Chocolate Cake

My mother is a professional cake maker. Birthday cakes, wedding cakes, baby shower cakes, retirement cakes, even inappropriate bachelorette party cakes.

You name it. She can ice it.

Growing up, my classmates’ parents would order birthday cakes, which I enjoyed at the parties. She made many of my friends’ wedding cakes, which I enjoyed at the receptions. And, she’s made a number of my friends’ baby shower cakes, which I enjoyed over diaper genies and piles of bows.

People certainly ordered vanilla cakes with white icing. Sometimes she’d get an order for carrot cake, or a random cheesecake here and there. But mostly, people wanted chocolate cake.

My sister, especially, loves chocolate cake. And because my sister is a quiet and subtle person, my mother makes a chocolate cake for every family get together because it so visibly excites my generally calm sister. My sister’s wedding cake was seven tiers of chocolate cake iced in chocolate. At the time, it had never been done. Not even by Martha Stewart. But my mother suggested the idea to my sister because chocolate cake is her favorite.

It’s everyone’s favorite.

Last week, while grocery shopping, I passed by a display of freshly made angel food cake. Rarely am I one to bend impulsively to grocery store displays, but the sponge cake caught my eye and I went for it.

After dinner that night I felt a profound excitement in dishing up pieces of this delight, with fresh strawberries sliding down the spongy slopes. I couldn’t believe how good the cake was. Tangy, soft, sweet. Had my mother ever made us angel food cake? Then again, why would she when chocolate was what we all preferred.

After the kids were put to bed and the dishes were done, I asked Jim how he liked the dessert. He shrugged and said, “It was good.”

“What?” I pressed. “You didn’t like it?”

“Oh,” he said, bringing me in for a proactive hug. “Angel food cake is not my favorite.”

“I didn’t know you hated sponge cake,” I said, pulling away.

“I don’t hate it. It’s just not my favorite,” he smiled. “You know, the way you don’t really care for chocolate cake.”

I stepped back. “I love chocolate cake! It’s my favorite.”

“No it isn’t,” he laughed.

“How can you say that? I love chocolate cake!”

“Then how come at every kid’s party we go to you always pick the vanilla over the chocolate?”

“Because…” I said firmly, “I want to leave the chocolate for the kids.”

“Our wedding cake was spice.”

“It was fall! That was a classy move!”

“Every year when your mom calls to ask what flavor of birthday cake you want, you have never once said chocolate.”

“But that’s just because my birthday is in August,”  I replied weakly. “Summer birthdays scream lemon.”

“Or,” he smiled, “You don’t like chocolate cake.”

Sometimes it just takes a while to recognize your own preferences.

For the past four years, the single thing I have craved the most is time away. And I just mean the time away I spend for a few minutes in the bathroom. Or on my drive to work. Sleeping in on a Saturday. Grocery shopping alone. These small bits of time help balance out the large blocks of chaos.

This isn’t because I don’t like my life or all its chaos. It’s just that it is chaotic. Two small children, two hectic jobs, a house, a yard, a puppy. While individually these aspects are delightful, together they make for a swirling vortex of calamity.

So the thought of getting away for the weekend is the stuff dreams are made of. A couple of months ago, Jim and I went away for a few nights to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Every year we book a cozy hotel room somewhere a short drive from my parents’ home so we can be close by if the kids need us.

It’s not that we couldn’t get on a plane and travel to some exotic beach for a few days—my parents wouldn’t notice the difference—but I’ve found that if we stay somewhere close, I somehow feel less anxious.

Traveling without our children takes an extreme amount of work. It all starts with coordinating calendars with my parents, who have decided that at the age of retirement, they will actually work harder and volunteer for more activities. When the schedules are coordinated, laundry is next. Assuming my children will stay for two nights with my parents, I’ll need to pack each child with two sets of clothes, one set of pjs, back up clothes, back up pjs, diapers, wipes, snacks, hairbrush, toothbrushes, toothpaste, a stack of books, a few stuffed animals for each child, and an assortment of every imaginable children’s medicine.

Once the children are packed I can then run laundry for all the clothes Jim and I will need. And start the packing process all over again.

Then comes the day of departure. This is intense because everyone needs to be up and out the door at a certain time if Jim and I want to be able to drop the kids off, explain to our parents how exactly you care for and nurture children, and get to the hotel in time for check in, and to the bar in time for happy hour.

For this to happen I need to wake up before dawn and quietly shower and get dressed before anyone else in the house begins to stir. From there, I scour the house, making sure the thermostat is set to the right temperature, the dishwasher is unloaded, and clutter is picked up enough so that I’m not stressed by the mess after the exhaustion of travel.

And once we finally get everyone’s bags and bodies loaded into the car, we are usually well over an hour late to my parents’ house, at which point we will need to take the car seats out of our car and wrestle them into theirs.

After the car seats are in, the kids’ bags are in the guest bedroom, the sheet of paper with important phone numbers is left on the kitchen counter, and the goodbyes have been said to the children, I always have to say something to my mother which makes me feel both powerful and weak:

“These girls are my heart. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

It’s not that I don’t trust my parents implicitly—I do. It’s that leaving my children is the most complicated emotion I ever feel. I’m desperate for a break, for isolation, for a bathroom door that locks. And yet, the act of leaving them, the few minutes I take with my mother to remind her how much I love them, grips my heart in a confusing way.

I’m having the conversation with her because I need to leave. And yet the conversation is making me think I may not want to.

The moment we leave the girls—them waving at us happily from my parents’ window—I see Jim’s body relax and his eyebrows lift in happiness. He knows the car seats were installed properly, and he trusts I packed them all the essentials. Jim is by far the more anxious and overprotective parent when we are home with the girls, so he truly relaxes on the rare occasions when we get away together.

I, on the other hand, suddenly feel anxious in a way that is different from my daily life with two young kids. I squirm in my seat, wondering if London’s eye looked goopy. But I remind myself I packed drops. I worry about the comment my mother made about taking them to ride horses. Certainly they will put helmets on the girls...I resist texting any anxiety-fueled questions because I know I can casually slip some in when I check to make sure bath time went okay.

Jim talks about where we should go for dinner while I struggle to remember if I told my mom about the ritual of cheek kisses I do with the girls before bed. Jim turns up the radio and sways to the music while I mentally check through the number of electrical sockets in my parents’ living room.

Eventually I am able to calm my nerves, to squelch the anxiety I had about my parents wanting to take them down to the creek behind their property (they had life jackets, right?) and begin to truly enjoy my time alone with my husband.

On our recent trip, we walked around the quaint little square of the sleepy town in which we were staying. We ate extended meals together without our conversations being interrupted. We ordered exotic foods our preschooler would never allow on the table. We laughed a lot. We drank too much. We felt ourselves unwinding from the stresses of our everyday, modern life.

And then, the last morning of our trip, we walked down to a tiny little coffee shop for breakfast. A true hotspot for the locals meant we had to stand in a long line around the building until a table was open. But we didn’t care. We had all the time in the world to wait, and eat, and talk.

But as we watched passersby on the cobblestone street, I heard a very faint, though incredibly familiar, sound.

A tantrum.

It grew louder and louder until we saw the source coming toward us, kicking and screaming from behind the straps of a stroller. And behind the wailing child were her two parents, who looked tired and frustrated and unkempt—desperately trying to enjoy their getaway. We watched as they walked by, trying unsuccessfully to complete sentences to each other while also trying to calm their preschooler.

As they walked farther away, the deafening screams getting fainter again, I felt something deep in my gut. A pang.

What was it?

Before I had time to figure it out, our name was called and we sat down for a long leisurely brunch filled with coffee and meandering, delightful conversation.

After breakfast, still feeling a little off, we got in our car to leave for my parents’ and pick up the girls.

“Why are you so quiet?” Jim asked, his face still serene.

“Something is bugging me,” I said.

“Oh? What?”

“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“You had a good time, yes?”

“The best! I needed this.”

“So? Did something upset you this morning?”

“I dunno…” I thought. “I guess when we were waiting on breakfast. And that family with the screaming kid walked by.”

“Well that upset everybody,” Jim said with a laugh.

“But it didn’t upset me,” I said. “I mean, it did, but it didn’t.”

“Not sure I follow.”

“I think I was…” I paused and looked out the window. “Jealous of her.”

“Of that mother? No need for that. Our girls’ fits are far more impressive.”

“No…” I laughed. “I mean, I was jealous of her anxiety.”

“Meaning….?” he asked, turning down the radio.

“I guess it just hit me that I’d prefer the anxieties of our everyday life with the girls…” I paused. “Than the anxiety I feel when I’m without them.”

It was a truth that surprised me. The solution to my anxiety is not escaping it—it can’t be done. The solution is understanding I have a choice regarding which anxiety to embrace.

Just like my childhood filled with chocolate cake. I don’t hate chocolate cake. I actually kinda like it. Sometimes. It’s just not my first choice. But growing up, I guess I thought chocolate was the only choice.

I failed to realize there were options.

And with parenting, I think I believed that feeling anxious, overwhelmed and tired was the only flavor of parenting.

But as the years have gone by my palate has become a bit more refined. I can tell the differences between the mild anxiety of being at home and managing my children, versus the mild anxiety of being away and worrying about my children.

Two very distinct flavors, and I realize, only now, I have a preference.

Jim and I came back from our anniversary getaway rested and relaxed and overjoyed to see our girls. But as the chaos of life picked back up and the serenity of our short getaway fades, we find ourselves planning another vacation. Something for after all the holiday chaos subsides. We huddled together in front of the computer trying to choose a destination. Once that was decided we searched around for a hotel. Then some activities to do in the area.

“Well that only leaves one more detail,” Jim said. “Do we go by ourselves or take the kids? I leave it up to you to decide.”

To which I responded:

“Piece of cake.”

Memory Foam

Last week my husband and I upgraded our nearly decade old, lumpy, queen-size, pillow-top mattress—which sat atop a metal frame that came with the box springs—for a king-size memory foam mattress and an actual bed frame with foot rails and a headboard.

Increasing the size of one’s bed is a decision that never solely hinges on desire. It mostly hinges on logistics. Only when we moved into our current home a couple of years ago did we finally have a master bedroom that could accommodate a king. In our previous house, if you could get the bedroom door opened entirely, you were already lying down. 

Finally having the room, however, doesn’t mean it’s necessary to go up in size. But for reasons I can’t quite articulate, it was important to me—after seven years of marriage—that we finally buy ourselves an actual bed. So, since we were already planning to buy an actual bed, we figured now was as good a time as any to upgrade the size. 

But laboring over which size of bed, and then agonizing over which style of bed, was nothing compared to which type of mattress we should buy. 

My sister had recently purchased a brand-name memory foam mattress and talked about it like she’d suddenly found religion. Her infomercializing was enough to make me think memory foam was a good call. Now, there’s a chance memory foam is just today’s waterbed, but there’s enough research out there that supports claims that it can lead to a better night’s sleep, reduce joint pain and increase your ability to learn a second language while managing your blood sugar. Plus, the mattresses tend to last longer than traditional spring mattresses. And I was intrigued by how I could safely rest a glass of wine on my side while Jim did jumping jacks on his. 

Understanding that one of the major hurdles to buying a memory foam mattress is the cost, I took to the internet and found a company that would ship me a memory foam mattress in a box for an extremely reasonable cost. All we would need to do was assemble the platform for the mattress, then undo the box with a vacuum-sealed mattress inside, cut open the packaging and watch the mattress virtually inflate in seconds. (If you have a few hours to kill, feel free to YouTube videos of people unwrapping their Bed in a Box mattresses. Fascinating stuff).

So on the day the bed was to be delivered from the furniture store—a beautiful tufted bed in soft cream with brass nailheads—the small box containing our massive king-size mattress was to come FedEx. 

There was something truly thrilling about not having any guarantee (beside the “money-back” one) of how this would all come together. Would the bed overwhelm our room? Would the fabric color work well with the bedding I’d picked out? Would a box that small really hold a mattress that big? Would the mattress even be comfortable? Exactly how many wine glasses could it support?

Jim and I became as informed as we possibly could before leaping into a decision that would impact both of us for seven, eight if we’re lucky, hours every night. But in the end, as with any major life decision--like getting married or having kids--we proceeded with ignorant confidence.

Happily, the bed fit in the space and looked good with our wall color. And the never-seen-in-person mattress not only provided a unique experience in unpacking—seriously, it was an enormous mattress crammed in a box—but the memory foam seems to be everything my sister, and the thousands of customer reviewers, promised me it would be.

And I’ve really needed a little happy change in my life. 

And some comfort. 

Last month, I lost my beloved pug Izzy. The sadness and grief hit me with strong and unforgiving force. Obviously I knew her death would affect me deeply, profoundly, but I was woefully unprepared for how much.

Part of my sadness was seeded in the traumatic morning of her death. I was in the bathroom and I heard Izzy moving around downstairs. I heard her cough a few times before she quieted back down. A few minutes later, as I was brushing my teeth, Jim called up to tell me the words I didn’t know I had been dreading: “Izzy isn’t moving.”

I rushed down the stairs to see my sweet dog motionless under the couch. Without thought, I threw the couch off to the side and collapsed onto her. 

In the weeks that followed Izzy’s passing I struggled to make sense of my own grief. I’d lost loved ones before—grandparents, an aunt, various other pets—but for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, the loss of my pug was astoundingly sad. 

Part of the sadness was because I felt an instant and overwhelming vulnerability with my spouse and children. The day after Izzy’s death I made Jim go to urgent care over what turned out to be a harmless spider bite. And I forced my four-year-old to let me rock her to sleep—something I didn’t even do with her as an infant. 

But a bigger part of the sadness was that my memories with Izzy paralleled my most substantial and transformative life events. And until that morning when I lost her, I didn’t realize how her entire existence was the bedrock of the most powerful decade in my life. 

I got Izzy when I first moved to this town ten years ago. I was living alone for the first time, and I was incredibly lonely. I moved into a high-rise apartment building that didn’t allow pets. But because I didn’t do drugs in high school and don’t have any tattoos, I assumed I was due a little rebellion.

I kept Izzy quietly, and illegally, by teaching her how to pee and poop in a litter box on my back patio. To take her for walks, I used an old gym bag I poked holes in so I could discretely take her down the elevator and to the park across the street. I taught her not to bark. And she knew to run into the closet if she heard the super come in for repairs. 

She conformed to my needs so that I could have a friend.

Later, I met and married Jim. She adjusted to living in a house and peeing on grass. She quickly learned how to get along with Jim’s dog, and she peacefully accepted our new life.

And when the time came for our first child, she accepted and adapted to Lowery’s innate fear of her. She never pushed Lowery for love or attention. And eventually, about three years in, Lowery suddenly overcame her fear and fell deeply and madly in love with Izzy. 

Izzy sat calmly at my feet while I worked on my dissertation, and later while I worked on my book. And with our second child, she patiently tolerated ear-piercing squeals and sticky hands pulling at her skin folds. 

And then, as all the crazy transformations of my life finally slowed down, when life began to level out, she was preparing to leave.

I couldn’t shake the thought that Izzy died a little over a year after the birth of my last child. I’m not silly enough to believe Izzy knew I had gotten through the most transition I would ever face, but it was incredible to see how much she bookended the single most transformative decade of my life.

When Izzy came into my life, I was alone. And sad.

And when she left it, I was surrounded by love. And happy.

The realization that she was the backdrop to all my transformation had me suddenly aware of how much I’d transformed. And that awareness was paralyzing. Like when you’re unaware you’ve left your license at home, you drive as normal. But when you realize you left it behind, you are overly cautious. 

Suddenly, I felt overly cautious.

How could I go forth and try new things if Izzy wasn't at my feet to comfort me?

I know there’s more to come in this life. While I don’t want another spouse or more kids or another degree, I still want more. I want to write another book (available on Amazon and at fine retailers everywhere, 2017!). I want to live in another country. I maybe even want to get that tattoo. But nothing, no single thing I can do, will ever match what has happened in the last ten years of my life. 

And the only one who saw me through every second of it is gone. 

When we got ready for bed last night I looked across our big bed and our memory foam mattress—where my husband was standing on the other side admiring its vastness—and I was suddenly struck by how much the new piece of furniture had transformed the room. Beyond that, though, the bed had somewhat transformed our routine. We have been turning in earlier at night, we are sleeping better, and I am actually making our bed every morning. 

It was a small change. I mean, technically, it was nine cubic feet of change, but still, it wasn’t a drastic change. It wasn’t as transformative as getting married, birthing children, earning degrees or writing a book. 

But it was a transformation of sorts.

I miss my dog. But I take solace in knowing that life will go on.

So with that I got into bed, laid back, closed my eyes.

And sank into the memory.













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SPF

When I was in high school there was a song that hit it big. Well, it wasn’t a song so much as a commencement speech that was spoken over the sound of a fairly catchy beat. The speech/song topped the charts in the spring, and I think that year’s graduating class at my high school even used it for their own commencement, which at the time seemed super hip and fresh, but looking back now I can see it was actually kinda lazy.

Regardless, the speech—as it was played on the radio—was spoken by Baz Luhrmann, who is a notable filmmaker. He is probably most known for directing Romeo + Juliet, starring Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. Most girls I went to school with truly lost their shit over this movie. And, as such, I had to fake the loss of my own shit, despite hating the movie, because that’s how peer pressure works.

At the time, “Free to Wear Sunscreen” was known as that commencement speech the irreverent Kurt Vonnegut gave to MIT. This was the part that intrigued me the most, as I was a very progressive and heady teenager who was extremely into all things Vonnegut. This made me highly intelligent, and also, a bit too cool for school.

My dad and I hollered out in excitement any time we heard Vonnegut’s words, spoken by Baz, come through the radio. Although I had to make sure Dad understood my frustration with the sudden interest in, and adoration for, Kurt from my classmates, when I had been a veritable fan of his for nearly seven months. So, as long as everyone understood I loved Vonnegut before it was cool to love Vonnegut, I was happy for others to discover what a badass Kurt Vonnegut was.

The speech gives sound advice. Not just most notably to “wear sunscreen,” but also unforgettable lines like: “Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.” This spoke to me as a teenager who was prone to beat myself up too much.

And while that spoke to me at the time—a young, tie-dye wearing, misunderstood Vonnegut lover—it spoke to me even more last week on the way home from work, when I heard this spoken by Baz on the radio for the first time in more than 15 years.

It was late at night and I was driving home after class. For reasons I can’t quite understand, the moments after class has adjourned and I’m alone in the car are often a stream of intense and conflicting emotions. Most of this is because I’m very keyed up after class. I’m usually reeling over a great discussion, or a profound thought from a student, or the thrill of an intense argument handled with maturity by disagreeing intellectuals. But I’m also evaluating the nuances of the class. Did everyone feel their voice was heard? Was anyone shot down too quickly? Did they truly understand why I paired that journal article with that book chapter? Are my probing questions eliciting the right thoughts? And, the question that constantly plagues me: Are they learning? 

Now, on the one hand, I’m fully aware these aren’t fourth graders and I’m not a truly powerful influence over their learning. Instead, these are adults with jobs and spouses and kids and other things occupying their minds. But even still, I take my job as an educator very seriously—despite all the joke telling in class.  

I assumed when a person completed the requirements for a PhD they would suddenly have all the answers to all the questions (in the field) and instantly become an expert on the topic. I had this same assumption about birthing a baby; once I completed the task, I would suddenly be an expert in parenting.

But it wasn’t the case with birthing children and it’s not the case with teaching students. The PhD did do a lot to further my knowledge of the field, but I’m still learning. 

Knowing this, that no one is an expert, least of all me, I work hard to ensure the environment is ripe for learning. No matter who is credited with dispensing the knowledge. Which is why I’m most drawn to delivering courses in a seminar style format, in which students are assigned readings each week and all the class time is devoted to discussing and debating the content.

I serve as referee.

And most every class, I find myself hearing a new perspective on government or policy or public service from a police officer, or an FBI agent, or a nonprofit executive director or a small business owner, a perspective that comes in direct conflict with a truth or a principle I’ve always believed or held. 

I’m still learning. And the sources of that knowledge are a moving target.

So last week, after one such class, I drove home digesting the conversation—the questions, the reactions and the true civility among a group of people who don’t always agree with one another—and I heard the words of Vonnegut come through my radio. And I listened. Perhaps more intently than I had listened to them as a 14-year-old. And I began to cry. Not an ugly cry, not a pull-over-on-the-side-of-the-road cry, but the gentle, beautiful crying of a pretty woman on a television drama. One tear at a time came up and out from my bottom lid, and slid gracefully down my cheek and even I couldn’t tell—from inside the dark car with Baz talking to me—if I was happy or sad.

I suppose I was comforted. By familiar words from my favorite writer.

And I was so moved by these words, so taken with the emotion that had come over me in the car that when I pulled into my driveway, I sat for a moment in quiet reflection. But, in this day and age, quiet reflection can only get you so far before you are overcome with the need to do an Internet search on your iPhone.

I attempted to search for the lyrics to “Free to Wear Sunscreen” to discover one of the first Google hits was an article explaining how the song was mistakenly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut.

In an instant my beautiful and graceful Emmy-nominated tears dried up and were replaced with a horrified and grief-stricken Oscar-worthy gasp. As a person who holds the self-appointed title as President of the Kurt Vonnegut Fan Club, I was all at once horrified and embarrassed to discover that one of my favorite passages of Vonnegut’s wasn’t even written by him.

I stumbled up the walk to our porch where Jim discovered me a few minutes later staring out into the night.

“Meg? You okay?” he asked, opening the door.

“Kurt Vonnegut didn’t write the sunscreen speech,” I muttered.

“Alright. Well, I can see how that could be upsetting...Why don’t you come inside and let’s talk through whatever the hell that means.”

After I explained this to Jim he laughed, fondly remembering the Baz “song.” He, too, thought Vonnegut had written it. Obviously, this wasn’t hitting him just yet because his only real response was to shrug.

I knew of only one person who would feel as let down as I did in the moment. So I texted him.

M: Hey Dad, remember that Vonnegut commencement speech about sunscreen?

D: Of course. Except Vonnegut didn’t write it, right?

M: I just now found that out. I’m not taking it well.

D: That’s to be expected. So, who did?

M: Who did what?

D: Who actually wrote the speech?

Until that moment, I hadn’t given much thought to whose words they actually were. And I began to wonder if perhaps the words would mean as much to me if they weren’t coming from the brilliant mind of one of the more profound writers there ever was.

Before I could reflect too long on this question, I pulled out my phone again. This time, when I searched for the speech, I realized it was actually written by a woman, Mary Schmich, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist for the Chicago Tribune.

I was intrigued to discover a woman wrote this. After all, it was spoken by a man in the hit song. And up until 15 minutes earlier, I thought it was written by one, too.

But knowing it was a woman behind the words suddenly changed them for me. I read the article, the original article, and I suddenly saw the speech differently. It wasn’t a wise, brilliant, satirist sighing and laughing at youth today, telling them to chill the f*ck out. It was a woman, roughly the same age I am now, looking around at other women and reminding us to be kind to our bodies, our minds, and, for the love of God, protect our skin!

This was a revelation. Maybe not a big enough one to make Jim understand all my chest grabbing and gasping, but suddenly these words had new meaning. A woman, a well-known and well-respected columnist, was using her platform at a newspaper to give some pithy advice to others. And her words were usurped. 

By men.

Now, I’ve matured enough to realize I wasn’t all that wise at 14, and there are numerous other people now whom I would rank above Kurt Vonnegut. I’m also mature and wise enough now to know that advice from a woman—even a Pulitzer Prize-winning one—might not have been enough to influence me then as it is now. 

And while I can certainly interpret the words differently now than I did then, I can’t help but realize that, regardless of who said the words, there is only one single thing I’ve done every day, consistently, for the past 18 years:

Wear sunscreen.

Advice...by Mary Schmich



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Great Expectations

There are people in this world who claim they love surprises. But the reality is, no one does.

Sure, people like unexpected birthday parties and a delivery of flowers at work. But otherwise, no one ever gasps in excitement over flat tires and audits.

I learned this one summer in college when I worked as a waitress at a high-end restaurant on the lake.

I gained a substantial amount of knowledge that summer. I learned how to balance a very large tray—filled with steaming hot plates—gracefully on my shoulder. I learned the ideal temperature for preparing each cut of meat. I learned how to open a wine bottle while continuing to talk and charm those at the table (that one still comes in handy). And I learned how to deduce dessert orders from slurring drunk people (also, oddly handy).

But the biggest lesson I took away from my three months in the food industry was how to manage expectations.

The restaurant I worked at was a veritable hot spot. The wait for a table was consistently over an hour. So running out of a certain dish, or a particular vintage, wasn’t uncommon.

In my first few weeks, I would never tell the table upfront that we were out of prime rib or that the case of ’94 Chateau Montelena didn’t arrive in time for the weekend. Instead, I’d bet the odds that they wouldn’t request either and the issue would never arise. But inevitably, they’d want a hearty steak with a good red wine. And when I would have to quietly inform them we were out of the Porterhouse—after they had their minds made up—they were always incredibly frustrated.

My tips suffered greatly in those instances.

One night I saw a veteran waitress approach a table of Saturday night regulars, predictably in their polos and boat shoes. She said hello and told them how nice it was to see them all again, and then immediately informed them, with a cute cluck of the tongue:

“Just so you are aware, we have run out of lobster tonight.”

I expected to see these very wealthy men stand up, grab the hands of their impossibly thin wives, and storm out of the restaurant, never to return again. But instead, they shrugged and asked the waitress what else she’d recommend.

It was the first time I understood that people, even yacht owning people, can be reasonable and rational in the face of disappointment.

So long as they have a heads up.

Imagine how much more easily people could handle difficult life transitions if they just knew what exactly to expect. I mean, giving birth and caring for an infant isn’t exactly like being told duck l’orange is no longer on the menu, but the idea is the same.

Could someone, anyone, have clued me in on what it’s like to hear your infant cry for hours on end? Was it too much to ask that someone give me a heads up about the after care for episiotomies?

I took this idea, an idea I learned as a young waitress, and I’ve carried it into most every aspect of my life. I believe my response to Jim's marriage proposal was something along the lines of:

“Just so you are aware, I need to talk out all my feelings. All the time. I get uncomfortable with too much seriousness. And there’s a chance I fart in my sleep.”

And he went into the marriage knowing full well what to expect.

In parenting, I try to let my kids know what’s happening. I tell them in the morning what their day holds. And while I hope a few exciting and unpredictable adventures await them, they seem to take comfort in knowing that Daddy will take them to school, Mommy will pick them up, and we are having chicken for dinner.

And I try, as best I can, to use this technique at work. Because in my role, managing expectations is paramount.

For me, the most difficult aspect of being an instructor is writing the syllabus. Not creating the class. Not thinking up challenging and worthwhile assignments. Not putting together and delivering lectures.

But writing up the syllabus.

This is solely because I have about three pages to manage everyone’s expectations of how the next four months of their life will go.

A typical syllabus contains the instructor’s contact info, the course description and objectives, the required textbooks, the reading schedule and the class (and university) rules.

For whatever reason, I always forget how deeply students care about the syllabus. But every semester, when my syllabi get posted a week before class starts, I’m reminded of how much people hate surprises.

And how far they will go to avoid them.

Last week, mere minutes after posting a syllabus for each of my classes, I had a stream of emails trickle in. These emails are never fun to open because never once has a student emailed just to say, “Wow, that’s a damn fine syllabus! Garamond? You dawg!”

Instead, emails come in with questions about the schedule. Did I mean to put those two due dates on back-to-back weeks? Or questions about the textbook. Can I just use an older edition my friend has? There are questions about my office hours. Can I ever meet at 7:00am? And even questions about my attention to detail. Did I mean to have so many typos?

I get it. I really do. When I was a college student I couldn’t wait for the syllabus. I wanted to be fully aware of what I could expect. And what would be expected of me. I had a need to put all the due dates in my planner. And to try to grasp the personality of the professor by the tone of the text.

But from my perspective now, there’s too much pressure on that document. I want to be able to let the class bend and curve with the personality of the group. To allow for organic debates about unforeseen topics (you know Trump is running for president, right?). And yet I can’t neglect the aching need everyone has to feel comfortable, assured, and aware of what’s to come.

Because no one likes surprises.

Least of all the wealthy restaurant patrons in search of top shelf vodka. Or newlyweds braving the adventures of cohabitation. New mothers overwhelmed by their responsibility. Children feeling scared by all the unknowns of life. Students fearing a bad grade.

And yet.

One night at the restaurant a customer was upset because our menu had changed and his favorite dish was no longer on it. To compensate for the foul mood this put him in, I surprised him with a free dessert. The size of my tip that night was certainly unexpected.

In our first year of marriage, Jim had to have unexpected surgery. He was pleasantly surprised to discover what an excellent caretaker I could be.

And one day, when I dropped Lowery off at school, I promised her Jim would be picking her up. She said it again to confirm. I promised. But my mother unexpectedly came into town that afternoon and asked to pick her up from school. The look on my child’s surprised face, according to my mother, was the stuff dreams are made of.

And some of the most meaningful evaluations I have ever received were in courses in which the students’ expectations for the class were extremely low. One wrote that he didn’t think the topic would be interesting, and another commented that she had never heard anything about the professor. And yet many seemed pleasantly surprised at how much they liked the class.

Which leaves me wondering if maybe people do like surprises. I mean, I get it when expectant mothers want to wait to see the gender of their baby at birth. But even they know what species to expect. Or maybe it’s just that people like to be surprised when they know the limited, and possible, outcomes.

But then, our children love to get surprises no matter what it is. I can guarantee that a surprise trip to Disney World would elicit the same response as the toy in a Cheerios box, so maybe people just like the idea of surprises.

Or maybe it’s not knowing the possible outcomes or liking the potential of surprises; maybe it’s that people are adaptable. A friend of mine became unexpectedly pregnant, despite vowing she was done birthing babies. And yet, she claims that baby is the greatest surprise she’s ever received. So maybe the unexpected that might catch people off guard, throw them off their game, disrupt their routine, is something they adapt to and grow to appreciate. Maybe people like surprises in retrospect.

So then how should I continue? Should I let my husband deal with unexpected changes in my personality, mood and life goals? Should I expect them in his? Should I control my children’s environment as best I can to help them feel as secure as possible? Or do I just teach them how to deal with the unknown? And should I work even harder to constantly clarify the expectations of education? Or should I just encourage my students to enjoy the ride?

I guess I just sometimes feel very unsure of exactly how to function in my roles as a spouse, a mother, and an educator.

But that’s to be expected.








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The Barbie Complex

I have very few rules when it comes to parenting.

This isn’t to say I don’t care about certain things like getting my kids a good night’s sleep or making sure they have a sense of humor. My husband and I have made a few choices, like no soda or running with scissors, but in general, we tend to play it fast and loose with the rules.

This is mostly because we are tired.

The promises I made myself—like breastfeeding, cloth diapering and organic baby food making—fell away for reasons of either sustainability or sanity. But those were choices I made. Rules of parenting I allowed myself to bend often, or dissolve entirely.

Otherwise, most everything else about parenting has been a little ad hoc. Jim and I want our daughters to be independent, kind and curious creatures who will view the world as a good place. Now, we can be pretty strict about certain things—manners, backtalk, and whining. That might be more about our low tolerance for such behavior over our desire to raise decent humans, but it should all produce the same result. Mostly, we are just trying to keep them alive and feeling loved. And those are large tasks in which rules would only gum up the works.

Except for one rule. The only rule I’ve ever had that I knew I would never break: No Barbies.

For a million reasons that are quite obvious, I made a rule around the time I was 15 years of age that no child of mine would ever own a Barbie. And no skirting around the rules either with a knock-off brand or one of those Bratz dolls.

I’ve never thought this was a ridiculous rule. It was a rule that was grounded in the need for any child of mine to have a healthy image of what women look like. For her or him to understand that women very rarely have eyes that are bigger than their breasts, or thighs that are wider than their waists. And that most women can bend their arms and knees to accommodate tasks like hard-hitting journalism and rocket science.

But then, what was I worried about? Any child of mine would be so engaged in gender neutral toys like Legos and Lincoln Logs that, more than likely, the issue would never come up. My child would never be the child who would cry and beg for a Barbie in the middle of a store. Nope, my child would always sit quietly in the cart going over the state capitals while I shopped for organic rhubarb and canning equipment.

So, four years and two daughters into parenthood, I’m proud to say that I have never once bent or dissolved this rule.

Even that time, six months back, after Lowery had a sleepover with my sister, and my niece’s Brave Barbie doll—a Disney character who boasts female empowerment through archery and lax hair care—ended up in my daughter’s overnight bag. That night, while my daughter slept, I took the big-eyed, big-breasted doll out of her bag and hid it safely behind the washing machine.

My husband supported this rule. He didn’t think it was over-the-top or unnecessary. He certainly didn’t want a bunch of naked plastic dolls hanging out in the Lego fort.

But then, two weekends ago, my whole parenting framework fell apart. Because of one ruthless and vicious infiltrator.

Better known to some as “Nana.”

My mother had asked to have both Lowery and my niece Payton up for a few nights. She had so much planned, like taking them swimming, watching movies, and visiting all the barnyard animals around their property.

But never once did she mention she might take them to the store and let them pick out a toy.

And so, when my daughter was dropped off—after a fun-filled weekend with her grandparents—she came running toward my open arms carrying none other than, a Barbie.

Stripper Barbie.

Complete with a skintight leather dress and glittery shoes that reeked of daddy issues.

When my eyes lifted from the doll to meet my mother’s gaze, I saw panic wash over her.

“Oh…” she said, looking down. “I forgot about your Barbie rule.”

I could tell her forgetfulness was genuine. As was her remorse. But there I stood, on the porch with my daughter and her new favorite toy. And I didn’t have a clue what to do.

“She was crying and begging for it in the store,” my mom volleyed. “What was I to do?”

“We don’t have Barbies in this house,” I said, to both of them.

My daughter, with her big saucer eyes and bouncy white curls, looked up at me with a quiver in her chin. “B-b-but, I LOVE her!” And with that pronouncement, she burst into tears, ran into the house and up to her room to play with her doll and the stack of tiny one-dollar bills it came with.

My husband, out of town on business, had to hear of this over the phone.

“What am I supposed to do, Jim!? She won’t let go of the doll for a second!”

“Well,” he said, treading lightly, “what is the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, I dunno Jim, maybe she’ll grow up thinking women stand on their tip toes?”

We ended the phone call agreeing that I would try to relax a bit, and that when he returned a few days later, we would strategize an intervention.

For the next two days Lowery went everywhere with the tiny doll she had affectionately named “Barb.” Lowery sat Barb on the table during dinner. She took her in the bath, careful not to get Barb’s long, blonde, unobtainable hair wet. She took Barb to bed at night. And she took her to school in the mornings.

Each night on the phone to Jim, I complained about Barb. I wanted him to end his trip early. The real business that needed taken care of was at home.

One evening during dinner Lowery asked, “Why are Barb’s boobies so big?” To which I first had to question where she learned the term “boobies,” and then had to call my mother to yell at her.

The next day Lowery asked if I would straighten her perfect, white tendrils because she wanted her hair straight and long like Barb’s.

My biggest fear was coming true.

Meanwhile, my sweet, precious, innocent toddler London has just begun to learn words, clocking around a new word a week. Each word is a beautiful surprise, and we all gasp in excitement when we hear a new one escape her lips. Last week it was “yellow.” The week before it was “hot dog.” Every word is delicate and special and are among the first building blocks of my child’s knowledge. And then, with my husband still away and my four-year-old immersed in Mattel, London waddled over to Barb, picked her up and inspected her. She looked up at me, smiled brightly, and as clearly as she’s ever said any word, exclaimed “Barbie!”

I wept the entire way to work.

After a week of having Barb around, I began to feel as though perhaps just this one anatomically incorrect doll couldn’t possibly warp my daughter’s sense of self-worth. But then, when I picked Lowery up at school, I found a large, lumpy bag in her cubby. I opened it to see a lovely note from one of the teachers:

“Dear Meg, these are my daughter’s old Barbies for Lowery. Enjoy!” 

And under the thoughtful note was a tangle of perfectly tanned plastic limbs, peeking out through sparkly spandex and shiny hair. It was a sack filled to the brim with the one toy I never wanted my child to have.

At home, my daughter was more engaged and occupied than I’d ever seen her. Typically, Lowery needs constant attention. A truly unreasonable amount of interaction and feedback. But with the perky-breasted dolls around, she didn’t need a thing from me. She played happily in her room for hours with the sack of dolls. Changing their outfits, curling their hair and acting out interesting and imaginative scenarios between them.

One night, the night before my husband was set to arrive home and help me flush all the Barbie shoes down the toilet, Lowery came downstairs with her arms filled with plastic.

“Play with me,” she said, as she handed me G.E.D. Barbie.

“I’ll play with you, Sweetie,” I responded. “But I won’t play Barbies.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I am actually not happy you have these Barbies.”

She looked hurt and confused. “But they are so fun to play with.”

“That may be,” I said. “But they aren’t realistic.”

“But mom…” Lowery sighed heavily. “They are just pretend.”

“I know…”

“And they were a really nice gift from my teacher,” she continued.

“That’s true….”

“And it’s fun to play them with London,” she pressed.

It was possible, I thought, that my child was out-maturing me in what was a defining moment in my parenting. These dolls were a very generous gift; I certainly couldn’t deny that. And I had seen how well my two daughters played together with them; it was really the first true playing the sisters were able to engage in. Plus, Lowery clearly understood it was all pretend. If she could grasp that Candy Striper Barbie and Pharmaceutical Sales Rep Barbie were just pretending to be attacked by a dinosaur, then she would probably realize their body shape was also a thing of make believe.

“And they have the cutest shoes!” she declared.

“Right there!” I stood up and threw my hands in the air. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. These dolls are not a realistic depiction of what women can or should dress like! Have you ever tried walking in heels that high?!”

She looked at me, clearly confused, so I pushed on, forgetting I was talking with a four-year-old.

“Lowery, I’m worried you will grow up thinking this is what women look like.”

She looked at Barb for a long time. And then back at me. Then at Barb again.

“But, this is what you look like!” she exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You look just like this doll! Your hair is the same color. Your skin is the same color. You look just like Barbie!”

I looked at her, looking back and forth between the Barbie and her mother, trying to find what exactly was different between us. And so before she had the chance to figure it out, I got down on the floor next to her, grabbed a Barbie and said:

“Let’s keep pretending.”












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Overpass

Despite claiming he is never one to give advice, my father has given me plenty of it.

He just hides it well within everyday conversation.

When I was younger, I would often accompany my father—a large animal veterinarian in rural Oklahoma—out on call to deliver a calf or perform surgery on a pig. My relationship with him seemed to transpire mostly at high speeds in a beat up truck littered with gauze and antiseptic. While in his pickup, bounding over graveled country roads, we had ample time to talk. I’d fill him in on high school drama and he would lightly press me about issues I was refusing to address, like where I wanted to go to college or what I wanted to be when I grew up.

One afternoon, as we loaded the truck, my dad said he had a riddle for me: Why is there always a pond next to an overpass?

I wasn’t sure how to respond because I wasn’t sure there was a pond next to every overpass. But as we drove, and I chatted endlessly about my need for guitar lessons, I noticed that every overpass we drove under had a pond within a short distance of it.

This puzzle intrigued me and I wrestled with it for weeks. Was it to help with run off after heavy rains? Something about fishing permits? Was the Turnpike Authority in on this?

Then one day, my head resting on the window of the passenger side of my dad’s truck while we headed to suture a mare’s leg, the answer to his riddle came flooding into my brain.

“The dirt!” I sputtered. “To build an overpass you need dirt!”

Moments like those are what I thought parenting was all about.

And yet, so far, I find parenting to be very rarely about imparting profound wisdom to my children through intricate puzzles that encourage them to seek their own answers.

Instead, I find parenting to be a lot of cooking, cleaning and dreading the weekends.

Look, I cherish, value, and appreciate every single second I spend with my children.

I mean, you know. Mostly.

It’s just that lately, the weekends have become anxiety-inducing blocks of time. I can’t exactly understand why, but for the past few months I’ve dreaded Saturday.

Maybe a part of it is that this isn’t the parenting I was imagining myself conducting. I’m never calmly driving down a dirt road in the pastoral countryside, wind blowing through my hair while giving my daughters a riddle to solve, a riddle that will profoundly alter their view of the world. And maybe part of it is that my two children are in different life phases, which require very different types of attention, hygiene, and sizes of cantaloupe chunks.

Instead of the idyllic parenting I assumed I’d be effortlessly enacting, I’m mostly in the kitchen doling out graham crackers and sippy cups. I’m doctoring a seemingly invisible gash on my preschooler’s knee, who screams as if the whole leg has been amputated. I’m carrying my robust toddler around on my hip because lately she’s decided we should never be apart. I’m spraying my hair with that disgusting dry shampoo that just makes me look like I’m going grey. I’m misplacing my coffee cup because I keep hiding it on shelves up high. I’m picking up trails of Legos and discarded clothes. I’m changing diapers. I’m queuing up Frozen. And I’m desperately searching for something we can go do that will occupy—and satisfy—my kids simultaneously.

Every struggle of the weekend seems so insignificant, so simple, so mundane. So why is it that the weekends are so tough? Is it just that I can’t complete a full sentence in 48 hours? Or that I can’t shit in private until Monday?

This past weekend was a very typical weekend. One almost identical to the last several weekends.

A weekend I had hoped would be an overlay from the last.

Instead, it was a weekend I wanted to pass over for the next.

It started with our refrigerator. A few weeks back we had noticed water seeping out of the front of it. When we opened the freezer drawer, we found the bottom covered in a sheet of ice. When the repairman came to look at it, he said the problem was that our refrigerator was tilted slightly forward, making it difficult for water to drain out the back normally. He twisted the feet of the refrigerator to level it (this is what you pay the big bucks for) and told us we would need to defrost the freezer. So I spent Friday afternoon clearing out the appliance and sorting every thing into piles of “save,” “toss” or “what did this start out as?” I kept all the essentials in a cooler filled with ice, I bleached out the entire refrigerator, and I made sure it was bone dry before plugging it back in and restocking.

But Saturday morning, we awoke to find, yet again, a layer of ice in the bottom of the freezer. And a puddle of water on the kitchen floor.

Another repairman came to tell us the first repairman was wrong and that the problem resided in a tiny plug on the back of the appliance not being completely connected to another tiny plug. As we watched him very gently connect the two tiny hoses together, using nothing but his fingertips—the skilled labor we were paying Saturday rates for—we began to see the weekend unraveling.

I’m not suggesting that paying two different men to do the equivalent of unscrewing a mayonnaise jar and plugging in a lamp made it difficult to enjoy the weekend, but it sure made me resent our constant need for milk storage.

Because I had discarded so much food in the throes of frozen passion, I knew we needed to go to the grocery store. The moment the sliding doors opened into the cool store, London began to scream. Not because of the automatic doors. Or because she was hungry. Or poopy. Or tired. She was screaming just to scream.

Meanwhile, Lowery decided she wanted her own cart to push around her prized stuffed unicorn. So, with London screaming, and Lowery bumping an empty cart with a folkloric passenger into every aisle display, we made our way slowly around the store.

While Jim stood in the very deep line to check out, I took the girls for a walk around the frozen food aisle. London robotically marched across the tile floor while Lowery ran up to strangers asking them why they were buying that kind of mustard or why they needed a cane.

Eventually, we made it out, but as we passed back through the sliding doors, Lowery stopped suddenly, looking stunned and concerned.

“My unicorn!” she yelled.

And back in we all went to find the mythical beast.

I’m not suggesting that the screaming wails of my one-year-old as we raced around the store looking for my preschooler’s missing stuffed animal made the weekend less enjoyable, but it sure did seem like the worst crime the security guard had ever witnessed.

Back at home, the now repaired refrigerator fully stocked and lunch consumed, we all gathered in the playroom for some downtime.

Or so I had hoped.

You see, London is still toddling around. And while she can walk and stand for long stretches, it doesn’t take more than a whisper of wind to knock her over. Then there’s Lowery, who is emphatic about life and expresses this both verbally and physically. So, when the sisters see each other, they squeal with delight and each become desperate to hug the other.

London will toddle toward Lowery, who is running full speed at London. Inevitably, this will cause a collision that may or may not include the knocking of thick skulls. London will scream out in agony, which will make Lowery scream out in remorse.

Jim will rush to the side of whomever he is closer to, and I will do the same. We remind Lowery that London is still a baby and needs to be hugged a bit more gently than she hugs her peers. And when London is finally calmed down, we will set her back on the floor. They will look at each other, squeal with delight, stand up and toddle/run toward each other, and the process will repeat itself over and over and over again.

This makes it impossible to ever finish a game of Candy Land.

I’m not suggesting that the physical instability of my youngest and the emotional instability of my oldest make it difficult to enjoy the weekend, but it does make me rethink choosing tile for the playroom flooring.

Later, we decided a trip to the library would be a nice way to spend the afternoon. Or, at the very least, kill time before bedtime.

From the mention of going to the library, to actually backing our vehicle out of the driveway, was 45 minutes of diaper changes, potty breaks, bag packing, snack-eating, sock-finding, and stuffed-animal-selecting chaos. And before Jim could put the car in drive, both kids were asleep.

The 15-minute drive to the library was the only calm and relaxing respite Jim and I would experience that weekend. We talked quickly and quietly about what all needed to be done before Monday. Laundry. Dishes. Change the light bulb in the downstairs bathroom. Find the vaccination record for Lowery’s PreK enrollment packet. Pick up the dry cleaning. Mail the gas bill. Record Castle.

Inside the children’s section of the library, our kids’ faces imprinted with the patterns of their car seats, they seemed delighted to be among all the books and blocks and children.

Lowery had her unicorn tucked protectively under her arm and walked boldly up to another young girl reading Madeline. As they engaged in what looked like beautiful and magical child’s play, London marched over to the building blocks, and started licking each and every grimy one. As I pulled blocks from her mouth and tried to wipe off her tongue through angry screams, I heard yelling and crying among the shelves. Jim sprinted over to find Lowery and the other young girl engaged in tug-o-war with Lowery’s horned horse.

As the other child explained to me that my daughter’s inability to share was very rude, I looked over to see London trying to stuff blocks down her diaper. I rushed to her to find her diaper full of more than just blocks.

I’m not suggesting that chasing around two screaming kids under the stern looks of quiet librarians just for the sake of reading made it difficult to enjoy the weekend, but it did make me appreciate the value and ease of television.

After Jim managed to break up the catfight in the books and I managed to change London’s diaper, we motioned to each other that it was time to go. But when Lowery and London saw each other from across the library, they squealed with delight and began making their swift journey towards each other.

Across the cold tile floor.

So while I would never suggest my children made the weekend difficult to enjoy, they pretty much did.

Jim and I have big plans for our family. We dream about the vacations we want to take with our girls. The conversations we want to have with them. The morals and values we want to instill. We think about weekends filled with popcorn and movie nights. Board games on a rainy Sunday. Impromptu road trips to a hole-in-the-wall diner. We see a life full of adventure and happiness and relaxation with these beautiful creatures of ours. But every weekend, those dreams, those ideals, those plans, seem just beyond the horizon.

As though they are across a busy highway with no overpass.

But we know it’s out there. Just beyond the point we are now, which is, essentially, deep in the ditch. Engulfed in the responsibility and stresses of owning a home and raising young children. This moment in our lives is about clearing land, drawing plans, and building up the foundation. Which makes it a very important phase of life. One that is difficult. Exhausting. And not always enjoyable.

But profoundly important.

So I’m optimistic that one day soon, maybe even sooner than I think, I’ll be able to give my girls riddles to solve on their own. Riddles surrounding a beautiful metaphor about life.

But not today. Today, as I sense the weekend drawing closer, I have to remember the advice my father gave me when I was younger. Advice that he carefully wrapped in a riddle: Why are there ponds next to overpasses?

Because you have to dig down to build up.














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Making a Splash

There is a water park down the street from where I currently live, and an hour from where I grew up. When I was young, it was a rare treat to get to go, and my last memory there was a birthday party for a friend when I was in elementary school. Back then, parents didn’t go batshit over kids’ birthdays, so it was uncommon to pack up a Suburban and head 60 miles south, to what I had believed was the World’s Largest Water Park, just to have a party.

The best part of the water park was the wave pool. Unbeknownst to me at the time, wave pools are a staple in every water park around the world. But to me, I was having a rare and spectacular nautical experience. Spending all day in the waves, and then the sensation of my body still gently rolling in bed that night, was the feeling of youth. It was among the most memorable adventures of my simple childhood. Nothing I can remember was more fun.

My sister got passes to the water park last week and, until she called to ask if Lowery and I wanted to go, I completely forgot it was an option. How is it that 10 years ago, when I moved to the town with the World’s Largest Water Park and Only National Wave Pool, I never bothered to go?

So last Friday I picked up Lowery from school early and headed with my sister and my niece over to the park. I was thrilled to be back there and told my sister I planned on spending all afternoon in the wave pool.

But when we got there, my daughter’s reaction was more exciting than the Silver Bullet (that’s the World’s Tallest Water Slide, but man it suddenly looked small). Her eyes were wide and bright as she peered around the water park, which I am certain must have been downsized over the years.

Lowery delighted in the waterfall around the lazy river. Her excited squeals made me forget all about how cold the water beating down on us was. It always seemed the perfect temperature back then. She laughed maniacally while floating around in the big open swimming pool that, while still large, certainly seemed more crowded than I remembered. And her wet curls bounced adorably as she slid down all the slides in the kiddie area. Though I didn’t think the kiddie pool was that shallow when I came all those years ago.

When I was offered my first job out of college, I was fascinated at the idea of having a career. Moving up. Getting promoted. I assumed the working world functioned like baseball, and scouts would watch me work. They’d stand in the corner of my cubicle looking over their sunglasses, spitting dark fluid in a cup and pretending not to be impressed at my phone skills.

I assumed I would always be scouted.

For years I worked to perfect my professional craft, which at the time was planning and executing extremely large-scale events in the nonprofit sector. While in graduate school, I worked tirelessly in class and on my research to earn top marks and prove my scholastic ability. As an adjunct, I gave much of my time and late nights to creating lectures, grading papers and advising students, so that I could perfect the craft of teaching. When it came time to apply for the job I have now I understood my entire professional and academic career had been leading me to, and preparing me for, this role.

When I was offered the position, I felt an extreme sense of relief, and pride, and acid reflux. But what I didn’t realize was that all the work and effort I’d done to reach that point had also been conditioning me over time to be constantly working for the next big break. The next promotion. The next accomplishment.

Getting drafted to the major leagues.

This became clear to me a few weeks back when one of my bright female students came to my office and shut the door. She had been offered a job that was a truly unique and interesting opportunity, and she was conflicted about what to do. She liked her current job—and was good at it—but also was intrigued by the offer on the table.

We talked through the pros and cons of staying where she was, or taking the new position. She verbalized her fears and her aspirations. She was honest in her assessment of her own skills and of where she wanted to be in the next five years.

This student is driven, talented, bright and ambitious. I had no doubt that whatever decision she made it would be far from the last time she would have offers to mull over and tough choices to make. The reality is, she has a long and upward moving career that will take her places she never imagined. And I’m lucky enough to see her near the beginning of it.

But as she re-opened my office door, breathed a cathartic sigh, and waved good-bye, a thought hit me that had never hit me before: I would never again be in the predicament she’s in.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t opportunities to move upward in academics. Or that I, too, won’t have a career full of excitement I could never imagine. But, in general, I am somewhat in a job that is what it is. I am no longer the person going after an important job, and using all my energy to move up.

I am now the person advising those who are.

One of my greatest joys, and biggest stressors on the job, is planning a course. So many moving parts go into constructing a class that is rich, dynamic and valuable to all learning styles.

The topic must first be considered. Courses on budgeting and finance, or statistics, don’t lend themselves to class discussions or lively debates. But then courses on debatable topics, like policy or ethics, don’t lend themselves to quantifiable exams. One is harder to teach the knowledge, but easier to measure it. And vice versa.

For each course I try to have many different activities. I strive for a good balance between in-class projects, lively debates, thoughtful assignments, engaging lectures, student presentations and, when relevant, guest speakers.

A guest speaker can be one of the more challenging and rewarding endeavors. First, there is finding the right person who can not only speak authoritatively on the topic, but is also engaging for the students. Then the schedules have to align. Can the guest speaker come at a point in the class where it makes the most sense? Will the speaker be able to do an evening class? Saturday?

Recently, I had the privilege of bringing in the State’s Superintendent of Education for a graduate course I was teaching on Education Policy. Arranging her visit was a lengthy, though exciting, process. I worked out many details with her chief of staff. I arranged the time, sent maps of the campus, a list of desired topics for her to cover, and even spoke with the university’s PR team about alerting the media.

On the day she was set to arrive I was a bit nervous. Not to meet her, but because I wanted so badly for this experience to be great for the students. I understand intellectually these students are adults, and will therefore make up their own minds, but I still wanted this experience to be one they would appreciate and, if possible, consider the greatest moment of their lives.

On the day she was set to speak she showed up precisely on time. She was impeccably dressed. She was smiling, relaxed and warm. We spoke privately for a few minutes and she was funny, personable and seemed as excited to be with me as I was to be with her.

And I was pretty f*cking excited.

When we walked into the classroom the students began applauding her. She seemed surprised and appreciative. She went around the room to each student asking their name and occupation. She spoke about the current state of our education, her plans for the future and then she asked for questions from the students.

It was truly a unique and profound experience. Not just for the students, but for me as well. I learned aspects about our state I was unaware of. I learned a great deal about her as a person and as an elected official (one I had not voted for, but now support).

And I became acutely aware in that moment that my job was to provide these types of experiences to the students. Not to be the experience—I wasn’t the guest speaker. And not to be given the experience—I was no longer a student. My role now, it became quite obvious, is not to be or to have. But to provide.

This was humbling and sad and wonderful all at once.

Last week when Lowery laid eyes on the wave pool, I’d never seen her face so overcome with excitement. She watched as the waves rose to white crests and fell elegantly to the ground, and then she went sprinting out into them. She reached for my hand and told me to jump as they came close. We did this for what seemed like hours. Then she wanted to lie down on the shore of the pool. We stretched out, with arms and legs extended like starfish, holding hands. She squealed with delight as each waved seeped up under our bodies and flooded our ears.

Then she turned her head toward me and, over the sound of crashing waves, she screamed: “Have you ever done anything that was this much fun?!”

To which I replied:

“Not that I can remember.”











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Kids' Birthday Parties

Let’s spend a moment on kids’ birthday parties, shall we?

To make it a more streamlined argument, I won’t even touch how ridiculous we’ve all become about celebrating a year’s growth for small people who barely have enough mental capacity not to crap themselves. Even still, I actually enjoy planning and attending the parties of the children I’ve created.

Nor will I complain about the exhaustive Pinterest Generation of Parenting we are all living in, as the site isn’t totally to blame. After all, Pinterest is helping me plan for the amazing kitchen remodel I will more than likely never have enough money to execute.

Themes aren’t the problem either. If anything, themes are the very best part of a kid’s birthday because it helps narrow the decision-making process down considerably. And for me, selecting or designing party invites once a year relieves the tiny ache I have to live as an artist in New York.

So it’s not how ridiculous we’ve become about our kids’ parties (but we have), it’s not about Pinterest (though it’s a problem), and it’s not about the themes (though god help me if my child ever asks for Sophia the First because, frankly, I don't wanna).

It’s more the nonsensical manner in which venues that cater to children’s parties are abysmal at helping to plan children’s parties.

One of my favorite places in our town (now that I’m a parent) is the zoo. We have a family membership and spend so much time there the padded holding cell for tantrum-throwing children is named after us. So it was no surprise to me that my oldest child wanted to have her birthday party there when she turned three last summer.

The date was picked. The theme was easy.

But when I called the zoo, the plans started to unravel. I was informed that the zoo would allow me 20 tickets (in the price range which seemed most reasonable for a child who was not of Kardashian descent) and those tickets would be sent to me through the mail. As in the postal mail. Like with stamps.

Now here’s the deal: the 20 tickets included everyone, adults and children. There are 20 children in Lowery’s class. And most of the classmates have siblings. Knowing my parents, my in-laws, and my sister and her child would be there, I was already down to 14 tickets. This meant I couldn’t invite every kid in the class. So, my daughter had to select only five classmates. But I cautioned her to choose wisely. Meaning classmates who didn’t have siblings or didn’t come from a two-parent home.

When she made her selections (she changed it every day for a solid week), I started a spreadsheet to tally up the total. On this spreadsheet I made sure to include all scenarios. So, counting one classmate if her/his sister(s)/brother(s) came, if both her/his parents came, if only she/he came with one parent, one parent but all the siblings, both parents but no siblings, and on and on until the entire spreadsheet looked like an intricate equation that measures the mass of Mars.

The other thing to account for was families who already had zoo memberships. I knew one of our neighbors had one, so they were on the list and staying. The other neighbors didn’t, but they only have one kid, so they weren’t costing me too many of the precious tickets. Other parents I tried to scope out casually so as not to let them think they were teetering on and off the list daily depending on how the spreadsheet was computed. I’d send a casual text:

         Me: Hi, how’s your day?

Possible Invite’s Parent: Fine. Why are you texting me?

         Me: We are all in this parenting thing together. Such a village.

Possible Invite’s Parent: Ok.

         Me: So, our family went to the zoo today.

Possible Invite’s Parent: Ok. So?

         Me: Do you like the zoo?

Possible Invite’s Parent: I guess.

         Me: But not enough for a membership, am I right?

And on and on to each parent until my spreadsheet had enough accurate data points to analyze.

The zoo mailed me an envelope containing the 20 tickets. I assumed, as stingy as they were about the tickets, these would be barcoded with holograms and a sensor that would go off if you tried to leave the zoo with one of the flamingos. But instead, I opened the envelope to find 20 tickets that were printed on purple construction paper and cut out by hand.

Now, I had the spreadsheet tabulated and I knew the winning invite list. I had worked tirelessly to casually and discretely figure out which parents had memberships. And I knew which families needed to receive the tickets that were clearly made by a first grader.

The struggle was, I had to give tickets to people in advance, not knowing whether or not they would come. I had to be liberal with the tickets, which meant a family of four was getting four tickets, even though only two might get used. Or, even worse, a family of two got two tickets but may not be able to come. My biggest concern was wasting a ticket, which could have gone to another child in the class. I seriously considered forgetting to put a stamp on my parents’ invitation just to have a two-ticket buffer.

This shit was keeping me up at night.

Noticing the dark circles under my eyes, my husband tried to help me figure out another option. One option—which we drew on a rotating white board like coaches at half-time—was to have one of us stand at the entrance of the zoo and hand out the purple construction paper tickets to our guests as they arrived. The problem with this idea was that the Kid’s Gazebo is a half of a mile into the zoo. Most parents tend to come and go at different times, or might stop to sightsee along the path to the party, which would leave one of us manning the entrance the entire party.

The other option, if you turned the white board over, was to just go to Michael’s and get some purple construction paper and make hundreds of copies of the tickets. But we both decided that while we are willing to do unethical actions to protect our children, we are not willing to do unethical actions just to please them.

When I called the zoo to explain the absurdity of this “ticket plan” in the hope of getting it resolved and getting me some sleep, the party planner seemed as though her hands were tied. She had clearly worked with the U.S. Mint to print the zoo tickets and, therefore, no additional tickets could be made unless I could get a signed letter from Joe Biden. Or pay an extra $100. Even when I asked if she could just tabulate the number of guests that checked in under my child’s name and have us pay the total after the party, she said that wasn’t possible.

I guess it’s because they wouldn’t be able to get a precise enough estimate of how many guests we would have. Because typically, visitors of the city zoo RSVP a few days before they actually go so the zoo has a precise number. This is so the zoo can know how many rolls of toilet paper are needed in the bathroom by the gift shop, and then they subtract two dozen. And I get it, zoo people. With an 85-acre campus, you need to know the exact number of extra children and adults who will be at the Morgan birthday party on the hottest day of the year for two hours in the afternoon. You wouldn’t want a surprise visit from the fire marshal.

Despite it all, the party was a success. Sure, my in-laws got so lost in the zoo they eventually came riding up on a golf cart driven by a grounds keeper 45 minutes into the festivities. But still, my daughter was happy, and my husband and I maintained our moral center.

The alternative to the renting of a facility at a place that is fun for children is to host a party at my home. I like this option because I can invite any and all people—even some my children don’t know—and, most importantly, I can get cases upon cases of beer. The problem with the home party is the gear up. My husband inevitably finds me, a few hours beforehand, crying in the bathroom because I’m so sick of cleaning.

But luckily, there’s alcohol.

I suppose the problem with any kid’s birthday party is that it has very little, if anything, to do with the kid. I’m sure my child would have been happy just to go to the zoo last year with her mom and dad and infant sister. All she really ever cares about is the cake, and those are for sale in nearly every grocery store across America most every day of the week.

And while I enjoy having a party at the house, I’m sure there’s a part of my kid that thinks, “This place again?”

That’s because she’s not old enough to drink.

So why, why do parents subject themselves to the Herculean effort of party planning when the kid would be happy with a spoon full of cake batter and a new Lego set?

Because, kids’ birthday parties are a wonderful excuse to surround oneself with other parents who are burned out from putting on and attending birthday parties.

And that, above anything, is cause for celebration.






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