deep in the heart of 2020, while teenagers sleep late and another pandemic day stretches out in front of me, Remember When is giving me hope.   

I will admit, however, that that confessional memory I didn’t previously know about makes me glad we didn’t have a wood chipper back in the day.  Who knows what backyard club membership would have entailed! 

* * *

Note: My inspiration for this post came from Katherine Grubb of 10 Minute Novelists and this tweet, although I'll admit that writing this took me longer than 10 minutes.

Maybe Messy is What I Need Right Now

Let’s face it, we are all exhausted at this point.  I call it the Coronelection Complex, and it’s hitting me hard. Texts from friends, zoom calls with family, and tweets from strangers all indicate that I’m not alone.  We are a weighed upon people, are we not? 

One way Coronelection Complex is showing up for me is that I often feel like taking to my bed.  All I want to do is go to bed early and wallow.  Sometimes I read.  Sometimes I stare at a blank page with a pen in my hand. Mostly I doom scroll, against all my better judgment.  Very little feels like what my restless heart is actually looking for, but my bed and pillows keep calling. 

And when I answer that call, all I want to do is shut the rest of the world out.

My family has other ideas.

It’s as if my lying down in a stupor sends a radar signal throughout the house: BUG MOM.  IT’S TIME TO BUG MOM.  The dog gets the signal too.  It doesn’t take long before beating hearts both human and canine descend on my bedroom to create mayhem.

This may sound sweet, as if they are wanting to wrap me in love and care in my time of need.  It does not always feel this way.  When they descend, they do not leave their own stress and anxieties at the door. They don’t put down their grievances or their needs or their rivalries.  They stick all that detritus in their pockets, swarm into the room in droves, and lay it all out on the comforter. Arguments rage. People talk over each other and get louder to make themselves heard. The dog decides to go mental and bark at the mirror.  Someone (looking at you, husband) decides it would be fun to wrestle with her and rile her up even more.  People dive into bed next to me to “cuddle” precisely when all I want to do is lie there by myself and flip the pillow to the cool side every few minutes.

Like everything else about family life, self-care is messy.

My 14-year-old daughter, especially, hones in immediately.  She’s usually the first to the party.  She burrows under the covers next to me, demands that I face her (instead of spooning), and commands: “HUG ME.” 

I groan internally. OK, sometimes also externally.  Because I know that thus commences a good 20+ minutes of this forceful little being thrashing around next to me, talking incessantly, playing games (“squeeze me as hard as you can!” “can I please just tickle you?? PLEASE?” “what am I tracing on your back?”), and asking for hug after hug after hug.

I’m not a monster, I promise, and I do love my children, but when I take to my bed it’s because I’m saturated with interaction. I need the downtime. I can hardly muster the energy for this level of play.

Poor me.  All this love is crushing me.

Ten years ago, that same 14-year-old said this to me, in a conversation about whether I would be going to the grocery store after her bedtime:

"Well, if you leave tonight, and you think I'm asleep, and you leave without giving me a hug or a kiss?  Well, you can still hug and kiss me, even if I'm asleep, because I really don't ever want you to leave without giving me a hug and a kiss.  And sometimes, when I wake up and your car is gone, I think you should have given me a hug and kiss before you left." 

I was reminded of this conversation recently because I wrote about it in a blog post that showed up in my Facebook memories.  Reading it felt like a sign from God intended to combat my growing resentment over having my “me time” infringed upon. 

Message translation: the kid needs hugs. The kid is a teenager and spends most of her time expressing her complete disdain for you, skirting her chores, or otherwise developing her fledgling independence. The kid will not always be under your roof, or under your covers, and will someday fly the coop for good.  Right now, she is also suffering from Coronelection. Plus, she told you a decade ago what she needs. Listen to her. Believe her. And hug her while you can.

I got the message.  I am now rethinking my attitude at those moments when all I want to do is retreat and all my family wants to do is swarm.

I still need solitude and I still get saturated. But my new 2020 project is to welcome the messiness as best I can and find the me-time another way.  Doom scrolling and other forms of wallowing are not better than 20 minutes of thrashing with and hugging my 14-year-old.  They aren’t even better than listening to teenagers fight over clothes or whose turn it is to clean the kitchen.  We are together in this time of anxiety, and under this roof, that’s better than being alone.  We will thrash our way through 2020.  And when we get to the other side – of the virus, the election, the divisions that will take a long time to heal – we will remember, along with everything else from this time, the hugs that got us through.

So Today Was Hard

Today was hard, which started two days ago. 

Two days ago, we spent $1400 on car repairs. All needed, all good, all regular wear and tear, and we did a whole bunch of things all at once. It still hurt. 

Last night, someone stole the catalytic converter off of one of our cars. This is the second time this has happened to us, the first was several years ago. I was awakened last night to the awful sound of the saw bad guys use to snatch the catalytic converter from a car's undercarriage. One quick growl-whirr got me up and to the window, wondering who the hell was using machinery at 2 am. On my way to the window, I heard the second growl-whirr, for just a bit longer, and realized what was happening. Pulling the curtain back, I couldn't see anything right in front of the house, but then a car sped past my window coming from the left, from where our two Priuses (Pri-ii?) were parked out of my line of sight. 

Rick went outside and started all of our cars -- successfully. So we went to sleep thinking that the theft had been foiled somehow. But alas, Prius cars start just fine on battery. When Rick started his Prius again this morning, and it kicked over from battery to gas power, the telltale sound of a car without a converter echoed through the quiet, smoke-and-ash-filled street. 

Yes, smoke and ash, because we are in California, which is currently battling over 300 wildfires. The air is thick, with a yellow tinge, and the girls' pod-style soccer practices (thanks COVID) are canceled because of air quality. We are also experiencing a heatwave, and our only respite from that is to open all our doors and windows and catch whatever breezes may come. But in wildfire season, that means inviting ash and smoke into the house, along with headaches and sore throats. So our house is sealed up tight and hotter than hell. 

For weeks and weeks, the only safe place to go (thanks COVID) has been outside – walks, hikes, soccer practices, socially distanced cocktails on decks and patios. Now, with the fires raging, the open air is also a health risk. Even the outdoors is closed to us. 

Oh, and I'm worrying about friends who are being evacuated in Napa County and other places. Again with the Nixle alerts and consulting maps for air quality and checking on dad in Sonoma, and generally experiencing the clutching fire-anxiety that is now an annual, weeks or months-long experience. 

Also eighth grade started today for Big T (formerly Little T but that's just not descriptive anymore). It was bumpy, not gonna lie. Distance Learning is just plain hard: teachers and schools are doing their best to do it right and do it well, and it's just a beast of a process. Today's Distance Learning experience featured three or four utterances of "I can't get into the Zoom," a few of "I don't have the right link," one of "My teacher keeps calling me Jimena," and several "I HATE THIS" blood-curdling screams, while on mute of course, or during the five-minute breaks between classes. I've got one extremely perturbed 8th grader on my hands, who I am trying to support and encourage while also attending to the demands of my own work. Also, we've got this very cute and very restless dog (no walks for us today) tearing through the house barking and burrowing into our legs and laps as we sit at our laptops.

Are you sensing the chaos?  I can't wait for the 11th grader to start the same process in few weeks, followed by the UC Santa Cruz frosh beginning her college days here at home, in the room her sisters desperately want her to vacate so that they no longer have to share. 

Today's kicker -- the thing that has me crying UNCLE -- was logging into my health insurance portal to pay a bill and discovering A SECOND BILL for over $1,000 that we didn't know existed and that NO ONE had mentioned to us as we were deciding on a course of treatment for my migraines. That one expense was for the first of four total treatments, and no one thought it might be important for us to know that we were accepting a $4K+ total expense? And I asked SO many questions about having this treatment done in the first place...except for how much it would cost and I'm kicking myself now.

So, a recap: 

• Distance Learning going awry, with more in the forecast;
• Speaking of forecasts: heatwave;
• Then we've got the fires fires fires and the worry worry worry about where they will go next; ash and smoke and hazy skies pressing in on us; 
• Expensive car repair;
• Stolen converter, which is going to be hella expensive to fix; 
• Outrageous health care bill; 
• A global pandemic raging unabated (thanks Trump); 
• Oh, and that guy is still our president. 

2020 hates us all. 

I figure there's really only one response to this cluster of a day: pour myself a stiff drink, pull out my violin and drunk fiddle until Obama's address at the DNC.  If I get nothing else out of this day, at least I can torture my teenagers.