The Divine Comedy

I was told once that I don't handle criticism well.

And it really hurt my feelings.


I've long been a fan of Jerry Seinfeld. And his latest project, the web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, has brought more to my life than just further appreciation for the comedian.

It's given me a sense of belonging.

Seinfeld begins every show modeling a classic car he's picked out to represent the comedian he's about to go pick up for a coffee date. He provides an in-depth description and visual inventory of a cool vintage automobile, while offering a candid and poetic reason behind its metaphorical representation of his comedic colleague. My favorite was when he picked up Louie C.K. in a bright orange Fiat Jolly. The similarities still keep hitting me.

Numerous cameras harnessed in the car allow viewers to witness a very genuine conversation between two professionals in the same field, as they make their way to a coffee shop. The two comedians discuss various things like child-rearing and life on the road. And as beautiful footage of foaming milk and coffee pouring in slow motion rolls, the comedians talk about their life in the field of comedy.

It is within this dialogue, I feel at home.

Now, this isn't to say that I think of myself as a comedian. Or even all that funny. I don't aspire to host a talk show, or write a hit sitcom, or have a small part as a funny best friend in a chick flick. But I do find myself relating entirely to the job of a comedian.

What other profession allows for hoards of people to anonymously judge one's professional ability on an extremely routine basis?

None that I can think of.

Except the professor.

I've never done stand up in a dark night club in front of a crowd of drunks. But I regularly stand in front of a room full of people and try to get, and keep, their attention.

For both the instructor and the comedian, the goal is to appeal to the most number of people in the audience. Both have to entertain, challenge and inform. Both try not to alienate anyone. And both have to keep the audiences coming back. The comedian, so he can pay the bills; the instructor, so she can prepare them for the midterm.

But perhaps the biggest similarity between the comedian and the professor is the extreme way in which the professional is scrutinized.

Scrutiny that is both immediate and delayed. Both helpful and hurtful.

As the comedian stands in front of the silent crowd, he can immediately tell he's bombing. Days later, he can read the review of his act, or movie, or television show, in a critic's belabored review in the paper, a magazine or online.

Every semester, a few weeks before final exams, college students get to evaluate their professors. They get to answer a series of questions in which they rank each professor on teaching style, course content, personality and grading fairness. They also get a comments section in which they can write any amount of feedback they feel necessary.

Student evaluations can be a wonderful thing. They give students a great amount of voice and power over an experience for which they are paying. Professors can use this feedback to improve their courses. And the university can judge the effectiveness of the professors it employs.

On top of student evaluations, professors undergo peer evaluations, in which a fellow professor sits in on a colleague's class to observe the teaching style. Then, every year a professor submits numerous documents, which include their student and peer evaluations, for their annual performance review.

This semester, every class period was an immediate critique of my craft. Like the comedian, I have to read the room. Some days I walked out of class after dramatically dropping the mic, with the glint of sweat on my brow and the sound of uproarious applause following me out the door. And other days, I ended class curled up under the lectern while students lined up to have me clarify every single thing I had said over the past hour.

And when student evaluations come in, and they do a week or so after the semester has ended, there is the long-form critique of everything I did or said or implied over the past semester.

This semester, by all accounts, was a good one. I taught more classes, and had more students, than I ever have in all my years of teaching. I stuck to my promise of returning student emails the day I received them. I worked tirelessly on lecture notes and classroom activities. I returned all graded assignments within two weeks and I memorized and used everyone's names.

The last day of the semester I drove home feeling as if I had given my all and truly felt there wasn't anything I would have done differently.

And yet, a week later when the evaluations came in, my stomach tightened.

The report generates a numerical value to show how I performed in all the areas evaluated. It also shows me how my score compared to the other faculty members. I breathed a sigh of relief to see my value was as high as I would have ranked myself.

But then there is the almighty comments section.

And that's where I tend to lose my shit.

I opened the comments section to find a screen full of dense text. My eyes skimmed furiously to see negative phrasing, criticism, judgement and disdain.

I quickly closed the document and sat very still at my desk.

I searched for a distraction. I opted for the Comedians in Cars episode featuring Chris Rock. And that man has had his share of negative feedback.

After the episode ended, I forced myself to read every word each student wrote. Fortunately, most every comment was positive, complimentary and gracious.

But then came those that weren't so glowing. That demanded faster turn around time on grades. That desired a harder midterm exam. That wanted longer lectures. That needed me to talk slower. Talk louder. Talk softer. Talk less. Provide more PowerPoints, provide less PowerPoints, help explain what a PowerPoint is. Grade tougher. Grade easier. Stop assigning grades and just get to know the student as a person.

Every day we are evaluated on a million decisions and actions we do. How methodically we parent, how well we treat our friends, how much we tip our waiter. We face feedback on our actions in a variety of ways: we might be paid a compliment by a stranger, waved at by a friend, hugged by a child, kissed by a lover, high-fived by a co-worker.

But among all the positive feedback lurks a negative comment. That person sitting in the audience who isn't laughing. The student who isn't learning. The friend who feels neglected. The waiter who is cheated.

The negative feedback we get from our actions, from our behaviors, from our abilities, are painful for one simple reason: it's something we already know about ourselves.

If a student ever called me a racist--or heaven forbid, boring--I'd brush it off as radically unfounded. But when a student remarks that I'm not a strong lecturer, or I don't explain certain things thoroughly, or that I'm sometimes forgetful or disorganized, or points out a part of my personality for which I already feel insecure, it hurts down deep.

I prefer to walk around thinking my flaws, my weaknesses, my insecurities, are hidden well beneath my Spanx. And are my little secret. So when they are all pointed out to me by others, who can see them so clearly, I feel vulnerable and exposed.


Because no one wants to have their weaknesses confirmed.

It removes the small glimmer of hope that they really don't exist.

In nearly every episode of Comedians in Cars, the guest will admit to bombing in front of an audience when just starting out in the profession. They talk of the frustration and the heartbreak of not getting laughs in the early years.

It's the equivalent of adjunct teaching.

They talk of the constant feedback from the audience. The absurd need to please the crowd, and the humility--and resentment--that comes with that.

And yet the comedian and the professor are also the kind of professionals who can't seem to find their place in any other line of work. Which makes me wonder if perhaps, just maybe, both sought out a profession that continually puts them in a position to be judged. Is there some need they both have to be constantly evaluated, and to therefor be constantly evaluating themselves? While I'm not entirely sure how the comedian would respond, I would imagine he or she would say exactly what I would:

No comment.

Thorn in Her Paw

Our three year old came home from school one day with a splinter in her thumb. In her mind, this was the most fascinating event that had ever happened in her life. She explained, in great detail, how she got the splinter on a piece of bamboo during craft time. She talked endlessly about how her friends had gathered around to share in her excitement and gawk at her finger. She gabbed on and on about her teachers' reaction to her splinter, and she boasted proudly about how brave she was through it all. We could barely get her to eat dinner for all the talk of timber.

But as the night wound down and her bedtime drew near, we informed her that we would have to take out the splinter.

Her big saucer eyes blinked at us with confusion.

We explained that we didn't want the splinter to cause an infection. We couldn't leave it in her finger.

Blink. Blink.

Then we reached for the tweezers.

From that point forward, the most fascinating experience of our child's life turned into the most traumatic three days in our house.

Morning and night we pleaded with our screaming child. Begged her to just hold still for one minute so we could pluck the log from her thumb. Instead of relenting, she would wail dramatically and crawl up to the highest point on the nearest piece of furniture. We asked for help from her teachers, but they are not legally allowed to pull out splinters. They stood quite firm on this. And not a single teacher would bend to my attempts at backdoor bribery.

Finally, I had the bright idea to wait until our child was sleeping. We would sneak into her room with a flashlight and tweezers and gently extract the plank from her precious thumb. So that night, we bathed her, read her a story, put her to bed and waited.

When we heard her coherent talking shift into her sleep talking--a shift we are experts in discerning--we snuck up the stairs. Jim carried the flashlight and I had the traumatizing tongs at the ready. But as we grabbed her hand and turned it toward the beam of light, we saw a pink, vacant slit in her thumb.

The splinter was gone.

It had worked its way out on its own.

This semester I taught four courses. And for one of the courses, Research Methods, I taught two sections. One was held during the day, and one at night. After the first few weeks of class, I began to see a startling difference in the way the two classes would respond to various assignments, lectures and tests. One section was better at presentations; the other had higher exams scores. One was more laid back; the other more serious. One preferred group projects; the other wanted to work on their own.

I felt as if I was conducting a research experiment between two test groups.

The most notable difference between the two sections came during their final project. They had to use the almighty scientific method to form and test a hypothesis on themselves. For this, they needed to identify a problem in their lives--study habits, stress levels, social media addiction, etc.--and determine an intervention that could alleviate it.

Students had to meticulously track numerous variables for a week, then impose the intervention on themselves, and then track their progress for another week. They had to statistically analyze all the quantitative and qualitative data, then write up and graphically illustrate the findings.

I urged students to think about something in their lives they were already wanting to change. Give thought to a behavior or habit they felt was an obstacle to overcome. Allow this project to be a great excuse to improve their lives.

Both classes seemed skeptical. And hesitant.

Due to the personal nature of the project, I decided that instead of individually presenting their findings with a formal presentation, we would instead, sit in a circle and have a discussion about the triumphs, and failures, of their research.

It's my personal opinion that empirical research doesn't have enough open dialogue.

Or hugs.

The first class gathered around the last night in a large circle with reports and charts in their laps. Their strange, nervous energy had me wondering if the assignment was an epic failure.

A student volunteered to speak first. She had experimented with reducing stress through daily meditation. She found that twenty minutes of meditation in the morning showed a statistically significant difference in her stress level scales. She even found that when controlling for the stress variable of Thanksgiving, meditation was still effective.

The next student also wanted to reduce stress and assumed that having an hour of downtime in the morning would help. She found it did. Not only did she feel less stressed, but she also saw a spike in her productivity, especially on the days she spent her down time away from electronics. Another student wondered if his stress could be lowered if he listened to classical music for a set amount of time in the afternoon. His data was less conclusive, but the anecdotal evidence was promising.

Another student increased the amount of quality time he spent with his girlfriend in an attempt to reduce the stress on their relationship. While he had mostly positive results, the girlfriend did not enjoy discovering, after the fact, that she was part of an experiment. One student went a week without any form of social media to see if it increased happiness. She had the most significant data to present, but warned that the withdraws were difficult and relapse was inevitable.

On and on, student after student talked about the one small modification they made in an attempt to affect positive change in their lives. While most students had significant success with their experiment, a few didn't. Those who didn't have success were reflective. Perhaps they measured the wrong variables. Others bemoaned a lack of rigidity with the intervention. Some wondered if they computed their calculations incorrectly.

But despite all the differences in the outcomes, there was one constant among the night class--they almost all chose to affect their stress levels.

I tried to look at that as a coincidence and not a reflection on my course.

The next day's class alleviated my concerns. We gathered around in a circle in the sun-soaked classroom and everyone seemed relaxed. Numerous students volunteered to speak first. The first student said she had incorporated thirty minutes of exercise to see if it helped her sleep quality. She found that she not only had a significant increase in sleep quality (as tracked by a sleep monitoring devise under her pillow), but she also stopped having headaches and lost 5 pounds.

Another said she decided to stop watching TV at night in an attempt to get better sleep. Not only did she find statistically significant difference in her sleep quality, but she didn't need to use the alarm clock. Another tried reading 15 minutes at night to see if it improved her sleep. Not only did it improve her sleep significantly, but she also realized she's a Harry Potter fan.

Student after student spoke excitedly about their experiments. Again, most had success and others wished they could tweak their intervention or track different variables.

But in the day class, almost every single student tackled the issue of sleep.

I knew that wasn't on me.

After a long semester of exploring the rich details of research design, I felt the students finally understood the importance of experimentation and the power of validated results. They seemed hopeful, excited, empowered.

I was proud of how creative and introspective the students were about their behaviors and the outcomes from their changes in them. Students seemed surprised at how easily their lives were improved and appreciated having hard data to substantiate their improvements.

Was it possible that I not only showed them the importance of research by personalizing it, but did I also help everyone improve their lives?

Assuming I had indeed, I posed the same final question to each group of twenty: Did they continue with the intervention after the assignment was over?

And in both classes, heads lowered.

Most everyone had immediately stopped their interventions and resumed their behaviors as normal.


The morning after my daughter's splinter had magically worked its way out by itself, we awoke to the sound of her excited screams.

"It's out! It's out!" she exclaimed, running around her room with her thumb triumphantly thrusted skyward.

We danced around with her, excited for her victory. And even more excited that that portion of our life--the one in which we pleaded with a screaming child in an attempt to reduce the chance of infection while promising her candy corn for letting us--was over.

And it happened all on its own.

Reflecting on my two classes' individual research projects, I'm able to draw one substantial conclusion.

Change cannot be forced.

You can fear it, you can dread it, you can run screaming from it like it's a tweezer-wielding parent.

But you can't force it.

I suppose if my students really wanted to change a habit in their lives, they would. If they wanted to be on Facebook less, they would. If they wanted better sleep, they'd get it. If they wanted a better relationship, they'd have it.

Because bad habits and negative behaviors are like menacing obstructions buried deep beneath the skin. At some point, it needs to be removed. And there's plenty of research that points to the most probable outcome:

It will work itself out.

May/December

ACT I

Light opens on a dimly lit restaurant. A couple sits at a small table for two, center stage. They are surrounded by several other tables with people sitting at them and eating. There is a subtle sound of conversation and silverware clanking. A waiter, an older gentleman, approaches the couple.

Waiter: So good to see you again.

Wife: Yes. [smiles] Like clockwork.

Waiter: Would you care for your usual drinks, or something new?

Husband: Yes, please. Extra dirty. And four olives.

Waiter: Certainly. M'am? The Zinfandel?

Wife: You know it.

Waiter: Excellent. I'll put your drink orders in and bring you some fresh bread.

Husband: Thank you.

Waiter leaves table and exits stage left.

Husband: [sighs and smiles] This was a long week.

Wife: You say that every week.

Husband: I know, I know. I don't mean to be so cranky.

Wife: You're the perfect kind of cranky. Someone who isn't really cranky, but thinks he is.

Husband stretches legs out to side of table. Sits back.

Husband: You were quiet on the way here. What's the story there?

Wife: Oh, I dunno...Lot on my mind.

Husband: Well, start somewhere.

Wife: Johnny Depp fatigue?

Husband: Start somewhere else.

Wife: [Pauses, fiddles with napkin.] Do you remember the other day we both had off and I wanted to go get a manicure?

Husband: Of course. I dropped you off at that place around the corner from here.

Wife: Right. You dropped me off and talked with me for a bit and then left to go get a coffee.

Husband: Yeah...?

Wife: Well, when you left, the manicurist said [mimics Vietnamese accent] "Ahh, he much, much older than you."

Husband: [snorts] Oh? Much? That's funny.

Wife: I know. I told her "much" was a bit of a strong word, but yeah.

Husband: Normally that doesn't bother you...

Wife: Oh, that didn't bother me. It's what she said after that. [mimics again] "When he came in here I couldn't believe what a man he was."

Husband laughs out loud with a big, one syllable hoot.

Wife: Seriously.

Husband: You don't get more manly than me.

Wife: She said you were elegant. Masculine and elegant. Like you're some kind of wild, beautiful stallion running through midtown.

Husband: Fairly accurate description.

Wife: She was thinking, "How did this girl in the yoga pants and rough cuticles land that?"

Husband: She wasn't thinking that. You're gorgeous. And besides, who cares?

Wife: I know, I know...But the one day I don't shower...

Husband: To be fair, I shouldn't have worn my tweed blazer. Too dangerous....

Waiter delivers the two drinks and a basket of bread. Husband takes a sip of his martini.

Wife: My body took such a beating having kids. I now sneeze-pee and your waist has gotten smaller.

Husband: You're more beautiful now than when we got married. Besides, you're the first to say that looks don't matter. You stress it to the girls all the time.

Wife: Oh, that's just what people say, like "I gave at the office," or "I love working out."

Husband: Wait, you don't like working out? It's like I don't even know you.

Wife: Not caring about looks is what people must do when they aren't known for their beauty.

Husband: Stop it.

Wife: No.

Husband: No, I mean stop drinking my martini. You've got your own drink.

Waiter comes back to the table, takes orders. The orders are not heard, just the sound of muted muttering over background music. Waiter leaves, music stops.

Wife: So, while she's finishing painting my nails, she says, [mimics again] "Awe, you very very lucky lady."

Husband: This sounds mildy racist....

Wife: I mean, I know I'm lucky...

Husband: [smiling] You are.

Wife: Stop. I know. I know you are great. The greatest even. But she doesn't know that. Doesn't know your personality or what you are like as a husband and father. You didn't even do anything and I'm "lucky."

Husband: I find it odd you are telling me this story so much after the fact. That was over a week ago. You usually tell me your thoughts the moment you have them. Even if I'm in the bathroom.

Wife: I know. It just built over time, I guess. Lately I've had a lot of people stressing to me how lucky I am to have you. Like I'm somehow unaware...or unworthy. [pauses, looks around] Or just on the verge of ruining it.

Husband: I'm the lucky one here.

Wife: Oh...not really...The other day the diaper genie was full. And I stood there looking at it forever, thinking: I have no clue how to empty the damn thing. Three and a half years, two kids, a million diapers later and I've never once changed the bag.

Husband: [shrugs] Least I can do.

Wife: Stop it. This is why people think I'm the lucky one.

Husband: You aren't. I am.

Wife: Obviously. [takes sip] Still, everyone acts like you just dropped from the damn sky. But I'm the one who recognized how amazing you are...and I pursued the relationship when others might not have.

Husband: [smiling] Might not have?

Wife: You know...[waving a hand between them]...the age difference. Plus, you remember your hair back then, right?

Husband: Point taken.

Wife: People act like I should count my lucky stars.

Husband: Who? Who acts like that?

Wife: [pauses] My mother.

Waiter refills water glasses. Husband smiles, reaches across table to grab the wife's hand.

Wife: I like that shirt. You're cute and I love you.

Husband: I love you more. And I'm always happy to be out with you on my arm.

Wife: Our relationship only works if people see me as the young trophy wife that I am.

Husband: They do. I was as disappointed as anyone when I figured out you had brains.

Wife: I married older thinking it would come with wealth.

Husband: Tough break. [eats a bite of bread] You ready for class tomorrow night?

Wife: Oh...I guess.

Husband: Where's your normal enthusiasm? You typically can't sleep the night before class because of excitement.

Wife: No, no. I'm excited...

Husband: But?

Wife: Oh...it's just...Well, the other day one of my students said I was really entertaining.

Husband: That's awesome.

Wife: Yeah. If I were an entertainer. I just wonder if they are learning.

Husband: Oh please. The first rule of teaching is: engage the students.

Wife: The second rule is: don't sleep with your students.

Husband: Actually, let's go ahead and call that the first rule. Maybe the only rule.

Wife: Got it.

Husband: You've had lots of experience in the classroom...But this is your first semester carrying the weight of it all. The administrative part, the research part, the advising part. Give yourself time to adjust. Grow into the role.

Wife: You're doing everything you can not to point out how early I am in my career--how green and young I am--aren't you?

Husband: Did the waiter card you? [looking around the restaurant] He should have....

Wife takes another long, pointed drink of his martini.

Husband: A real woman can look past her hatred of olives to make a point.

Wife: [pauses. sighs] I can't even process it all right now. I mean, I've never been more satisfied and excited...the kids, the job....you..... But now I feel like I'm...I dunno....failing in other areas.

Husband: Such as?

Wife: My friends for one. Just don't have as much time, or energy, for everything I used to do with them...

Husband: Like what?

Wife: When's the last time I hosted a Girls' Night? I'm busting my ass trying to make it all work. Trying to fit it all in...It's like Whack-A-Mole.

Husband: Cut yourself some slack. Or no one else will.

Wife: I can't. Who knows if they do.

Husband: Well I do. I actually like when you're distracted. I get more reading done.

Wife: [laughs, takes a drink] You are good for me.

Husband: You're even better for me. Just look at my hair.

Wife: I'm going to check in on the girls. [rummages around in purse for her phone]

Husband: They're fine.

Wife: I know. [still rummaging] But Red was a little fussy earlier. I just want that tooth to pop through already.

Husband: You're so bonded to her.

Wife: [looks up from phone, furrows brow] I'm bonded to both of them.

Husband: No, I know. It's just been so different this time around. [pauses] You're incredible with them. You know that, right?

Wife: Oh I guess. [continues texting, then looks up] Sometimes it's like, I can't even breathe when I look them, I'm so in love. And they are both so sweet and so cute I just want to punch myself in the face. But then...[pauses]. When they are both crying...at the same time...both needing me in the same moment...I just want to walk out the front door, get in the car and leave.

Husband: Can I come?

Wife: Better not. I'm a lone wolf.

Husband: Well, by the time you found your car keys in that purse, they would have probably stopped crying.

Wife: [holds up her purse] This mess is my maternal instinct.

They are silent for a moment. Both take a few sips of their drinks.

Wife: Red makes me feel like a good mom.

Husband: You are.

Wife: No, I mean, I know I am by common, rational standards. But she just makes me believe I'm good. Like I have instincts. She's just so easily comforted by me.

Husband: We all are.

Wife: Yeah, right. I've never felt it was a strength I have as a mother At least not with Cakes. [looks at him for a beat] I wish I could be more like you are with her. More patient.

Husband: I'm only good with her because she's a little version of you. Louder, but basically the same.

Wife: That's part of my struggle...I can barely deal with myself half the time.

Husband: She's lucky to be like you. And that's why we get along well. I'm as intrigued by her as I am by you.

Wife: I think you mean entertained.

Husband laughs. 

Wife: [looks down at phone again] Ok, she wrote back. Baby girl is out. Cakes is painting. [sighs, relieved. pauses and drinks.] Are you ready for the executive's retreat next week?

Husband: Oh, I guess...[looks off] It's sometimes a little bit of a challenge.

Wife: Your job? Or being married to me?

Husband: Both. But also, just knowing I'm the same age as the others...

Wife: ...the other men. You can say it. There are no female executives.

Husband: The company just doesn't trust women to be leaders.

Wife: Why would they?

Husband: Too unstable...

Wife: Oh! [she claps once] The Vanity Fair came yesterday and Angelina Jolie is on the cover.

Husband: Yes, isn't there a Philip Roth interview in there?

Wife: Yes, yes. [she swats a hand] I put it on your nightstand. But did you see the cover? The headline says something like, "An In-depth Interview with Mrs. Pitt."

Husband: [laughs] Burn.

Wife: I know, right? [takes a sip] I mean, the world has referred to Gavin Rossdale as the "Bush frontman" for twenty years. No Mr. Stefani? Bush hasn't released an album since the early nineties. They aren't even a band anymore.

Husband: No...they got back together a few years ago. I think they have a new album out...

Wife: Oh...Well. They called him the "Bush frontman" for so damn long the band had to get back together.

Husband: Wonder what Mrs. Rossdale thinks about that.

Wife: [laughs, eats a bite of bread] So anyway, the retreat. What were you saying?

Husband: Oh...I'm the same age as all of them but they all have grown kids. So flying off to a retreat in the woods is no big deal for them or the wives they leave behind. Their kids can drive themselves to school. The wives aren't stuck changing all the diapers.

Wife: Don't worry, women can feel resentment at any stage of life. I'm sure those wives have plenty to go on.

Husband: I can only imagine...

Wife: Besides, those guys are probably wishing they had waited longer to have children, like you did. You had the advantage of building your career before your children came along. [pauses, looks off] You don't have to struggle with being early in your career and early in parenthood. [takes a sip] Besides, our two babies keep you young.

Husband: Then how do you explain how much grayer I've gotten since Cakes was born?

Wife: Elegance.

Waiter brings a tray full of plates to the table. Places plates in front of the man and woman. 

Husband: We need to baby proof a bit more in the house. Red is on the move now.

Wife sighs heavily. Cuts into her steak. Takes a bite. Sits back.

Husband: What? Am I doing it again? Being overly cautious?

Wife: Always. But it's not that. It's just the monotony of it all.

Husband: Of life?

Wife: Yeah, life and parenting. It's like, I do the dishes every day. Sometimes twice a day. And I'm washing those damn bottles and thinking: This will only last until tomorrow. Then I have to do it all over again. And the laundry. It's never ending. So many tiny pairs of Frozen underwear to fold and put away. It's adorable and maddening all at once. [pauses] I know I need to savor the moments...but I just get tired of the monotony.

Husband: And yet, we lose our minds when something goes awry. Breaks our routine. Like a cold. Or teething.

Wife: I know...But even the chaos feels monotonous.

Lights go down for a moment and then back up again. Time has passed. The waiter comes and clears plates. Sets down a cup of coffee in front of the man and places the bill in the middle of the table.

Husband: [takes a cautious sip of his coffee and sits back] We don't read enough plays.

Wife: [rolls eyes] Oh god...

Husband: We used to read a lot of plays. And go see a lot of plays.

Wife: Yes, and get ten hours of sleep a night...and go to the movies...and drink at bars....

Husband: I know, I know. I just really think we need to read more plays.

Wife: Why? Oh, because we just saw Birdman? 

Husband: No. I mean, that reminded me, but I just really like reading plays.

Wife: I guess. They are just always so depressing. Who cares about the drunken malaise of the upper-middle class?

Husband: Okay then, Shakespeare?

Wife: Me thinks no.

Husband: We can read something more contemporary. Maybe find a play with just a couple of characters and read it to each other.

Wife: Naked?

Husband: Whatever works.

They sit back and look around the restaurant.

Wife: [breaking the silence] You always do that, you know? You always seem so nostalgic for the past. For the things we used to do. Always wanting to recapture the past.

Husband: Maybe. But you are always wanting to move forward at lightning speed. Tackling project after project like you are blissfully unaware of how long life is.

The couple is silent again. Husband pays the bill. 
The waiter comes up quietly to retrieve the tray of cash.

Husband: [to waiter] I don't need any change.

Waiter: Thank you both. We will see you next week, yes?

Wife: [smiling] You know it.

Stage darkens. A light appears stage right onto a rounded, 
blue exterior door. The couple exits through the door.

Wife: [rubs hands together rapidly] Burrrr!

Husband: I know, it's brutal. [helps wife into her coat, holds her in an embrace, rests his chin on the top of her head.]

Wife: Everyone is right. I am the lucky one. [looks up at him] I just hate they know that.

Husband: They know nothing.

Wife: All good things in my life stem from you, you know.

Husband: Hush. You're gushing.

Wife: [looks up at the sky] I didn't realize it was going to be this cold tonight.

Husband: I hate winter.

Wife: So cranky...

Husband: I'm more lovable in the summer.

Wife: Says who?

Husband: Your manicurist.

The couple walks slowly, hand in hand, off stage right.

END SCENE

Thanksgiving: A Series of Unfortunate Events

Morning

It is Thanksgiving morning. Roughly 6 am. I awake to a shooting pain on the top of my hand. A pain that is precise, small, deep and commanding. I am on my side, one arm under my pillow and the other up under my chin. My eyes flutter open to see, mere inches from my face, a black creature of some kind on the top of my hand. Not knowing what it is, and too groggy to process the information my eyes are absorbing, I instinctually--and with the adrenaline of a mother lifting a car off her child--raise my other hand up from under the pillow and swat the creature away with rapid and blunt force.

My eyes close again. The pain is getting worse. Tighter, smaller, but stronger. A specific point on the top of my hand where the crease makes my wrist. I try to ignore the pain and allow sleep to take back over. My mind begins to wander. What was that large, black creature I saw so briefly before heroically batting it across the room? It seemed black as night. And...triangular? Fan shaped? What if--I begin to panic and my eyes shoot open--it was a spider?

Thinking now of my two precious children sleeping down the hall, and fearing the spider--who has now been batted toward the door and could be making his way to their sweet fleshy skin--I sit up. I look toward the floor beside the bed. I know I swatted in this direction; where is he?

"Meg...." Jim grumbles through a deep slumber. "What are you doing?"

"Something bit me," I whisper, poised and ready to pounce.

"What do you mean...something..." He dozes momentarily before awakening to finish, "Bit you?"

With my eyes still combing the floor of our bedroom, I hold up my arm so he can see my wrist.

"It doesn't look like you've been bitten," he exclaims. "It looks like you've been shot!"

Only then do I think to finally look at my wrist. I bring it close to my face and see the damage. A large lump, swelling by the second, and in the center: the bullet hole.

"Mother of god!" I declare, and pull my legs up under me as though the bed is my life raft in a sea of sharks.

Jim springs and quickly makes his way around to my side of the bed, quietly and intently searching for the lone gunman.

"Well, how are we supposed to find anything over here?!" he exclaims. His eyes dart around the various piles of magazines, shoes, maternity clothes intended for donation, used contact lenses and an open piece of luggage I've yet to fully unpack.

"Are you freaking kidding me? Now's not the time!" I yell. "Find that creature!!"

Jim rifles through the mess, throwing up socks and scarves and magazines like a mower running through a pile of leaves.

"Found it!" he cries.

And there, against the baseboard, having clearly been batted across the room and slammed against the wall with the force of a maniac, twitching in a state of shock, was the biggest ass wasp you've ever seen.

Afternoon

The pain on my wrist is subsiding slightly. The swelling is waning. The bullet hole is closing. I'm rushing around to prepare the house and my little family for a Thanksgiving visit from my in-laws.

I sit for a moment with a pad of paper to go over my list of things to do today: I've put the finishing touches on lunch. I've cleaned the house from top to bottom. I've bathed both the girls. I've done two loads of laundry and a load of dishes. I've decorated the house with all my favorite holiday decor. I've lit candles. I've set the table. And, I've victoriously watched a four pound wasp spin around and around in circles as it made its way down our toilet.

I've nothing left to do but shower.

The girls are resting quietly upstairs. I contemplate a glass of wine, but think better of it. I make my way upstairs. I take a long, steamy shower, mentally enumerating what is left to do before my husband's parents ring the doorbell.

I realize I'm ready.

I get out of the shower and walk into our bedroom, still worried I'll find a hive, but instead, find my husband passed out on our bed. Poor thing, I think. He helped capture my predator in the early hours of the morning. He helped pull all the holiday decorations from the attic. He helped bathe the girls. And he was the executioner who pulled down the handle on the toilet after I happily tossed in the big, black creature by one of his twitchy wings.

I decide to let him sleep.

I dress quickly, towel dry my hair, and back out of our room. I carefully close our bedroom door and creep toward my oldest daughter's room. She's sleeping peacefully. Heavily. Beautifully. I stand in her doorway feeling tight in my chest.

Today is Thanksgiving. It's about being thankful. It's about family. I watch her chest rise and fall with shallow breath. I need to dry my hair. I need to put on makeup. But I can't seem to leave her doorway.

Impulsively, filled with the spirit of Thanksgiving, I decide I want to lie down with her and rest a bit. I tip toe over to her bed. She doesn't move an inch. I carefully shimmy my way onto the bed beside her. She doesn't move an inch. I carefully thread my arm behind her head and bring her close to my chest. She doesn't move an inch. We lie there, embracing, peaceful, calm. My eyes begin to feel heavy. And just as I drift off to sleep, thankful for this moment, reveling in my existence, my child's eyes pop open and she realizes I'm beside her.

"MOMMY!" she declares with the excitement of a thousand three year olds.

And as she lifts her body to hug me back, so happy I'm beside her, she rams her big, hard head smack into my mouth.

I cry out in pain. My lip immediately begins to throb and swell. I break our embrace and run out of her room and down a flight of stairs and into the kitchen to grab ice. I quickly wrap a cube in a paper towel. I hear my daughter crying from her bed, heartbroken she has hurt me and that our snuggle time is over.

I get the bleeding to stop. With ice melting in my hand, I make my way to the stairs, thinking I have time to get to my child before her sobs wake her father and sister from their slumber. As my foot hits the first step, the door bell rings.

I open the door to see my in-laws standing bright-eyed and ten minutes early.

"Oh dear!" my mother-in-law exclaims. "What happened to your face?!"

Evening

My in-laws have left. The welt on my wrist is nearly gone. My swollen lip has subsided enough that I no longer lisp.

The baby is sleeping peacefully upstairs. Holiday music plays softly in the living room as my oldest child paints quietly beside the fireplace. My husband pours me a well-deserved glass of wine.

Despite the feast at lunch, my child complains of hunger.

"I'll make you pasta," I say as I affectionately rub her head.

"Oh! I love pasta," she says, eyes as big as saucers.

This I know. Of all things I make her, she loves my bow tie pesto pasta the most. It secretly thrills me to make it for her, even though I truly hate to cook.

I turn on the stove and place a pot of water on it. Jim brings me my glass and we stand in the kitchen talking about the day.

His parents were good. The visit was nice. The girls were the model grandkids. We feel thankful.

My daughter wanders into the kitchen and hugs my leg as I pour the noodles into the boiling water. I bend down to kiss her. The day is winding down.

I pull a noodle from the rolling water, blow on it and bring it to my mouth. The pasta is ready.

"Go get in your seat, sweetie," I say to her and she makes her way into the dining room and crawls up into her chair.

I turn off the range. The flame extinguishes. I find the lid to the pot and place it on the top. I bring the pot to the sink and prepare to drain the water. But as I tip the pot up on its side, my stung wrist begins to throb and my hand slips slightly. Instantly, boiling water is rushing over my other hand and I yelp, jumping back in pain. As I do this, my finger touches the boiling hot pan and is instantly seared.

I throw the lid, and the pot, and what's left inside of it, angrily into the sink. I storm out of the kitchen holding my finger.

"Run it under cold water!" Jim yells from the kitchen as he gathers wet, hot noodles from the sink.

Minutes later, my finger--still beet red--feels better. Good enough to carry out the rest of my child's favorite meal. I stir in the pesto. I scoop out a portion for my daughter and put it in front of her at the table.

There I sit, wasp stung wrist, fat lip and burned finger, watching my child inhale the pasta I made for her.

"How's your wrist?" Jim asks across the table.

"Better," I say somberly.

"And your finger?" He asks, looking the ice pack I have resting on it.

"Better," I shrug.

"And your lip?" my sweet child asks between bites.

"Better," I respond.

"Good," she says with her mouth full. "I'm sorry I did that."

I laugh. Impressed by her in a whole new way.

"And mommy..." she says quietly.

"Yes," I say, bringing the wine to my lips.

"Thank you for this," she says, pointing to her plate.

And for a moment, I almost think her sweetness, her innocence, her beauty and her kindness are enough to erase all the pain I have endured today.

And it just almost is.

For that, I am thankful.

Overreaching

When my husband was in high school, he asked his parents if he could go to New York City during winter break. They had agreed, back in the days before cell phones and Giuliani’s clean up of Times Square, to let Jim experience NYC all by himself.

The jury is still out on whether or not this decision makes my in-laws amazing parents or outright negligent, but off their teenage boy went to the Big Apple solo.

While there he stayed in a cheap motel in Yonkers and got up early every morning to ride the bus into the city. He would spend 12 hours each day walking alone in the city, eating at restaurants, attending plays and riding in taxis, before catching the last train back to the suburb.

When Jim was a junior in college, he decided he wanted to attend film school. For a top film school, he needed to go to NYC or LA. Having never been to the west coast, he opted for Southern Cal. And so, despite having grown up in small-town Oklahoma, despite having lived at home all through college, and despite having never been to the west coast, Jim applied and was accepted to USC. And so, he set out to live and attend graduate school in the gang-ridden South Central area of Los Angeles.

There, living in the slums, Jim graduated top of his class with a Master of Fine Arts degree in film and television production. He then randomly found his way onto the ABC studios lot for a guided tour of the stages. There, right in the middle of the tour, he befriended a scriptwriter for General Hospital, and a few days later was offered an internship on the show. A few months following, the internship turned into a writing position and he spent years helping write the show and earn it—and himself—two Emmys.

Later, having decided to leave behind the fast-paced and outrageously expensive life in LA, Jim moved back to Oklahoma to buy a house, find a wife and have some babies. But before he did the latter two of those, he saw a job announcement seeking a television scriptwriter for the World Wrestling Federation (now the WWE). Or as Jim calls it, soap operas for sweaty men. Having long been a fan of professional wrestling (I know, I know), and with experience in long-form story telling, Jim applied for, and was given, the job.

So, despite having just bought a house in Oklahoma, he took off for Connecticut, at 6-feet-tall and 130 pounds, to sit in a room full of 7 foot-tall, 350 pound professional wrestlers and draft their stories from week to week. At the time Jim was writing for two of the most famous wrestlers—Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock—for the highest rated cable show on TV: Monday Night Raw. There sat my slender, smart, sophisticated and soft-spoken husband—between hulking, aggressive and powerful men—pitching ideas of how they could poetically bash each other over the head with metal folding chairs.

In general, I have a level of unfounded confidence that gets me through most of the bigger challenges in life. But there are also moments of intimidation and insecurity in which I feel perhaps I’ve overreached my potential. Out-stretched my abilities.

When I was high school, my parents insisted I enroll in advanced Calculus. They had forced this on my sister and brother several years earlier, so I knew I probably wouldn’t escape this absurdity. So, as a senior in high school, I was in class with 15 other students who I came to understand were not there because their parents demanded it, but because they had tested extremely well and earned their seat in the classroom.

Our calculus teacher, despite being among the greatest teachers I’ve ever had, did one truly traumatizing thing: she posted our grades on the wall. And while only our social security numbers identified these grades, there was only ever one grade lower than an A in the entire class. So not only did I feel like the idiot in the classroom, but now a large group of really smart people had my SSN.

It took years of self-love and therapy to see that, while I didn’t make an A in advanced Calculus, I also didn’t do horribly. In fact, I finished that course with a B and have gone on to have a fairly normal and productive life.

When I studied abroad in college, I felt instantly I had overreached. Every part of leaving my home country to live for half a year in a foreign land--even an English-speaking one--was difficult. When our plane touched down in London that first day, I was full of enthusiasm and energy. But when we arrived on campus, my roommate and I were told our dorm room was not yet ready and to come back in a few hours.

She wandered off to buy a cell phone and some other toiletries, leaving me to roam the city all alone in my first day in another country.

While I’d like to say that I went skipping through London drinking tea and looking for the Queen, I actually sat down on a park bench and cried. I was homesick and terrified. Lonely and afraid. And I was fairly certain that I could not survive six solid months in this strange land where cars drove on the other side of the road and it rained constantly.

While looking back on my time studying abroad is only thought of with warm feelings and pleasant memories, the first few weeks were brutal. I used my showers every morning to cry. The early days abroad had me truly believing I was pathetic. I had stretched out my arms for this amazing adventure and felt I couldn't quite grab hold of it.

But after I tackled the first month, I began to find my rhythm. I stopped crying in the shower and started drinking at the pub. I went with my roommates to plays on the West End, bars in SoHo and markets in Piccadilly. We started planning trips to France, Switzerland and Italy. Before the month was up, I dreaded returning to the U.S.

This past week I attended an academic conference focused around my field of study: nonprofit governance. There in Denver, Colorado, the top researchers in the field gathered together to share ideas, papers and teaching strategies. For three solid days I attended session after session in which highly accomplished scholars shared the newest and greatest research being conducted in the field.

Now, as junior faculty I don’t expect to know what these scholars know. I’m not expected to present such sophisticated research at this stage in my career. But I am expected to at some point. And so, with every session, I saw my future unfold and felt my skin break out in a sweat. Beyond that, I often feel a bit of a fraud when I’m teaching to students who are in their 60s or when a student asks if I’m old enough to have any experiences in the field. Despite graduating with the right degrees and securing a faculty position, I often feel my arms aren't long enough to envelop it all.

And don’t get me started on how much I overreached when I became a mother. Even three years in, I feel a bit under qualified to raise these strong and beautiful girls.

The other night, while out to dinner, I asked Jim about his time in New York and LA and Connecticut. Mostly, I wanted to know how he was able to continually put himself into situations in which he was clearly reaching beyond his potential. How did he manage to always extend his arms and grab the things that were just beyond his reach? And, more importantly, why did he never see himself as overreaching?

He shrugged.

“In high school, before I left for New York, I read something in a travel book about how to survive as a tourist in the city.” He responded. “Guess it just stuck with me.”

“Oh?” I asked. “What did it say?”

“When you reach your destination, you’ve earned the right to be there.”

Tabling the Discussion

My three-year-old daughter is a shrewd negotiator.

One of her many schemes is to convince us to let her reserve something for later if we won’t let her have it in the moment. She’ll come to us and ask for a piece of candy. The answer is usually no. She’ll nod respectfully but then ask for the same thing in a different way:

“Can I put a piece of candy on the table?”

When we inquire why she wants to do this, she explains that perhaps later, maybe after dinner, it would be all right for her to have the piece. And if it is, the candy will be ready for her.

This is surprisingly effective.

At any given time in our house, the dinning room table is littered with objects or treats over which my child is in current negotiations. And yet, by bedtime, the table is always magically cleared of clutter.

In my beginning years of teaching at the college level, I unknowingly developed a bad habit: I favored the male students. While this was completely unintentional, I came to the realization a few years in that I was constantly deferring to the men in my classes.

Now, in my flimsy defense, there were many reasons why this was the case. For starters, during the first five years of teaching I was an adjunct and taught undergrads at night in a different town. Often, I was the only person in the entire building late at night with my 20 or so students. To some degree, both conscious and unconscious, I felt a tiny bit of fear as a young female with so many male students. One night in class, during a particularly heated debate about gun control in which two male students became verbally threatening, I actually had justification.

Aside from that, I’ve always gotten along really well with men. In the romantic comedy of life, I am continually type-cast as the protagonist's funny best friend. I was a friend to boys growing up. I was a friend to boys in college. And I worked better with men than women in my first few jobs out of college. So, as an instructor, I naturally gave them the attention I’d always given them.

All of that is on me.

But, the other side is that the men naturally behaved differently in class. They talked louder. Interjected without fear. Effortlessly criticized my thoughts or the thoughts of their classmates. Blurted out without thought. And never struggled to speak their minds. This is an intimidating and powerful thing to watch from the perspective of the instructor. No wonder I favored them; they gave me something to favor.

And yet, the women in my class were consistently better writers, more effective public speakers, more thoughtful debaters and kinder classmates.

So when it finally occurred to me, on the long drive home one night after class, that I was more likely to pay attention to the men—because of fear, intimidation, interest and awe—I knew I had to change my ways.

The next class period I publicly apologized to the students. I spoke to everyone but only made eye contact with the women. I said that while I knew I had been fair in grading, perhaps I’d been too quick to defer to the louder, deeper voices in the class. And, from that day forward, I pledged to be the biggest advocate the women in the class ever had. I offered them private meetings, reference letters, job counseling, or to buy them a copy of Lean In. And then I challenged them to speak up. Sit on the front row. Interject more. And not be overrun by the men in the class as I had been.

Everyone stared at me blankly.

After class that night I felt foolish. How arrogant of me to assume any of the female students needed my advice, let alone wanted it. Maybe my favoritism of the men had been invisible to them. Did I just draw their attention to something they’d never even noticed? Did I offend the women? Alienate the men?

Yet the next day I received two emails, both from female students asking for letters of recommendation. A third asked for career advice. And a handful of others added me as a friend on Facebook.

Currently—having moved on from long commutes and late night classes, to a full time position with office hours—I find myself in very different terrain. And my relationship with my female students is quite different.

Teaching at the graduate level provides a very different student dynamic than the undergraduates to which I’d grown accustomed.  For one thing, women don’t struggle in class to compete with the men. They contribute equally. I don’t find myself deferring to the male voices, as they never overpower a woman’s. Happily, my female and male students are equal in the classroom. Both genders interject without fear. Challenge each other. Both are strong writers, good speakers and kind to each other.

While there isn’t much difference between my male and female students academically at the graduate level, there absolutely is at the personal level. My female students are struggling with a host of concerns that my male students either don’t feel or don’t express.

Emails from my female students pour in about missing class because they are stuck at home with a sick baby and no childcare. Or crying after class about a bad grade; the result of a lack of time to study between work and mothering. I see my female students tackle more behind the scenes. Struggling to juggle more. Attempting to excel in more. And feeling deeply passionate about it all.

The biggest mistake I see my young female students make is in thinking they can’t get everything they want out of life. They tend to stop themselves just short of going after it all. I see them settle for a mediocre relationship because they have a great job. Or become mothers and abandon their professional ambition. Give up on the idea of having kids because their future job will require so much travel.

When I was just starting off as a commuting adjunct, I was married but had no children. And it’s clear to me now that my perception of women at that time was born out of my lack of knowledge about them. What I knew of women was that they were kinda mean in junior high, desperately trying to fit in during high school, fun as hell in college and competitive as coworkers. It was the gender to which I belonged. The gender of my best friend. My mother. My sister. But in many ways, I didn’t necessarily feel a kinship.

So it wasn’t just the powerful voices of the men or the fact that I was friends with boys that was driving my favoritism in the classroom. It was that my own relationship with women lacked depth and strength.

Luckily, that’s what motherhood has provided for me. I instantly saw the differences in how my husband and I were treated as parents by outsiders. I saw the ways in which women struggled to achieve balance. Felt their selfishness conflict with their maternal instincts. Worked not to resent the men who didn’t feel the same, or as much, pressure. Or to hate the women who seemed to be handling everything better. I had my own, often insurmountable, struggles with balance, body image, depression and discrimination. I've earned the ability to relate now to others.

While some women understood the need to support and love each other from a very young age, it really took the birth of my children to gain insight into the extremely dynamic and complicated role of being a woman. Any woman. Children or not. Married or not. Undergraduate or graduate. Team Tina or Team Amy.

Now, I spend many of my student interactions advising young women who are struggling to balance school and motherhood. Or trying to maintain a healthy marriage while coping with stress. Or worried about how having children will affect their careers. Or wondering what exactly to think about Lena Dunham.

So when I hear a knock on my office door, and turn around to see one of my bright female students standing in the doorway, I’m ready for her. If she’s coming to me about a class assignment, I talk her through it. If she’s coming to me for help selecting next semester's courses, I give my feedback. But, if I’m lucky enough, she’s there just to talk about life.

And if that’s the case, I rely on the wisdom of my demanding, opinionated, negotiating three-year-old daughter at home—begging for a cookie to put on the kitchen table until after dinner—because she has taught me the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned as a woman:

Ask for everything you want. Never take no for an answer. Find a way to have it all.

And leave nothing on the table.

Mother of Invention

Parenting often feels like a constant cycle of trial and error. And often those trials don’t feel particularly productive. There are lost causes, like trying to find matching pairs of toddler socks. There are upheavals, like a newborn’s sleeping patterns. There are outright forfeits, like handing over your iPhone in the grocery story line to stave off your toddler’s meltdown. But strife is also extremely fertile ground.

Ripe for innovation.

So long as the parent can be patient and wait. Because somewhere amidst all the failures, a genius breakthrough is able to bubble up to the surface and change your life forever.


Stair Basket

Growing up, my best friend Kate lived in a two-story house. This meant that—unlike my own family’s small one story farmhouse—she had stairs. As if that weren't fascinating enough, she also had a stair basket. This was not just any basket. This was a basket that takes on the shape of stairs. A step-patterned profile that can sit atop two steps simultaneously. This basket blew my f*cking mind.

The basket at my friend’s house kept the stairs free of clutter, allowing everyone to put in various items that actually needed to go upstairs but were not worth making the trip up for.

Last Christmas, my mother asked me for some gift ideas and I mentioned the special stair-shaped basket. Now that Jim and I had a staircase of our own, I longed for an oddly shaped basket to place on it. Christmas morning she gifted me with an irregular shaped basket—unwrapped, because, come on, how would you? So happy was I finally to have both a staircase and a basket to put on it. I felt unstoppable.

And yet, for months I couldn't figure out its purpose. At first I tried to put magazines in it. But magazines are really only needed on nightstands and toilet tanks, so that idea was scrapped. I tried putting throw blankets in the basket, but because we only use blankets on the couch that’s typically where they stay. I tried putting my purse in it when I came through the door, but frankly it just looked stupid having a bag inside a basket. Week after week the basket contents changed until there was an odd month or so when nothing was in it at all. It just sat vacant on the stairs. Amazing, but empty.

But then one day, one magical day I shall never forget, my oldest child took off her shoes after school and left them on the stairs. They were muddy and in the way, so I, in a fit of rage, scooped them up and slammed them into the basket as I walked up the stairs. As I ascended, I felt my anger replaced with something far bigger: a revelation. When I reached the top of the stairs I practically shouted out in excitement. Shoes! The basket could be for my three-year-old’s tiny, muddy, scattered everywhere, can-never-find-the-mate, shoes! I ran into her bedroom and gathered up every pair she owned. I raced back down the stairs and yelped when I realized all eight pairs of her tiny, dirty shoes fit perfectly into the stair basket.

The next morning, without provocation, my child came down the stairs and dug through the basket to find her favorite pair of sparkly TOMS. That evening, when she came through the door, dirty and muddy, she took off her shoes and threw them in the basket.

I had never loved her more.

We embraced in a way that most veterans do with their loved ones when returning home from war. We spun around the living room joyfully realizing that both of our problems were solved by one gloriously mutated basket. Our lives would forever be improved by this solitary piece of woven wonder.


Hair Purse

My three-year-old has curly hair. This statement means something to people who have curly hair, or mothers with children of curly hair. And if you are neither of these, you probably know someone with curly hair, or perhaps know of someone who knows of someone with curly hair. Send them loving thoughts.

My own hair, which is straight, can be easily brushed and pulled back into a ponytail with little to no whining and not a drop of product. But, as I’ve learned, curly-haired people are not afforded the same luxuries.

As an intentional strategy on my part, I give my child freedom over her hair. This means that every morning she gets to decide how she wants to wear it (this does not apply on picture day, national holidays or her birthday). She can choose a ponytail, pigtails, barrettes, a headband, or down and curly. For a while she demanded the Elsa braid from Frozen, which is improbable given her short, spiraled hair. Sometimes she demands to wear a hat, but never a stylish hat. A ski cap or an old birthday party hat. But, with my styling abilities being the only limits, she gets full follicle freedom.

Each morning she chooses a different hairstyle, which requires accoutrements scattered around the house. The spray bottle is always in the laundry room. The hair gel stays in the bathroom. The hair ties, clips, bows and headbands stay in Lowery’s room on her dresser. And the brush and comb are usually in places we fail to look as we are hurrying in the morning.

For her third birthday, Lowery was gifted with a little canvas purse with two leather handles. It’s adorable and she loves carrying it around. She likes to fill it with things a gal-about-town would need, like raisins and socks. But one day, after I had pulled her hair up in two glorious pigtails with sparkly bows and a pink clip, I asked her to pick up the living room before we left for school. Lowery looked at everything strewn on the couch—hair bows, gel, a water bottle, detangler, a comb and a brush—scooped them all up into her arms, took them over to the little canvas purse and dumped them in.

“Let’s hang this with the coats!” she declared.

I shrugged, happy she was helping pick up, and hung the bag of hair products on the coat rack next to her rain jacket and my umbrella. The very moment I hung the bag on the hook, my life forever changed.

For a year I had tried different approaches to our morning routine. Getting her ready in the upstairs bathroom. Fixing her hair in her bedroom. Wrestling her to the ground to put in a sparkly clip. Doing her hair before she even got out of bed in the morning. But no matter the process I tried to implement, we always ended up doing her hair by the door right before she left for school. And this was always stressful because I was running around looking for clips and combs.

But now, there by the door hangs a bag of all of Lowery’s hair products. So as we walk out of the house, I can easily access everything I need to get Lowery’s day started off right: perfectly coiffed.

Shopping Cart

There are few activities I hate more than grocery shopping. I find it long and boring and expensive, and I never get home with everything I needed. Jim is more than happy to go for me, and usually does, but I still have to write out an extremely detailed grocery list. I can never decide if I should go during the week after work when I’m tired, but without the kids. Or on the weekends, when I’m more energized, but am with the children. If I go with the kids, I usually come home in such a state of depression, or exhaustion, that I refuse to cook anything I bought.

But one Saturday, a few weeks back, Jim and I needed to get diapers and wipes and a variety of foods to nourish our children. While we have done many configurations of grocery shopping, we’ve never gone together with both children.

When we went to reach for a cart, our three year old demanded to ride in one. Because we had the infant in her carrier, there simply wasn’t room for both children and groceries. Jim and I looked at each other blankly.

“I guess I could just get a cart by myself and Lowery could ride in that…” Jim shrugged.

“Ok…” I said. Unaware of how my life was about to dramatically change.

So with London safely resting in her carrier in my cart, and Lowery in the seat of Jim’s cart, we began rolling one after the other into the grocery store. And I swear a fluorescent light came on above me.

“Do you think you could take your cart and go get toilet paper?” I asked Jim.

As he left, I gathered up everything we needed in the produce aisle and then texted Jim to get eggs and butter. I went off in search of meat and bread. After a bit, we saw each other across the store and he yelled down the aisle: “MILK?”

“YES!” I declared. “I’LL GET RICE!”

Texts whirled back and forth:

Got diapers

Got chicken

Pancake mix?

Yes. I’ll get syrup

I’ll get diaper rash cream

Oh no….she has a rash?

Ketchup?

Yes. And get mayo too.

This is fun.

You’re fun.

Stop flirting. Get bagels.


On and on until we finally met up at the checkout lane with two carts full of food. And children. We looked at each other proudly. We had done it. We had figured it out. We had invented the smartest, easiest, quickest, most productive and relaxing way to grocery shop with children. We embraced each other passionately. A tear rolled down my cheek. Swollen with pride and elation, we wheeled our carts one after the other into the checkout lane.

“We are together!” I exclaimed to the checkout lady.

She looked up and over her half glasses. Peered at my cart and then at Jim’s. And I could tell by the expression on her face that what she was seeing was nothing new.

Becoming a parent warrants ingenuity. But for the first few years of parenting, everything felt like a loss. A loss of sleep. Loss of time. Loss of privacy. Loss of identity. But eventually, we began to have some victories. We began to see our lives adjust and accommodate our children. And when we are open to it, we can see how we are innovative when we patiently allow for circumstances to take over.

Because it is true that necessity is the mother of invention.

So long as she mates with Father Time.

The Grassy Knoll

For the past year, Jim and I have struggled to grow a nice lawn around our new home. It seemed that no matter what fertilizer, or watering routine, or rain dance we did, our grass refused to grow in anything but irregular and unimpressive patches. We spent so much time looking down at the grass, inspecting the soil, researching the seeds, and trying different aerators, we failed to ever look up.

But once we did, we realized the problem was not our seeds or our soil. Our problem was our trees. Our small lot has four enormous trees, one of which is an historic sycamore with branches reaching out to shade the entirety of our backyard, and our neighbors' yards on either side. Our yard is so shady that the simple act of complicated photosynthesis is impossible for our desperately darkened lawn.

It quickly became obvious that the only way we would ever grow the lush lawn of our dreams was to trim back our trees. And we didn't just want some run-of-the-mill tree trimmer. We wanted an expert. The Lorax, if he made house calls. So I found a certified arborist to come assess the trees and guide us on how to get some sun on the desperate blades below.

He pulled into our driveway, stepped out of his car and gasped at the site of our trees. Two beautiful, enormous pin oaks in the front. And in the back, a wickedly twisted and deviant elm, and the massive sycamore. He went from tree to tree, placing his face close to the bark, squatting down around the roots, assessing the health of the leaves.

"Well," he finally said, "You have two options."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yep. The trees or the lawn."

He went on to show me that on a lot our size, the trees and grass are competing for resources. He pointed to moss growing at the base of one of the oaks. This indicated that the trees were being overwatered with our attempt to hydrate the grass. And while trimming back the trees would allow more sunlight in, which could help the grass grow, we could never truly have a lush lawn unless we chopped the trees down completely.

"So," he said, "Trees or lawn?"

Trees seemed like the obvious choice. The trees came first. They will far outlive us. The trees provide oxygen, shade, a habitat for squirrels and birds, and have--as it were--far deeper roots.

Lawns are, honestly, a waste of water. They are transient. Not truly a priority. And yet, grass provides curb appeal. A place to lay with my children on a warm day. A soft landing for birds. It provides proof we care about our property. And it keeps the soil in place. Soil, which nurtures the trees.

The arborist stood there awaiting my answer. He needed to know whether to take substantial branches from our beautiful canopies, or whether to trim them gently, tenderly and conservatively. He needed to know if I was person who would side with the trees. Or opt for the American dream.

In the moment, I chose the trees.

As he looped a harness around his waist and powered the chainsaw, I got in my car to leave for work.

Three months ago I started my new position, as a faculty member at the university. In the short time I've been there my life has dramatically changed in ways that might only appear subtle to others. On paper, perhaps my life seems to be the same. I work for the same university. My commute is the same. I still have the same coworkers. I still park in the same spot and still pee in the same stall.

For seven years of my professional life I was a student, working in a dark basement office I shared with two other students. My mission in life was to take classes and research. My ultimate goal—graduation—was always so far away it was easier not to think long-range. So day in and day out I worked in small, achievable goals, like a term paper here, a research project there. Semester by semester, slowly chipping away at one large goal. My life at that time moved so slowly it sometimes felt as if it had stopped.

This isn't to say those seven years weren't fun and challenging, or that the people I shared a desk with for that long aren't now among some of my closest friends. Because it was, and they are.

But until I stepped out and up into my new position, I had no idea how I had grown to feel about myself. Or my life. Because it’s only in retrospect that I can see so clearly how isolating and lonely graduate school and researching were.

I enjoyed the courses and seeing classmates. I enjoyed conducting research out in the community. But I spent a majority of my days, my weeks, and the last seven years, in a basement office studying, analyzing data and writing. Or at home taking care of my young children, while I studied, analyzed and wrote during their naps. And while my children are certainly my life’s work, they aren't the greatest conversationalists.

This shift in my life and in myself was so subtle I was unable to see the restrictions I felt. While I enjoyed my work, appreciated my growing knowledge, and valued my time with my small children, I found myself desperate for more human interaction. More conversation. More connection.

And so while I worked to cultivate my professional career, I unknowingly longed for more sociability. I found myself planning more parties, initiating more happy hours, scheduling more lunches. I responded immediately to text messages, emails, and Facebook. I could drop anything to be at the side of a friend or classmate or a family member. I never caught on I was able to do this as a direct result of my student status. But I truly enjoyed my ability to give fully to my friends and family.

But when my job began, three months ago, I felt the sun finally shining on my face. I shifted over night from an anonymous student worker in a basement, to a visible faculty member with privileges. The graduate program I'm tasked with running and growing in Tulsa has, itself, suffered from sitting in the shade for far too long. My position was created for the sole purpose of breathing new life into the program, cutting back the branches and facing it toward the sun. Every day I carefully nurture the program and I'm faced with even more ecological choices. In one specific instance, part of my task is to grow the program while maintaining its reputable rigor. But often those two tasks are competing for resources. Growing a program is easy if we remove the rigor. Adding to the rigor shrinks the pool of those willing to apply. How do I choose between the lawn and the trees?

But then, the choice isn’t any clearer in my own life. Instantly my professional world became a breeding ground for discussions, debates, meetings, presentations, recruiting and phone calls. I spend hours a day meeting with prospective students, advising current students, talking to administrators about program needs, answering calls about the program, responding to student emails, talking with faculty to set course schedules, presenting research, meeting with public affairs to promote our program or talking with community leaders about partnerships. And this is all before I get to class in which I stand in front of a room full of students talking for three solid hours.

For an extrovert, my job is a dream.

And yet I find myself, at the end of a long day, wishing there were time for happy hours. Realizing the days are too packed to schedule lunches. My energy is too zapped to plan a party. And my phone is full of unread messages.

While I'm finding myself immensely satisfied, my skills better used and my personality more adequately leveraged, I miss the ways in which I once tapped into that need for interaction. Connection. Community.

My life as a student in the shady basement was a selfish and introspective time. I only had to worry about my research, my goals and myself. My life as a professor, warmed by the sun, is about many things bigger than me. No longer am I just thinking about my deadlines, my classwork, my graduation date. Now I’m thinking about the students, the program, the university and the community. Once the sun shines on you, you have no choice but to spread and grow.

When I returned home the day I met with the arborist, I found our trees to be delicately and beautifully trimmed. Their canopies were still full and lustrous, but they no longer drooped unnecessarily low to the ground, or hung heavily over the fence. Standing in the middle of my yard I could see, for the first time, the sun dapple subtly across my shoes.

That evening, with a few limbs gone and our hope rising, my husband and I worked to aerate the soil. We delicately and equally spread the seeds we'd spent time researching. We raked over the seedlings and watered the ground until the seeds had a cushiony bed of soft soil in which to lie. Each morning that followed, I’d go outside and walk around the yard, inspecting the seeds as they nestled into the fertile soil. I’d monitor the sun at various points in the day to ensure it could poke through the thick branches above. We water in careful intervals so as to give the yard enough, but not to drown the trees. We are mindful of the delicate balance.

And finally this morning, I saw--in the dead center of a patch of dirt we've never been able to cultivate--a tiny sprig of grass emerge triumphantly out from beneath the soil. I’m trying to temper my expectations. I remind myself that one sprig of grass in a barren spot doesn’t mean a Master’s quality golf course will follow close behind. But at the very least, perhaps it is proof that the trees and grass might both be able to pull from the same resources available to them in the confines of our small yard.

And honestly, deep down, I think I truly believe one day the grass will sprout and thicken and thrive. Perhaps it will be as lush and impressive as a forest.

But I won't be able to see it for all the trees.

Dressing on the Side

London (L) and Katie (R) on their
first day of school. 

I first met Melissa at the open house for the daycare center our children now attend together. At the time, the director of the school hosted a dinner for incoming parents to ease them through the tumultuous transition from maternity leave to full time child care.

The event was arranged so parents could drop off their infants in one of the classrooms--where three of the school's teachers eagerly awaited--and then meander into the dining hall to meet other shell-shocked and sleep-deprived new parents.

Melissa and her husband showed up a little late. She had her newborn son, Jack, pressed tightly to her, nursing him. All the other parents--especially me--were ecstatic at the thought of free child care for an hour, and we had happily dropped our babies and ran. But not Melissa. She had her son in her arms, looking lovingly down at him as he blinked up at her.

At the time, our babies were mere weeks old. I was in the darkest period of post partum depression, having long given up the ability to nurse, and was still struggling wildly to bond with my child. Watching her effortlessly cuddle and nurse her baby--the only mother in the packed room to reject the available child care--I decided definitively that I hated Melissa.

After that night I tried to avoid her. When I saw her in the halls during morning drop off, I cringed. She would so carefully and lovingly place her precious son in the teacher's arms, hand over a bucket of breast milk and float effortlessly out of the room with the help of blue birds and field mice. I would awkwardly hand over my child, leave her portions of formula and slink out of the room, wondering if I should have held my kid longer or brought a warmer blanket.

Three years and two children later, mothering is now natural, fun, and fulfilling. But in the beginning, every aspect of it felt monumental and I struggled to adapt. Especially the part in which I realized, for the first time, that I am susceptible to female competition.

This isn't to say I didn't have my fair share of this in junior high. But on the whole, being a female never registered as anything other than the occasional pap smear and picking a brand of tampons. When I became a mother, however, my eyes were opened to the two greatest downfalls of our sex: intra-gender competition, and salads as a meal.

Oddly, these two aren't unrelated.

In fact, most women suffer from both of these in a chicken-and-the-egg type fashion. Although I assume competition came first because I think it is somehow wired into women when they are merely girls. We don't start eating rabbit food until much later.

I'll never fully understand why women compete with each other so much. I honestly believe we don't intend to. We don't mean to approach other women as competitors and I'd like to believe we don't view womanhood as a competition. But I'm seeing less and less to the contrary.

When I first met Melissa, I didn't stop to think that perhaps she just had a different way of coping with her struggles as a new mom (which I found out years later was true). Or, perhaps the only reason she was holding her son that night was because they came late and didn't know child care was available (I found out later this was also true). Or that maybe, just maybe, she was intimidated by me as well (also, true).

Instead, I saw her as an opponent.

I looked at her and assumed that what I was witnessing was a woman being better than I was. Handling motherhood better. Bonding to her child quicker. Balancing work more easily. Losing the pregnancy weight faster.

Which leads me to the other aspect of womanhood I'm exhausted by: salads as a meal. When did this became standard practice for women? I'm not saying a salad with a whole chicken breast on it mixed with avocados, cheese, eggs and tortilla chips smothered in twelve ounces of ranch dressing can't be a meal. But ordering a small side salad--without croutons and with the dressing on the side--and convincing me that "it just sounds good,"is the practice of the clinically insane. Or a crazy ritual of competitors. Mind games. Trash talk.

The only thing worse than watching a beautiful, brilliant friend pick at a small plate of grass is watching the abuse she throws on herself while she does it. Claiming she needed to eat a salad for lunch because she "had a carby breakfast" or because she's "been so bad lately."

Now, I have no issues with wanting to be healthy. I make--for the most part--healthy choices in my day to day life. I cook myself a healthy and intricate breakfast every morning. I cook most nights of the week. I frequently purchase almonds, and make substantial efforts to eat them. I drink about 90 ounces of water a day. I can't tell you the last time I've had a candy bar. And, given enough nacho cheese sauce, I can really wolf down some vegetables.

My issue is the self-abuse women throw on themselves for every crumb that hits their lips. Or the sweeping declarations they make, like if they eat carbs they just "balloon up". Or the bold lifestyle choices they constantly take on, like giving up sugar or only eating "clean." And what the hell is with all the juice cleanses? Here, take this spinach, mush it up, drink it, and shit constantly for a week solid. You'll feel amazing!

I can't help but think the only reason any woman would subject herself to that is because she's trying to achieve a standard put on her by someone else. To become a worthy opponent. They see a healthier, skinnier, firmer woman and go into juice-cleanse, shitting-round-the-clock, salad-as-a-meal, hyper-competitive mode.

So then there's a beautiful, talented, brilliant women who spends way too much time obsessing over food and weight and gluten. Using food as a punishment. Self-loathing. Feeling guilt while eating.

And nothing ruins a good steak like tears.

Now, again, making good choices is fine. Drinking water instead of Coke. Fruit as a side. Less red meat. Move your body more. Many, many people do this without even giving it a thought or attaching it to a childhood memory or relating to some grand master carb tracker, or posting about it on Facebook.

These people are called men.

Men don't sit around picking shamefully at their food. Nor do they sit around comparing themselves to other men. My husband has never once looked at another man and said, "Do you think he's a better father than me?" Nor has he taken so much as a breath while inhaling bacon. 

Without constantly being threatened by each other, and without giving a thought to eating sugar or enjoying a stiff drink, men have all the time in the world to walk around inventing shit and getting paid twice as much for it.

And sure, I'm fully aware the pressures on females to have it all--ambition, small waists, nurturing demeanor, vulnerability, high sex drive, flawless skin, white teeth and perky breasts. And men don't have any of this on them.

But maybe, just maybe, if we women all started acting like that pressure wasn't there, it might one day disappear.

Think about it. If we started looking at each other as teammates before opponents, then we could stop all the competition and take each other out for lunch.

And order a hamburger.

We would stop picking at our food. We would stop comparing ourselves to other women. We would stop thinking that spin class is the only reason we're allowed to eat a bite of cake. And we could put our energy more on taking down the man.

And we can start by eating some fries off his plate.

I speak from experience. Three years since that first dinner where I met Melissa, she and I have become close friends. It started because our children are friends. Her son Jack and my daughter Lowery adore each other. In a beautiful, simple way that children can before the conformities of society are thrust upon them. 

And when Melissa and I became pregnant around the same time with our second children, a deeper bond was formed. Text messages, emails and meals together helped us move past the competition and into a place that felt nurturing and comfortable.

When our daughters were born we celebrated their health and were grateful for our own body's ability to carry them. We don't talk about breastfeeding or parenting philosophies or losing baby weight. And when we want to share a meal, we don't raise the stakes by ordering a salad.

Now, my youngest daughter London, and Melissa's daughter Katie, are in a class together. On London's first day of day care, I was hysterical. At work, I sat at my desk crying, scrolling through the pictures of her birth while R.E.M. played in the background. Then my phone lit up with a text from Melissa. It was a picture she had snapped of our two daughters. During drop off, she had laid Katie down beside London on the big mat in the classroom. As if instinctively, the girls extended their arms and grasped each other's hands. It was only for a moment, Melissa explained, but it was a palpable love between two female friends.

So perhaps the next generation of women won't have this cyclical problem of eating to compete with one another. Maybe the women of the next generation will have it all figured out. Will spend time talking about improving lives and changing the world and saving the planet. And they won't get hung up on the next diet or exercise fad or boasting their parenting philosophies all over social media sites. Maybe the women of the next generation will just be who they are. And proud of it. And will figure out early on that they are equal to the opposite gender, the way Lowery and Jack did. And maybe they will figure out early on that they are equal to each other, like London and Katie have.

They won't compete. And they will eat.

This is the hope I have for the next generation of women. Because this is the generation of women I'm helping to raise. And here's my driving thought every day as I do: I peek into the future, twenty years down the road, and I see my two daughters at lunch together. They meet regularly because they are close; best friends even. There is not competition between them. Just love and support. It catches my breath how beautiful and strong they've become. They are laughing while they eat their sandwiches. And while I can't quite make out what they are saying, I'm hoping only one thing for my beautiful girls:

They are talking about something of substance.

But not of weight.