Adult Onset Reality

I have been waiting several months to write this entry because I wanted to be able to begin it this way: Maren made a full recovery and is completely fine. Mitch and I, on the other hand, are a little traumatized.

In November, I was teaching math in my second grade classroom when the classroom phone rang. I glanced down and recognized my husband’s phone number, and I’ll admit that I felt a wave of annoyance, not that sudden drop of the stomach that everyone always talks about when they just ‘knew’ that something was wrong. Instead, I was just mad that Mitch was calling me in the middle of a math class.

I picked up and he said, “You need to meet me at Maren’s daycare immediately.”

NOW my stomach dropped. I cleared my throat and said, “Is everything okay?”

And my husband– my rock– said, “Leave right now.” And hung up.

I turned to my cooperating teacher and said, very shakily, “Something happened to Maren. Mitch says I need to meet him right now.”

She waved me out the door. “Go, go go go. Call me later.”

I don’t remember grabbing my keys, or getting to the parking lot, or even starting the drive. My phone rang again, jarring me out of the sea, and Mitch’s voice was on the other end.

Maren’s left hand had been caught in a door at daycare. Two of her fingertips had been amputated. Mitch was with her now, and the ambulance was on its way.

I think that Moms have a little bit of a mental ticker going on constantly, and every time we have a new experience we check it off our list, and tuck it away so that we know what it’s going to be like next time we have another moment like it. Like the first time your baby has a high fever, or the first time they have diarrhea up to their shoulders at a restaraunt, or the first time they put a pea up their nose.

This was one of those experiences for me. The first time something really, truly awful happened to my precious baby, and my first thought was, “Thank God. It’s terrible, but she’s alive. Thank you God.” For parents, the business of economizing our fears in emergencies is very commonplace.

“Do you have her?” I demanded—my adrenaline turning to anger now.

“Yes, she’s right here in my lap.” He said, and I felt like cold air was creeping into my body, starting in my stomach and radiating out.

“Why isn’t she crying?” I asked, and there was a long pause.

“I think she’s in shock.”

By then, the ambulance had arrived and Mitch told me to meet them at the ER instead of daycare. We pulled into the parking lot at about the same time, and then I was running, running, and running. The distance across the parking lot seemed insurmountable to me, as if every inch of air separating me from my daughter was a steel cable holding me back.

An EMT held his hand out to stop me, but then he looked at my face and called to the others, “Mom’s here.”

Mitch was holding Maren to his chest, his hand clamped tightly around a wash cloth that was on her hand. She had tear tracks down her round cheeks, but no tears. When she saw me, she held out her other hand and whimpered, “Mama.” And then laid her head back down on Mitch’s chest and took a deep breath.

We were ushered immediately into a room, and were swarmed with nurses and aides. While they brought in lights and tables and clean gauze, I realized with dread how much blood was soaking my little family.

The doctor came in and said, “Okay—let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” And Mitch took the wash cloth away.

I can’t really describe what I saw—not only do I really not want to, I physically can’t. Because if I hadn’t seen it in real life, I would have thought it wasn’t real. I stared at my daughter’s hand and thought that I was looking at some awful Hollywood trick with make-up and plaster. And then, when Maren’s heart beat, blood gushed out. And then she started screaming.

I don’t want to diminish the relationship between a Dad and his daughter—obviously I don’t know anything about it—but I do want to address what it feels like to see your daughter in that kind of pain from a mom’s perspective. At that moment, I was acutely aware of my own fingers. I flexed them, and they burned—it felt wrong and horrible, treasonous, that I had fingers on my hand at all.

I also felt a tug in my center, as if my womb was reaching out for my baby, wanting to keep her safe and sound, protected from the ugliness in the world like she was when she was in my tummy. When you build a baby inside you, you have a very beautiful–but visceral—understanding that all of her body parts were once a part of you. It’s the reason that mom’s will sometimes be in the next room and miss their baby, or have a sudden fear that they forgot her somewhere even when she’s in the backseat. There is no other relationship on earth like this one—she and I used to be just I.

When she was injured, I didn’t just feel scared and hurt. I felt personally offended in a way that I’m not sure I can verbalize. I was seeing red as I looked around the room—how dare the universe let this happen to my baby.

They re-wrapped her hand and let us know that applying pressure was keeping the pain at bay, but they were going to bring her something for the pain shortly. We asked if she could have something to drink (it was just before lunch time) and they said no, in case she needed to go into surgery. The two of us did our best to soothe her—balancing the line between validating her fears and pain while also distracting her from them—and waited.

I called my cooperating teacher and told her I wouldn’t be back for the day. She was awesome and gracious, and I promised to call her later.

Then I made the much more difficult phone calls to our moms.

I made both phone calls, and so got the full benefit of hearing our Mom’s voices struggle through sheer panic, trying to find strength. I thought (not for the first time) about how awful it must feel to be the parent of an adult child. I will always be my mother’s baby, and I’m sure that there will always be a part of her that wants to shield me from all the bad things in the world. But I’m a mother myself, now, and so all my Mom could do was tell me it would be all right, and to call her later.

When they came in with the pain meds, I made a decision that I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for—even though I know Maren will never remember it. I was feeling very sick and didn’t know if I could stomach seeing her hand again, and asked if I could leave the room while they gave the injections. They let me out, and the door locked behind me—and so I stood useless in the hallway and listened while they put needles in Maren’s open wounds. She screamed for me the whole time.

When the door opened again, I ran back in and resolved not to leave her side again. The medicine took over, and she fell asleep, cradled on Mitch’s chest. Finally, he and I could talk.

He told me that he didn’t know how it happened, he had been so angry when he got to daycare that he didn’t want anyone to talk to him (now that it’s all over, I sometimes think with some dry amusement about this exchange—and I’ll admit that I feel a little sorry for whoever had to make the phone call to Mitch. I’ll bet they were puking in their mouths when he showed up). With Maren asleep, Mitch and I let our guards down a little bit and cried. Mitch said he wanted her to just stay asleep so that she wouldn’t remember anything, and I assured him that she wouldn’t remember anything, she was way too young to carry a memory of this with her (but sometimes I don’t know. Just last week I asked her if she remembered where she got her owie, and she said, very solemnly, “Door.”).

While she was sleeping, doctors and a plastic surgeon came to look at her fingers again. The surgeon recommended that she have an X-ray, but that regardless of the outcome she should simply have the tips re-attached. At her age, he told us, surgery was very risky because of the anesthesia, and in any case, it may not work much better than just re-stitching in the first place. We nodded our heads. Mitch’s eyes were worried, but as Maren started to wake up for her X-ray we smiled at her and talked to her about Sesame Street.

When they came in with the X-ray, they asked me to leave. I told them I wanted to stay, but they were very firm. If there was any chance—any chance at all—that I could be pregnant, staying for the X-ray could be the worst decision I ever made. So I stomped out of the room and watched through the window.

Maren sat in Mitch’s lap and they wrapped him in a lead vest. Mitch talked in low tones to Maren while they stretched out her hand and put it on the flat gray surface.

Does anyone remember Maren at about nine months? She had the most marvelously huge round head. She could crawl, but not walk, and she spent most of her days sitting up, with her hands always reaching for something, looking around with wide-eyes. We had her pictures taken at around this time, and one of the proofs that took my breath away was the first one the photographer took. She had that wide-eyed look; and a very serious expression on her face—plainly terrified, but trusting us that we wouldn’t leave her alone with a madman.

This was exactly how she looked right then, stretching out her hand and looking up at the camera. They took a few pictures, and then let me back in the room. The EMT’s came back into the room. They had just dropped off another patient and wanted to check on Maren—that’s the effect my beautiful baby has on people.

The short end to this story is that she lost some bone in both tips of her fingers, but because Mitch had called 911 so quickly, rather than taking her to the ER himself, most of the tissue was salvageable. The ER doctor stitched both tips back on. They wrapped her up like a taco, with only one arm out, and Maren sang songs and told jokes with us while they stitched. If she looked at her hand, she remembered she was hurt and would cry, so we sat on her right side and she just kept looking at us. Almost immediately, blood and feeling returned to the tip of her middle finger. Her ring finger was still touchy—within a few hours, the flesh was turning white. The doctor warned us that because of the way the finger was severed, it was possible that the ring finger tip might not take—and might just fall off.

They bandaged her hand and gave us instructions to keep them completely dry. We went home and bought ice cream and rented movies. I sat down with her on the couch and didn’t want to let her go.

A few days later, she was fitted with splints and given new bandages. We withdrew her from daycare, and set up babysitters for the next few weeks while I finished student teaching. In the meantime, Mitch was finishing up his career as a restaurant manager and getting ready to transition to his new job in Minnesota. We packed our apartment, and got ready to move.

Three days before we moved, Maren was fitted with new splints, and the surgeon looked again at her fingers. He was encouraged by a tiny little island of pink on the tip of her ring finger—he was sure this meant that the finger had re-vascularized and would make a full recovery. He told us that at this point, the ‘dead tip’ was working as a biological dressing, which was better than any bandage. He was absolutely amazing, answered all our questions, and was very patient with Maren—even though he did not work in pediatrics normally.

Last week, I was changing her bandages. The middle finger was all ready completely healed—it looks a little marred, but we all think that once the skin is freshened up and the nail grows out no one will even know that something happened. But we were all waiting to see what was going to happen with her ring finger, which was black, flaky, and threatened to come off every time we changed bandages. Even though our surgeon had high hopes, he had also told us that until the tip came off there were no guarantees, because there was no way to check what was going on underneath.

While Maren played with stickers, I pulled the band aids off—and stopped cold. I could absolutely not believe what I was seeing. The dead tip of Maren’s finger was in my left hand—black, shriveled, and ugly—and in its place was an entirely new tip, complete with a finger nail. Guys—it was like the thing just GREW BACK.

When I took her to a follow up a few days later, our new surgeon reached down for her hand and said, “My God, it worked!”

It’s only been a week, and all ready we are starting to see all the signs of the amputation disappearing. Our surgeon joked that if she married a hand surgeon, he might not be fooled, but otherwise, no one will probably ever know what happened. Not to give this more of a touchy-feeling ending than it all ready needed… but Maren was all ready a miracle. If she had lost both fingers, I would have been thanking God that it wasn’t worse…. And then this. I feel so…. humbled…. and grateful and like the universe is a beautiful, beautiful place, because my daughter is happy, and healthy, and whole.

Internet:

I am 28 years old, and about 5’9. I do not smoke, and am a social drinker. I have perfect blood pressure, do not have high cholesterol, and do not have a thyroid problem. I am very rarely sick, and actually went to the doctor only one time last year for strep throat. I do have a knee problem, but this is mostly due to a car accident I was in during high school. I have never had a cavity.

During my pregnancy, I did not gain any weight. I had zero complications until my third trimester, when I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Even so, I was able to control my sugars through diet and exercise until the very week before my delivery, when I went on medication “just to be safe.” I then gave birth to a perfectly healthy, completely average-sized baby. The next day, my diabetes went away and my blood sugar, though slightly elevated, has not given cause for concern.

I can run a mile in about 15 minutes, and can make it through a Zumba class without stopping to rest. I’m a stay at home mom now, but in the days of yore I was a preschool teacher and spent ten hours a day keeping track of 12 two-year-olds– not for the faint of heart.

I am all of these things. And I am also almost one hundred pounds overweight.

I am writing this post in response to this post:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2085226/PLUS-Model-Magazines-Katya-Zharkova-cover-highlights-body-image-fashion-industry.html

Specifically, in response to many of the comments, which were, if I’m being honest, total bull shit.

The model in these photos wears a size 12 (remember, Marilyn Monroe was a 14). She is obviously curvy and has a tummy. GOD FORBID THE WOMAN HAS A TUMMY. It’s my guess that if she were wearing clothes, we wouldn’t at all notice a lot of the ‘flaws’ that people are so upset about.

A lot of the comments are from women who are considered ‘plus-size’ themselves, and are happy to see their body types represented in a fashion magazine. Many of these women would never be considered obese, but are not the model-skinny that is so sought after these days. These women were SO happy to see a beautiful, youthful, healthy looking girl.

And then there were the negative Nancy’s. The women who, I can only assume, are so evil and bitter because they haven’t let themselves eat in twenty years.

One woman, in response to one of the aforementioned happy, normal-sized women commenters, responded, “Ok, go ahead and pretend like everything is fine and you are happy with how you are. We know the truth.”

Oh you do, do you? I wonder if she imagines that overweight women cried into our pillows when we heard that Hostess was going bankrupt, or that after a full day of audacity– how dare we walk around with normal people as if nothing is wrong– we stare at ourselves in our mirrors and feel sick.

I suppose that may be true of some overweight women. Not this one, though. Not by a long shot. I can’t even remember the last time I gave more than two seconds thought on whether or not I looked ‘good’– really, lets THINK about that for a moment– what have we become, as a society, when we are spending so much time grooming ourselves? What other awesome amazing things could we be doing with our time?

Another said, “That girl’s fat rolls are disgusting. If I saw her in a swim suit, I would tell her to cover up.”

Which means, I guess, that when you see those girls at the pool with their flat bellies and perky boobs that we should be HONORED to see them in their bikinis. That when the young coeds walk by with cut-offs so short that their POCKETS ARE LONGER THAN THEIR SHORTS, instead of being shocked and bewildered, I should be groveling at her feet and congratulating her on winning the ‘you’re so skinny’ award.

Friends, here’s the truth. I will just bottom line it for you.

Do I wish I was healthier? Of course. Who doesn’t?

Do I wish I was skinny? …. Not really.

In fact, the only time that I wish I was skinny is when other people tell me that I should. It gets into your brain and sits there, and you start to think, you know, maybe I SHOULD do something…. even though I’m perfectly happy, very healthy, and all ready feel that I’m living my life the way I want to and imagined that I would.

When you’re skinny, no one cares what you eat. No one cares if you’re a binge drinker, if you put all kinds of chemicals and additives into your body, if you smoke or go to a tanning booth. No one cares. But when you’re fat– when the WHOLE WORLD CAN SEE YOU IN YOUR INFAMY– it’s like everyone starts counting how many calories you’re consuming for you. And everyone has an opinion. Oh, EVERYONE has an opinion.

Everyone wants to tell an overweight girl how she should dress, what she definitely shouldn’t wear, and whether or not she should be allowed out in public. And also, my opinions on fashion suddenly do not matter, as if by being fat I am now also blind. No one seems to want to listen to ME when I want to stand at the mall and scream through a bull-horn, “LADIES. THERE ARE ONLY PROBABLY SIX OF YOU THAT CAN REALLY PULL OF SKINNY JEANS. THANK YOU.”

And everyone wants to tell us how we should be eating, too. I’ve had all kinds of advice– from not eating at all during the day to only consuming liquids, to only eating cereal to only eating meat. But when I want to talk about food? Oh boy. Man does THAT open up a can of worms.

And that is one thing that just doesn’t make any sense. If you want to talk about cars, do you go to a guy who rides a bike everywhere? So if you want to talk about food– why wouldn’t you want to talk to someone who LOVES food?

And friends– I LOVE food. And I’m SO tired of being ashamed of it.

My mom taught me when I was little that one way you can show people how much you love them is by cooking for them– carefully choosing the best quality ingredients and then carefully combining them into a dish. Choosing other dishes that are complimentary. Finding new ways to make old things, and spending time getting to know what the people around you like so that you can learn how to cook for them.

That sure doesn’t sound like popping open a Slim Fast, now does it?

Now don’t misunderstand me. I know that cooking and eating well does NOT necessarily mean that you have to also eat unhealthy foods– trust me– I know this. Ask anyone who knows me what kind of food I make for my child– I even handmade her BABY FOOD because I didn’t want her eating additives  and chemicals. Someone asked me once how Maren likes her hot dogs cooked– boiled or grilled, I guess– and I blinked at them for a second and responded, “I don’t know. Maren’s never had a hot dog.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it is not a crime to be overweight. I’m not hurting anyone. That model is not hurting anyone. She is not stealing jobs from a size 4 model, nor is her very image going to climb off the paper and eat you.

I’m healthier, stronger, and more active than many skinny women I know. I’m happy, I’m comfortable, and I am enjoying my life, thank you very much. I walked down the aisle in a size 18 dress, and my husband loved me then and loves me now.

Speaking of which– before I was married I would often get THE SPEECH. The Speech about how I wouldn’t ever find a man if I didn’t lose weight. That is just so stupid it almost makes me laugh. I have NEVER had a hard time dating– NEVER. Mitch is NOT the only guy who ever proposed to me, either. I sometimes would turn my phone off on the weekends to get some damn alone time.

And I know that people say this, and it sounds so empty and stupid, but I am so serious when I say that if there was ever a guy who looked me over and said “Ick” and walked away, that guy had just done me the best favor that anyone ever did. Think about that. If you wear a size six and a guy tells you that he would never date, say, a size ten, what does that really mean about that guy? And are you planning on EVER gaining weight? Better hope your thyroid stays in check and your pregnancies all go smoothly. Personally, I’d rather have a man who saw me and said wow right away. And that’s what I have.

No, I’ve never run a marathon or walked down a cat walk. But this body has carried a child, gone through three days of labor, vaginal delivery for three hours (!), and then finally a C-section. I’ve done boot camps. I’ve tried running. I go on walks and hikes and bike rides. My daughter and I dance every day. When I go out, no one can keep me off the dance floor. I am fun, funny, and daring.

I’m sick of people pitying overweight women– and I’m beginning to think that its something else. I’m beginning to wonder if the issue is really resentment– women who were unhappy being heavier, lost weight or work very hard to maintain their weight, wondering WHY OH WHY these other women just walk around HAPPY, as if NO ONE has ever told them that they are overweight? I mean– hello– hasn’t ANYONE EVER TOLD THEM THAT THEY SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF THEMSELVES???? Because they can’t picture being overweight and happy, they don’t think that anyone else ever could, either. So they paint with a broad brush and figure that we must be kidding ourselves.

Well I think it’s time for society to move on. I don’t think that there are any overweight people in the nation who don’t know that they’re overweight. I don’t think that anyone needs a reminder, a nudge, or heightened awareness. We are all grown-ups, and we can decide on our own if we need to do something new or try a new path. Our doctors will tell us if we’re being stupid. THAT’S THEIR JOB.

And another thing. If I am wearing my swimsuit, swimming with my daughter, and someone comes and tells me that I better cover up, I will pound your ass into the sand. It shall come to pass. I will do this thing that I have decreed.

When I was young, my siblings and I used to visit a farm outside of town every weekend. My parents referred to this as “Forced Family Fun Day” because there was literally nothing else for us to do but play together.

Once, another family (from THE BIG CITY) was there, visiting the owner of the farm. They had two boys and a girl, and the six of us looked at each other warily. I was never as conscious of my tangled hair and dirty knees as when I was looking at kids like this—freshly pressed, coordinating outfits, and not a spot of dirt on their shoe laces.

It didn’t take long before my brother dared one of the other kids to touch the electric fence—just wait, don’t stop reading, or you might miss the utter genius that is my brother. He knew that the kid would refuse—DUH—it’s an electric fence! My brother started talking him through the process—so tell me why you won’t touch it? He asked. “Because I’ll get shocked.” The kid replied, staring at Vinnie like he was short a few points in the ole IQ department.

So Vinnie kept goading him, and threw up his hands and said (with a twinkle in his eye)—“Fine, then I dare you to PEE on it. You won’t even be TOUCHING it then. I touch it ALL THE TIME—but I guess that YOU can just PEE on it.” To prove he wasn’t a chicken, the kid immediately dropped his trousers and took aim. My sister’s and my jaws dropped—this kid’s nether regions were about to be introduced to 6000 volts of current, carried straight to his jollies by the salt in his own piss.

My brother was shocked (no pun intended), too, and stopped him by knocking into him with his shoulder and directing his steady stream into the grass. While he explained what was about to happen, I remember looking at this kid with total pity and thinking, “Man, but you are a city kid.”

Fast forward to last week, as I was standing in line at the grocery store, seriously aggravated. The clerk and the bagger kept asking me questions—“paper or plastic? Do you want your milk in a bag? Would you like your meat separate from your vegetables? Shall we put your cleaning products in a different bag?”

I stared at them with clenched teeth, and could almost hear myself snarl: Just. Put. My stuff. In a bag.

AND THEN the clerk leaned over and touched Maren. She touched her head and said, “Oh she is so precious—can she have a sucker?”

Um, hello? NO she cannot have a sucker! You, lady, are a stranger! They may not send babies with instruction manuals, but even I know that one! Just because you’re wearing a nametag does NOT mean that I KNOW YOU.

And then I realized—Holy shit. Ho. Ly. Shit.

I’m a city kid.

My backyard is a lake. Every day when Maren and I go for our walk, she has to stop by to wave at THE COWS that are across the street from us. Cows. Real ones. Today for lunch, I had DEER SAUSAGE—made out of deer that someone I know shot.  WITH A GUN. UNTIL IT WAS DEAD AND NOW I AM EATING IT.

The nearest big town is about 20 minutes away, and I find myself tapping the steering wheel impatiently at stop lights. WHY is no one running through the yellow lights? WHY has no one created a third turning lane out of sheer frustration when they just want to turn right and everyone else is stopped nice and neat behind the cross walk? I implore this to the Gods of Traffic, but I have found that they are entirely different here than the Gods of Traffic back in Omaha, who usually just laughed at my complaints and threw more freezing rain down to keep things interesting. In small towns, the Gods of Traffic speak only in soft, soothing voices and keep spritzing the air with lavender and eucalyptus. It’s very disorienting.

At the grocery store, people want to stop and talk to me CONSTANTLY. Well– that’s not really fair. What they really want to do is stare at Maren—because—really– have you ever seen a kid this cute? However, in all honesty, I have been stopped by at least three men wearing coveralls, clutching crinkled up lists in their hands, asking me to please help them find some elusive ingredient that they’ve never heard of before (most justifiable: cream of tartar. Least justifiable: brussel sprouts).

Today I made a hair appointment and when the gal asked me for my address, I gave her the zip code. Then I shook my head and apologized—“Obviously you know the zip code.” I said. “I just moved from a big city, and I think there were at least a dozen different zip codes there.”

“Oh heavens no,” She replied, “I really appreciate it. People sometimes assume that we know, and you know, sometimes it’s nice to be reminded.”

Oh yeah, also, in small towns? EVERYONE IS SUPER DUPER NICE. I have a feeling that the next time I get stuck in a ditch, the people in this town aren’t even going to let me feel good and sorry for myself. Before I can even stomp my foot or ANYTHING, I bet that someone is going to all ready be towing me out. And probably while I’m still wishing that I could at least shake my fist at the skies at least ONE TIME, their wife or mom will have baked me an apple pie and placed it lovingly on my passenger seat. And before I can eat it, they’ll warn me that it just came out of the oven and it’s so hot, and they’ll just never forgive themselves if I burn myself eating it.

I’ve been thinking about this—about how strange it is to be the at least the most unfriendly person I’ve ever met in my life, and then to be thrown in with all of these smiley, happy people—and I have come to the conclusion that I must be on the Truman Show, and that audiences at home are being asked to vote me off and send me back to the big city, where I could just wallow in self-pity and emo-ness and no one would know the difference—OR maybe I will rise to the challenge and become one of these Minnesota-nice folks that are running RAMPANT up here.

Patience, grasshopper.

About eight years ago, my college choir director gave me some advice that I will never forget.

“Hell,” he said, “is when the person that you are meets the person that you might have been.”

Now that I am standing on the other side of things, I must say—there really is something to be said for accomplishing life-long dreams.

I can’t remember when I first decided I wanted to become a teacher. Definitely before I knew what student loan debt and independent verification worksheets and cost of attendance all meant. I wonder if someone had said to me when I was 15 that in order to become a teacher, I’d need to be in college for 10 years, if I would have changed directions and chosen something else—something a little more attainable and reasonable. Who goes to college for 10 years to make less than $40,000 a year? Well…. I suppose someone who would consider hanging out with a bunch of 8 year olds all day not just fun, but life-affirming.

“It’s supposed to be hard,” Tom Hanks said one time. He was talking about baseball. “The hard is what makes it great. If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

I grew up in a society where it was just assumed that you would go to college. I don’t have any friends who didn’t at least have a go at college at some point—everyone I know jumped through all the hoops of ACT/SAT testing, entrance exams, college fairs, etc. Maybe some of you had different experiences—but in my small town, everyone went to college. Really, it was the only way to get the hell out of there.

So I don’t know if I ever—ever—said out loud how scared I was that I wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t apply to any of my dream schools, because I was terrified of a rejection letter. At first, I took only classes that I knew I would do well in, because the idea of failing was petrifying.

I have an issue with being afraid of things—I’m not sure why. I suppose because if I admit that I’m afraid of something, it means, on some level, that I have to admit that there is some remote possibility that I am not in control of absolutely everything that happens to me. I might have to actually relinquish control to the elements for a little bit. It’s hard. A lot of days—a lot of days—I feel like my entire world is balanced on a very fine edge— but IT’S OKAY, SEE?—because I have attached all these steel cables to it, and I’m holding them ALL TOGETHER… and I’ve dug in my heels, and I’m gritting my teeth, and EVERYTHING is going to turn out JUST SO.

But if I admit that I’m scared—that I’m really scared that I might not be quite strong enough to hold it all together—that would be like letting go. And that doesn’t NECESSARILY mean that my world would swiftly tilt…. But it might. It could.

I’m working on that.

My degree posted this week—I now have something that no one can take away from me. To say that my dream came true feels a little lofty—because it’s not like I climbed Everest or won American Idol or had Ben Folds call me and ask me to sing a duet with him sometime if maybe I feel like it—I did something that tens of thousands of other people do all the time.

But it’s true. It’s hyperbole—but it’s true. My dream came to pass. My wish has been granted. Fantasy has been realized. I graduated college. I’m a bachelor of science. Two sciences, actually.

Look, I try to do a good job of not dragging people down. I don’t write so that anyone can feel sorry for me, or, on the other hand, so that anyone can call me a whiner or a negative Nelly or what-have-you. But I do tell the truth– and the truth is that there are some women who are in my situation who might be feeling like they need to give up on whatever their dream is. In the last ten years, I have seen many, many people graduate who worked a lot less than I did. People who didn’t really want to teach, but who graduated anyway. People who didn’t care about school, put in minimal effort and slid under the radar until they could just finish and move on with their lives.

People told me I couldn’t. People wanted me to fail. People told me I didn’t deserve it. People told me that it wasn’t for me—as if education had been invented and developed for some other type of person.

I’m not much for spite, but I can tell you that there are times that I wish those people felt every grade I earned like a pebble in their shoe.

I am living proof that it can be done. There isn’t anything special about me; I don’t have super human powers or amazing abilities. I didn’t even have a whole lot of faith in myself– obviously. But I had this stubborn, mean streak running through me– this inner voice that would stamp her feet and blow out a huffy breath and glare at professors and advisors and difficult homework assignments.

I will do this, I would hear myself think, I will do this because I will.

Maybe what has been so startling to me since my degree posted is this feeling of magic and impossibility and hope. I don’t know how to stress this enough, and make it seem real, especially now that it isn’t—I never thought that I could make it. I never thought that this would happen. I never thought that I could do it. But I did. And now it’s done. And now I wonder—what else could I do?

When I saw my name on the list of graduates, I checked it probably seventeen times. And the more I saw my name—standing there, written right there, as if it belonged next to all those other names—the more I felt justified in every crazy thing I’ve had to do for the last ten years to get by.

Some people dream about climbing Mount Everest, or running marathons, or winning the lottery… all I’ve ever wanted to do in my entire life is teach.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever, ever, ever give up.

The above quote was spoken by me, in a very un-ironic tone last week. Probably the most emo moment of my life. 

Mitch and I had just driven to B-town for a little sight-seeing– little being the optimum word. Back in my day, my hometown had six stop lights, and they were all pretty pointless. When crossing Main Street, you might die of boredom waiting for a car to drive by and threaten you. 

Internet, I am moving. When we got home from our visit to my hometown, we were greeted with 26 50-gallon plastic bins full of everything we’ve accumulated in the last 5 years of cohabitation. Mitch has been hired by a new company in northern Minnesota, and he starts on Monday. This is real life people. This is happening. 

As excited as I am, I’ve been oddly emotional about the move. I suppose that I should be realistic about things and just accept the fact that I’ve lived within 45 minutes of the place where I was born for my entire life. The nooks and crannies of my mind are filled with memories of home. 

Mitch drove me home, and my friend McKayla came with us and entertained Maren in the backseat. They patiently listened to all the stories from all my ‘back in the days’ that they’ve heard a hundred times, and asked questions when I got quiet. They wouldn’t let me apologize for being boring– they insisted that they wanted to hear all the stories.

When people ask me, I tell them I had a great childhood, and it isn’t really a lie. I’m not one of those people who carries around a lot of regret for the way things were. But when I start to really examine ‘the way things were’…. to be honest, I think that the Universe could have done a little better. 

It needs to be said, it really does. When you grow up in a small town, the most dangerous thing to be is different. You spend so much time wandering around, wishing that someone would see something in you that they recognize. And when they don’t, you try to make things up that maybe YOU can recognize in someone else. Adolescents are nothing if not malleable. 

But the human spirit is not so flexible, and it will always give you away. And people knew that I was a phony– people knew I was faking it. I was just different, and I wasn’t mature enough to know that it was okay. And I didn’t have many people recognizing that I was floundering, that I was drowning. I let people walk all over me, and people blamed me for the way I was treated. All I wanted– desperately, desperately wanted– was to feel like I was home. 

I wouldn’t say that I have a hole inside me, created by the way I grew up. But I do have some broken places. 

Mitch asked me if I wanted to visit the cemetery, and I said no. But he pointed the car through the gates even so, knowing that I really just didn’t want to be sad.

I am not the kind of person who feels like they have to visit a cemetery in order to remember someone. I don’t feel like the souls of our loved ones are hanging out by their gravestone, just waiting for someone like me to come along. But I do think that when you love someone and lose them, a piece of yourself is just stuck there. So when I stood at the headstone of a friend who’d died suddenly in a car accident 12 years ago, I’ll be honest– I wasn’t really thinking about him the whole time. I mean, at first I was– of course– I was wondering who he’d be today. He’d be in his thirties, he’d have a wife, probably kids, he’d have a job and hobbies and all kinds of things. I thought about that, but behind it all, I was thinking about an awkward 14 year old who shyly sat next to him at the sub shop downtown, frantically smoothing her long blonde hair as he divided his meatball sub and gave me half. It was one of those moments that a girl dreams about for weeks– the first time a boy looks at her and smiles and she wonders– Is he really smiling at me? 

That was the summer of 1999, and by the end of that summer, he was gone. It’s been over ten years, and I still remember the pit in my stomach as I ate that sandwich, praying I wouldn’t get sauce on my lip, praying I could think of something to say if he asked me a question. 

His was not the only grave I visited that day. And there was also a sick, sinking feeling when I realized there was a grave I couldn’t find, so instead I had to close my eyes in the cold and blink back tears as I thought of one of the first truly decent human beings I’d ever met in my life. 

Because we only have one life, there’s no way to know what would have been if things had turned out differently. But I can say this for the Universe- we get what we need. Who knows who I would be today, if I didn’t grow up in that town, have those experiences, met those people, love some and lose some… for better or for worse– I am my childhood. 

In one of my favorite books, The Giver, the town council holds a coming-of-age ceremony where they give adolescents a job assignment and then thank them for their childhood– for their contribution to the community. I don’t know if I contributed anything to my hometown. I don’t really care if I did or not. I don’t miss it there– not one bit. There’s a part of me that can’t pack my bags fast enough– and another part of me that mourns that Maren won’t remember it. It won’t be a place where I have memories of my own, she has memories of her own, and we have shared memories– like it is for my parents and I. It will be a foggy, make-believe place, and all my stories will seem like myths to her.

When we drove out of town that day, I was pretty quiet. It’s scary to me to go somewhere new, after spending the last decade carving out a place for myself here. But because I know what it was like to be different, to be alone, to be scared, and to make huge, awful mistakes– I also know what it is to be brilliant, to be resilient, to become fearless, and to march defiantly into your dreams, and make no apologies. 

For better or for worse, I am what I am because of my childhood. So, thank you, Blair, for my childhood.

Recently, I’ve been taken to task by friends about my position on the Occupy Wall Street movement, and also why my family did not take part in the demonstration in my city last weekend.

It’s such a polarizing issue among my friends and family that I’ve honestly been avoiding it… but I’ve been feeling guilty for being quiet on it. So here goes.

To be honest, Mitch and I had planned on attending the protest in our town, but then got scared by reports of police brutality and widespread arrests. This may seem pretty cowardly– especially if you have been arrested at one of the demonstrations– but all I can really say about that is that we’re parents, and the fear of being arrested and taken away from Maren was just too much. Even if we weren’t arrested, I kept having visions of the police tossing pepper spray into the crowd and it hurting Maren, or even of the crowd getting too wild and Maren getting hurt.

We thought about getting a babysitter and just praying that we wouldn’t be arrested, but then– 100% honest– I got strep throat on Friday and was so sick that I didn’t get out of bed for two days. So there was no civil discourse participation from us that weekend.

All in all…. I think I might be glad we didn’t go. The issues seem so widespread and there doesn’t really seem to be a central voice that connects all the people at the protest– I would have had a hard time articulating my support. I am a liberal, but not as liberal as many of the people involved in the protests. I would not call myself pro-welfare, but I do see situations where assistance is appropriate. I am not anti-corporation, either. I do choose to patronize small businesses whenever I can, but I also have seen corporations do great things.

I am also not anti-rich.

I grew up poor– and not just a little bit. I grew up very poor. It’s hard for me not to resent people whose parents paid their way through college– especially when they didn’t care, got a million chances, and didn’t even need a degree to get the ‘job’ that they wanted. But, of the rich people that I know, the fact is most of them got that way by working very, very hard. Most of them got that way not just by being smart or having connections, but also by working very, very hard. On their weekends, their evenings, their vacations…. every spare moment they’re thinking about their work. Additionally, a lot of the rich people that I know took a lot of risks. Mitch and I know one guy who lived off of fifty percent of his salary for his entire adult life. That doesn’t just mean no fringe fun, like going out to dinner or cable TV. It meant no phone, no car, renting a basement from an elderly couple, and never. NEVER going out. I’ve known people who mortgage their home, borrow against life insurance, and other crazy risks to see their business succeed. Sometimes they go to school for a crazy long time and go into a field with a crazy amount of stress.

Additionally– a lot of the rich people I know are extremely generous. It’s true that they don’t want to be taxed more, but I don’t think it’s because they’re greedy– at least, not the ones that I know– I think its more because if they are giving money away, they’d rather choose where it goes.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met some rich jerks, too. A kid I knew in college once yelled at me for giving a bum in Europe some spare change. “That’s why you’ll ALWAYS be poor,” he said, sneering. “People only get rich when they don’t give their money away.”

But I’ll tell you what makes me mad.

What makes me really mad is the impression I am getting– from the media, from politicians, from some of the talking heads I’ve been seeing around lately– that they think they are all oh-just-so-much smarter than the rest of us. That because I am poor, I must be lazy and stupid. That because I think it is not right that Wall Street accepted a billion dollar bail out and then laughed at us, I must be looking for a hand-out. That because my husband and I are struggling, I must be spending large amounts of money on frivolous, crazy purchases.

I’m tired of hearing about the trickle-down effect. What is that supposed to look like? I’ve been hearing about how this so-called trickle down effect is supposed to work, and yet, ever since I started paying taxes (and yes, I pay taxes) all I’ve seen is rich people getting richer, and poor people getting poorer, and middle class people getting poorer, too.

It makes me sick– really, really sick– that there are people who got so super rich by being dishonest. A lot of these people got rich due in part– in huge part– to the work of so many people who never got rich from their work during better economic times. And now, when the country was hit by hard times, the rich guys bailed. They laid off the people who’d worked for them for decades, stole their pensions, and went on Fox news and called them whiners. They want poor people to stop asking for hand-outs– and I think that poor people would agree! I think we’d all much rather have jobs then have welfare.

I know a lot of poor people, too. A lot of us poor people have a lot of disadvantages. I don’t mean to whine– it’s just a fact. A lot of people weren’t born to families that are supportive or stable. A lot of people are never given an example of someone who succeeded– someone who “made it”– and so they don’t ever try to make it either. Some people are born with disabilities or disorders (and most of these people are targeted by credit card companies, lured by promises of an easy life, and then spend the rest of their life with crippling debt). Is it really fair– really seriously SERIOUSLY fair– that these people struggle their entire lives? Is it a huge shock that so many of these people turn to crime, alcoholism, and drugs?

Is this the best we can do?

However… I don’t have a lot of faith in the process. I don’t think that any amount of protests will make those people– the really crooked ones– change. I think that the only thing that will make those people notice us is when it affects their bottom line. We are many, they are few.

The truth is this: We don’t need them. THEY NEED US.

I’m tired of these jerks acting like we are a bunch of naughty children that just need to be DEALT WITH. I’m tired of politicians and the media telling us just to sit down and be quiet. I’m sick of it, and obviously a lot of people are.

If every single protester took a pledge not to buy anything– ANYTHING– other than food for the next year, I think we’d see a pretty substantial policy change (and hey! we could even make a go at not buying food if we all worked together!). If everyone who used a bank who accepted bail-out money withdrew their money and took it elsewhere (or just kept it!) we might see what ‘customer service’ actually means.

Also. People will laugh at you when you attempt to do this. Promise. Because most of those guys have spent their whole lives laughing at people like us– because they were taught that we are completely insignificant.

If you are serious about wanting things to change then you need to show them how insignificant we are not. We are many. They are few.

If I were one of my readers, I would be pretty angry right about now (for argument’s sake, we’ll just pretend that the majority of the hits on this website do not, in fact, come from me reloading the page just to see the site stats change. Because I never do that. For reals.).

Here you are, you stick with me for years while I get ready to start teaching, I actually get done with stupid classes, start teaching– and I don’t say a single word about it. I’m sure you’ve all been perched on the edge of your seats.

Well.

About ten years ago, I was getting ready for my first vocal recital. I was a freshman in college, in the Wayback Times. In the Long Long Ago.

My vocal coach was a nice lady who was a very talented soprano, herself. She was relatively new to the college…. and I have some suspicions that she may have had a little bit of performance anxiety. So when it came time for our first recital, she was very nervous backstage.

I was the first singer. I was quite literally puking in my mouth. I’m a good singer– you won’t ever hear me say that I’m not– but solo singing has never been my strong suit. I would much rather sing in a choir. Team player, turns out. Who knew.

So I’m standing there, waiting for my cue, when my coach comes up to me and says,

“Okay, I’m going to go out there and say a little welcome, there will probably be applause, and then you come out.”

I nodded. And then she said,

“No wait. I’m not going to say anything. I’m just going to go sit down. So wait like, fifteen seconds, and then go.”

I nodded again. My legs felt like steel rods being held together by balloons full of pudding. And then she said,

“No, I’ll welcome them. So wait for applause.”

And then, without waiting for my reply, she left me backstage by going out into the hallway. There was no applause. Nothing happened.

I turned to my accompanist, an enormously talented man that I had no business singing in front of, and stared at him like maybe I might have forgotten his name. Or what he was doing there. And also, what I was doing there.

He said, “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

He said, “Are you ready?”

I paused. Then shook my head.

He walked resolutely to the stage door and flipped it open. He came back to me, put his hands on my shoulders and told me to take a deep breath.

I did.

Then he shoved me out the door and started clapping.

I stumbled, righted myself and walked onto stage. I pulled myself together, and sang very well. I mean, for a girl raised on rock and roll and being forced to sing opera.

That’s kind of how I feel about teaching most days. I feel totally ready, I know that I can do it, and then I stand there and watch all the kids come in and my brain just kind of locks up. I have no idea what is going to happen from day to day. I have no idea if I’ve prepared enough.

And, to be honest, I don’t really have a clear objective. Some days I have to remind myself that I am a student, too, and I’m there to learn. Some days I have to remind myself that I am also there to teach. Every day, I know– and it’s gut wrenching– that no matter what I am there for, its possible that I could be the only positive interaction they have all day. Even though the lessons I am teaching them are a part of my education, they are also a part of their education.

Sometimes my mind gets kind of fuzzy and quiet.

And then I feel the push, and that I can’t explain. It’s not like my recital, where I was physically pushed out of my fear and forced to realize that I could do it.

But I take a deep breath, and all that hard work comes back to me. All the books I read, all the studying I did, all the training I had. Plus, you know. The mojo part of it. Kids and animals, man. They just get me.

I’m learning a lot, I’m loving a lot. I’m crying a lot, too. It’s a lot like I thought it would be, and a lot harder than I thought at the same time.

But I’m doing good. Well, I mean…. as good as a girl raised on rock and roll and forced to sing opera. Technique, tradition, dedication….. and soul.