The Golden Ticket

I spend an inordinate amount of time on Zillow looking at beach houses. This is because I deeply fantasize about one day achieving a level of success, and—more importantly—satisfaction with that success, that I’ll be able to spend the rest of my life living near water and relaxing for much of the day.

This fantasy is so intense, I finally had to confess it to Jim; I was afraid he’d look at my internet search history and see that “affordable Cape Cod mansions” was all I ever really use my computer for. He thought this was a nice idea, and a dream he would certainly share in, but it was obvious to him that it was so unobtainable there was really no point in having an entire laptop devoted to the cause.

Jim gave me a dose of reality, by explaining that the $6.4 million harbor home I had my eyes on was perhaps just a bit outside our price range. So I chose to reframe my goal. I decided that the large lake an hour from where we currently live must certainly have homes for sale that are slightly more affordable.

And indeed I found some. I made Jim and the girls crowd around my laptop to flip through pictures of lake cottages overlooking an expansive aquatic horizon. Still not believing that Jim was as invested in this dream as I was, I made a call to a realtor and set up a series of house showings. While in the second house of the day, our oldest looked up at me and said, “What are we even doing here?” To which Jim responded, “This is your mother’s goal: to work so hard, she can finally relax.”

I’ve noticed that most of my issues as a highly ambitious and intensely motivated individual were based on the idea that there was, in fact, A Golden Ticket. A single achievement, a status, or a title, in which I would finally feel satisfied.

On the day of my dissertation defense—which was a highly emotional and surreal experience—I emerged from the room, kissed my husband and declared: “I’m done. Not just with school, but with having to go after something big. I’ve proved everything and anything I’ve ever needed to prove to myself. And I can finally relax.”

My husband hugged me proudly, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Oh, Meg. That’s great of you to say. But I’m going to put a clock on that. Let’s see how long you can go.” Two weeks later I announced I would be writing a book.

Many of the meetings I have with students, current or prospective, pivot around the idea that a Golden Ticket exists. Current students are sometimes convinced that if they don’t take the policy course that is offered in the spring, then they won’t be able to go after the particular job they have their eye on. As if their entire career rests on one course. As if hiring managers dig deep down into transcripts and review course syllabi.

Prospective students always ask what they can do with the degree once they earn it. I often reply, “Not a damn thing. Or, everything. Your call.” The degree, sadly, is not a Golden Ticket. I cannot guarantee anyone anything. I can assure them they will have a good experience, and that they will learn a lot, but their diploma will not be a one-stop ticket on a train to success.

This is a helluva recruitment strategy.

Even my children live in a world where the streets are paved with Golden Tickets. My oldest believes that if she can just have one piece of left-over Halloween candy after dinner, she will be happy. Or, as she convinces us, if she gets one piece tonight she won’t whine about one tomorrow. Or, more threateningly, if we give her one right now, she won’t throw an epic fit at bedtime.

My youngest follows a similar line of thought—perhaps genetic, but probably environmental—that if we give her just one blanket, she will lie down and go to sleep. But then later she’s convinced it’s a stuffed animal that she needs. And yet, the stuffed animal also needs a blanket. And what about a glass of water? One more song?

Each girl living in a world they construct, and convince us of, where there’s one thing that will solve the problem. Tame the beast.

But, as is almost always the case, that beast is within us.

We all find ourselves searching for the thing that’s going to fix it all. How often do I say things at home like, “If I can just get the house clean enough, I can relax.” Or, “If I just do better at meal planning, cooking each night won’t be as stressful.” Or, more ridiculously, “If I just get to a point in my career and life that I’m satisfied, I can buy a mansion on the beach and relax.”

See, the problem with my beach house idea, a problem Jim has always recognized but is too kind to point out, is that a person like me will never be satisfied in life and work. There is no end point. No satisfaction point. No one thing that will ultimately be good enough, lasting enough, or satisfying enough. In fact, the only person who would be able to reach that point in their career is an apathetic and lazy person. And how is an apathetic and lazy person ever going to work hard enough to buy a beach house?

So it goes.

I remind my students that there’s no single class that will make or break the entire degree program. And there’s no degree program that will make or break an entire career. All anything ever is and ever will be is an investment in ourselves. A declaration of what we care about, what interests us, and on what we choose to devote our time.

My daughters are never going to eat enough candy to feel satisfied. Sick to their stomachs, maybe, but no single Fun Size Snickers is ever going to make Lowery go to bed without a fight. And no single blanket, book or bunny is going to make London feel comforted enough to just lie the hell down and go to sleep.

And a beach house on Cape Cod would never truly satisfy me. I mean, I have a really good idea for how I would decorate the look-out perch, and what I would do with the fifth bedroom, but then I know I’d run around saying, “If I can just get all 5,000 square feet of it clean, I can go relax at the beach today.”

And when I look back at all the decisions I’ve made, goals I’ve achieved, the people I’ve had in my life, it will be clear to see there was no single thing that defines it all.

But instead, it will be an entire life experience that’s just the ticket.

Masters of Disguise

When I was on the verge of completing kindergarten, I was scheduled to take a test measuring my readiness for the first grade. My mother accompanied me into a small room where the test proctor sat at a table with nothing on it but a single piece of paper and a pencil. I sat down, my mother beside me. On the paper was a circle. I was instructed by the proctor to draw a face.

I picked up the pencil and, on the far side of the circle, drew one eye. The proctor looked pleased. My mother beamed. Then I put the tip of the pencil on the outside edge of the circle and drew what appeared to be a triangle. The proctor fidgeted. My mother remained calm. Then I finished by placing the pencil back inside the circle, and, near the edge, drawing half of a smile. I put the pencil down and looked up at my mom. She was pleased.

The proctor was not.

I had drawn a face. In profile. The proctor explained to my mother that wasn’t the intent of the test. The test was to see if I could place two eyes, a nose, and a mouth within the circle in an arrangement that would best represent a face. She picked up the pencil and asked me to erase what I had drawn. My mother extended her hand to gently intercept the pencil. She explained to the proctor that her instructions never specified the face had to be forward facing. The proctor said if I wasn’t able to complete the test as it was intended, she would not recommend me for the first grade.

Whatever transpired in the room after that is still a bit fuzzy. All I remember was my test being taped to our refrigerator at home, and, in very short order, starting the first grade.

School is nothing if not the push and pull between conformity and individuality.

In the classroom I’m always asking my students to both fit a mold (everyone must be present, engaged, and participating) and to be themselves (bring in your own experiences, express your individual opinions). Everyone gets the same paper assignment (same page requirement, structure, citation guidelines) but I want them all to be creative and distinctive within that (pick a unique topic, bring in your own point of view).

And now that our oldest is in school, I see the push and pull between conformity and individuality coming strongly into play. But, much like my first grade entrance exam, I also see the push and pull between parental involvement and independent growth.

Lowery came home recently with a homework assignment: an outline of a turkey with instructions to “disguise it” so it wouldn’t get eaten on Thanksgiving. I didn’t give this assignment much thought. It was buried within the abundance of papers that come home every day, and, so, I glossed over it.

Jim, however, did not. He always carefully reads each piece of paper and makes notes of deadlines in our family calendar. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this Turkey Project was heavy on his mind.

The night before the Turkey Project was due, we had to attend an unexpected work-related event. As I gave dinner instructions to the babysitter, Jim told Lowery she would need to complete her Turkey Project. He explained that she had to disguise the turkey, and he left her with her bucket of markers, glitter and stickers. She nodded with the confidence only a five-year-old can possess, and off we went.

That evening, we got home in time to put the kids to bed. We read to them, giggled with them, talked to them about how their evening had gone, and tucked them both in with a kiss. Back downstairs I heard Jim let out a groan. When I walked in to see why, he was holding up her Turkey Project. It was the turkey completely colored over in brown marker.

I let out a laugh and clapped. “That’s awesome!” I exclaimed. He looked pained.

“She can’t turn this in,” he said.

“Why not? It’s hilarious. And clever.”

“No, no. This isn’t the intent of the project. Kids are meant to disguise the turkey.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a tough concept for a kindergartener to understand. She clearly took it to mean ‘hide’ and that’s what she did,” I said, still laughing as I admired it.

The next morning, as we rushed around to get the kids ready, Jim asked to talk with me alone in the kitchen.

“I can’t let her turn in that turkey,” he whispered, pulling at the knot in his tie.

“Sure you can,” I said.

“No, seriously. We failed as parents on this.”

“Excuse me!?”

“Meg, this was supposed to be a family project and we let her do it on her own. She’s going to get laughed at.”

“Laughed at why? And by whom?”

“I just know how this is going to go. Parents are going to have helped their kids, and they are going to be over-the-top masterpieces. And hers is, well, a blob of brown.”

“Hey now. She hid the damn turkey. You can’t eat what you can’t see! Besides, we don’t parent for other parents.”

“Meg, just let me ask the teacher for another turkey.”

“There’s no need. She did the assignment and it’s great.”

At that point Lowery walked into the kitchen. “Are you talking about me?” she asked. It was time for school.

That evening, when I arrived home after teaching my class, Jim seemed more relaxed. The kids were in good moods as we put them to bed. Back downstairs I asked, “Good day?”

He smiled and held up a piece of paper. On it was a turkey, colored to look like a purple unicorn, complete with drawn on horn and tail.

“What’s going on here?” I said, my smile fading.

“Well, the teacher forgot to send home another Turkey in her folder—”

“You asked for another one? I thought we agreed—”

“And so I just took the brown blobby one, held it up to the light, and traced the outline of the turkey. Then I made a photocopy of it so it would match the others.”

“This is insane, Jim.”

“No, you don’t understand. When I got to school today I saw what the other kids were turning in. One turkey was disguised as Superman, with a cape glued on it.”

“Okay, well that was clearly a parent…”

“Another was a snowman made out of cotton balls.”

“Yeah...okay....I get it, but—”

“One had a beaded necklace glued to it. I think it was Elizabeth Taylor.”

I looked back down at the purple unicorn. How meticulously Jim had traced the turkey outline through the original dark brown blob. I looked in admiration at the twisty horn he had drawn, and the thoughtful way Lowery had colored various shades of purple on each of the turkey’s feathers. I sighed and smiled up at him without any more to add.

A few days later, Jim and I met for lunch. Having not spoken about the turkey again since he proudly handed it over to the teacher, I couldn’t disguise my concern any longer.

“Can we talk about the turkey?”

“Sure…”

“What the hell was that all about?”

That turkey was the first time—aside from ‘who is going to change the next diaper’—that Jim and I were at odds about a parenting choice. We spent that lunch break hashing out what exactly had happened. Why I was so reluctant to get involved. Why he was so obsessed with being involved. Why he took charge before we had agreed on a plan. Why I was resistant to push conformity. On and on it went until by the end of the lunch a strange thing happened: we completely switched sides of the argument.

“I think you’re right,” Jim said, shoulders slumped. “I basically did the assignment just so she matched the other kids. I didn’t let her own it.”

“Nope. I’m an idiot,” I sighed. “It was intended to be a family project and I’m just sensitive to those mandatory parental involvement assignments. It undervalues all the ways we are involved. I was obviously projecting.”

“No, I was projecting.”

“No, you were being an exceptional father.”

“Nope. You were the one modeling good parenting.”

So, like any good argument, we both left still on opposite sides of the issue. And more confused than ever. Now, on the verge of Thanksgiving, where we will be eating an undisguised turkey, we find ourselves still at odds over what the right thing was to do. And desperate for a judgment call.

As if we think this one assignment sets the tone for our child’s entire education.

That day in the testing room, when I was in kindergarten, my mom let me be who I was and rejected any awareness or pressure of conformity. And she stayed right next to me so she could fight for my independence when needed.

In one artistic exercise when I was five years old, I learned what my goal was, and what the goal of my parents was. Maybe the Turkey Project was a lesson for Lowery, too. But what exactly did she learn? Does she know to strive for distinction within the conformity? And does she know her parents are there to step in only in defense of that?

Here’s hoping.

I take heart knowing a new folder filled with assignments is surely on its way. Another chance to show her what we’re made of. Another opportunity for us to figure out where exactly our place is in our child’s education. And in her life.

Whatever our place may be, I know sometimes we will need to make our efforts abundantly clear.

And other times, keep them expertly disguised.






megmyersmorgan.com

The People in the Room

When I was offered my current job, two and a half years ago, I was told the challenges that awaited me. I was there, on the branch campus of a major state university, to essentially save a dwindling graduate program.

To their credit, the administration graciously gave me the freedom and creativity to drive the direction of the program on the branch campus. This meant that very important people within the university system were interested to know what my strategy was going to be. What was my overall plan for recruitment? What specific sections of the professional market would I try to corner? Did I need a budget for billboard ads and click bait?

The truth was, I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a strategic vision or a recruitment strategy coming into the job. All I had was a goal: grow and strengthen the program. And given how small the program had become, and how new and green I was, this was a big goal. So I decided to start with a simple idea, a personal strategy I have long tried to follow: take care of the people in the room.

The first day on the job, I came into a room with six students in it. They were all I had. So I set out to give them everything I could. I listened to their concerns, their wants, their desires in a program, and the classes they were most interested in taking. I scheduled those classes, created assignments around their interests, and booked guest speakers to satisfy their curiosity in certain areas. I built every inch of that program around six people in a room.

Those six students graduated a year later. They are among the most ambitious and brilliant people I’ve ever met. Some went on to take important, change-making jobs in the community. Others were promoted within their fields. One went as far as Africa to work with an NGO. But every single one of them did another very valuable thing: they talked about their experience in the room.

Before long, others were applying. And I had a few more people in the room. On and on it went until two years later and now the room is overflowing.

I find that big goals cause people great anxiety. I push my students to always live with a bit of that anxiety because if they aren’t feeling it, they aren’t dreaming big enough. But those big goals often paralyze people before they even get the chance to make progress toward them.

Many students come into class on the first day worried about their final grade. Many prospective students worry about what they will do with the degree after they graduate, before they’ve even decided to apply.

The deal is, everyone has a goal. A big goal. Sometimes many, many big goals.

But they are a bit fuzzy on the plan.

So here’s the plan: Start with the people in the room.

Some of my most productive days end in me getting nothing done. I have an open-door policy, which means students can, and do, frequently stop by. While it’s difficult to ever make much progress grading papers or returning emails, it puts the power on those who enter the room. Once they sit down in front of me, they become my focus.

Sure, that isn’t a terribly efficient way to run a day. It’s often slow work. It sometimes feels like I got nothing done. And I often wonder if I spent my time wisely. But the truth is, taking care of those in the room is the work. An hour with one student seems to make greater impact than spending that hour talking to 20 potential students at a recruiting event.

The room is where the most important work is done. I’ve sat in plenty of meetings with colleagues where the laptop divides us—remotely sent messages are the priority in the room. Or people are distracted by what’s just outside the room—the next meeting, a pile of paperwork, unread emails. Or they forget to really listen to the thoughts of those closest. Or worse, they don't get consensus, buy-in, or excitement, from those around the table before a plan is rolled outside the room.

In class, I have a reputation for being a Luddite. I don’t allow phones or laptops. Which is tough on the students because they want to work all the time. Write while in class. Get started on the next project. Start researching for next week’s assignment while the class is discussing this week’s assignment. And sometimes look at their house on Google Earth.

I get it. That’s how we are built to think.

That somehow activity is productivity, and that productivity is the only way to achieve our goal.

But when my students are without distraction, and are focused solely on the other classmates in the room, everyone learns more. They have a better experience. And they are way more prepared for next week’s assignment.

When I get home at night I often feel the pull of work. Emails from my students. Grading. Or I feel the pull of a social life I currently can’t quite sustain. Texts for a happy hour. Invitation to a dinner. But when I walk in and see my kids and my husband, that’s the room I have to focus on. One of my big goals is a happy family life with lasting relationships. So my five-year-old’s histrionics and my two-year-old’s requests for a hug are what’s in the room.

This isn’t easy practice. Especially for someone like me that always wants to be working toward the goal. Growing, improving, excelling, inspiring, creating. And at any point in time something somewhere on Instagram needs my double tap.

But progress is, by its very nature, progressive. So start with what’s right in front of you.

To my students I say, don’t worry about the final. Start with the current assignment. Enjoy it. Work hard on it. Excel at it. That’s going to be the very thing that earns you the grade you want in the end. And the building block of a graduate experience you want. Which is the experience you'll need to achieve those big, anxiety-inducing goals.

To the university, I said I would be able to deliver on their big goal, but only if I started small. And that meant just six people in a room.

Big goals start with small plans.

To those who feel intense desire to change the direction of our country, to create a movement, to empower the voiceless, to make a lasting positive impact in the world—keep that goal squarely in your mind.

Make your goal as big as you can imagine it. But start by grasping at those things within your reach.

Start with the people in the room. Focus there. And like a rock diving deep into the water, ripples will infinitely extend from the impact.

So impact those in the room. Whether it’s a classroom packed with bright, young minds; a meeting room full of colleagues; an office with one student needing help; or a living room alive with chatter, take care of the people in the room.

And, perhaps most importantly, don’t forget to take note of the times you walk in a room and find yourself completely alone.

Then take care.





megmyersmorgan.com

The Fairy Garden

My mother asked to keep Lowery overnight so she could make a fairy garden with her. While I didn’t know what a fairy garden was, it didn’t sound like anything involving knives or needles, so I didn’t question it.

When I rang the doorbell of my parents’ house the next day, I heard Lowery burst into tears—she does not go quietly from Nana. While she ranted and raged in her usual way, I hugged my mother hello and asked how the evening had gone.

From what I could gather from my mother, Lowery hadn’t wanted to sleep in her own bed—something she’s done every night of her life—so she had slept in the bed with my mother. In the morning, she hadn’t wanted breakfast—something she’s eaten every morning of her life—so Nana had given her ice cream. Lowery hadn’t liked the shoes I had packed—the shoes she had insisted on taking to Nana’s—so my mother had driven to Wal-Mart late at night to buy her a different pair. My mother must have used up the word “no” on me as a child and had none left to give her grandchildren.

As I tried to listen to my mother tick through all the many manipulations and victories my daughter had during her stay, Lowery’s despair over leaving grew louder in the background. My mother suggested Lowery show me the fairy garden. Lowery immediately stopped screaming, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the kitchen.

And there it was.

A shallow plastic pan, two feet in circumference, filled to the brim with mulch. At one end was a beautiful, colorful, ceramic dome hut—presumably where the fairy sleeps at night—which was molded and painted to look like an upside down flower. From the door of the dome was a walkway made of iridescent marbles that curved through the pan, twisting and turning around a constellation of tiny succulent plants and an arched, wooden bridge. Nestled within the plants were tiny chairs made of tree branches, and an intricate little swing next to a beautiful fairy perched in the mulch. It was adorable.

My mom bent down and wrestled to pick it up. When she got a hold of it, careful not to knock over the tiny fairy swing that gently squeaked with the sway of the plastic tray, she worked hard to keep it steady.

“Here you go!” she said, handing it to me.

I looked at her face for more information. Surely she was joking. But as she handed over the large plastic tray full of dirt, highly breakable toys, and marbles the exact size of a child’s windpipe, I came to see she was not.

“The garden needs to stay indoors,” she instructed. “It needs to be lightly sprayed with water every few days so the succulents will thrive. Also, it needs to be near a window so the plants can get sunlight, but not a window that gets direct sunlight. Put it up high so your dog won’t eat the plants.”

And with that, she hoisted up a 10-pound bag of mulch—in case I needed to add more to the fairy garden later—and pressed it down in the bend of my full arm.

“Thanks for letting me keep her!” she beamed. “We had the best time!”

For the past few months, the fairy garden has been sitting in the only spot in our house that meets all the requirements: the small, round bistro table in our breakfast nook. The garden takes up the majority of the space, leaving mere inches of table top around the perimeter.

After a few days, we had to move our dog Lucy’s food bowl because she kept bumping into the table, causing a small shower of mulch to rain down on her while she ate. A few weeks later I noticed all the marbles were gone—Lowery had taken off with them but then forgot where she put them. Jim and I went on a hunt around the house to find each gleaming ball so our youngest daughter wouldn’t choke on them. We are still missing four. A few days ago, I noticed the top half of a fairy was discarded under the couch, so I peeked into the garden to find a pair of body-less fairy legs sticking up out of the mulch. We found the tiny, squeaky swing in London’s crib, stuck between the slats, and the tiny tree branch chairs were discovered, underfoot, in the upstairs bathroom.

One night, while loading the dishwasher, as Jim tried to clean a spider web out of the tiny window of the flower petal dome, I threw up my hands and said, “Can we just get rid of the damn thing already?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I mean, at least not until after this weekend. Your parents are coming over.”

The garden was like all things aimed at kids: inconsiderate of parents.

It seemed sometimes that was what grandparents were, too.

My favorite aspect of how my own parents parented was how they never made their children the center of their world. I always felt heard, respected, loved, and safe. They came to all of my recitals, my plays, and my graduations. But I knew they were doing and accomplishing more than just parenting. I was empowered by the fact that my mother was an entrepreneur. I admired that my father was an expert in his field. And what an example they set by having a date night every week. And hobbies. And a social life.

They were highly invested, but not overly involved.

It was a balance I had hoped to emulate as a parent.

Which makes the current culture of super involved parenting not only extremely exhausting and irritating to me, but—for lack of a better phrase—it’s just not how I was raised.

And yet, despite trying to put all the aspects of my life on an equal plane with parenting, I still find parenting all consuming. It overwhelms my time, my thoughts, and my emotions. The school activities alone are a full-time job. And while I’m grateful my children are healthy and happy, I’m also exhausted by the fact that they are loud, demanding, tantrum throwing lunatics who set out to ruin every weekend.

A few weekends ago Lowery became upset. I think I gave her the wrong cup or something, and she erupted into a screaming fit—the levels of which cannot be exaggerated. For nearly two hours, our five-year-old daughter was in her room thrashing, screaming and throwing toys; raging against the machine that doesn’t understand which color of drinking apparatus she prefers.

Her fits have always been epic. Since infancy. And while Jim and I try to remain calm and centered through them, it is nearly impossible. At a certain point I usually break down in tears. This upsets our happy and genteel child London, who will start crying out of confusion and concern. This means Jim is stuck trying to calm three highly emotional women while he struggles to calm himself.

If anything is obvious to me, it’s that my children want to be the center of my universe.

While I recognize this phase of life is just that, we still find ourselves struggling. Maybe it’s just the ages of our children. Or their transitions at school. Or our commitments at work. Or this election cycle. Who knows. But when Monday rolls around I’m usually so rung out that if anyone at work asks about my kids, I’m liable to collapse onto them, unabashedly weeping.

Which is why, early this year, when my parents sat us down to announce my father would be running for State Senate, I felt two emotions in equal measure: immensely proud, and, then, pretty pissed. Who was gonna help us with these damn kids?

I have friends whose parents pick up their children from school every day. I’ve heard women at work talk about how their parents keep the kids one weekend a month so they can get a break. There’s even rumor of a couple in town that gets a date night every week because the in-laws watch the kids.

So sure, I’m beyond proud my dad is running for office. Of course. He will make an effective and admirable elected official. But come on. Wouldn’t he make more impact on our state if he spent his time taking my kids to the park? And sure, my mother is a great campaign manager, and has spent the last six months tirelessly knocking on doors for hours after work. But wouldn’t she influence more people if she spent her evenings making us dinner and bathing the kids?

As a child I appreciated, and certainly benefited from, not being the center of my parents’ universe. But now that I have kids, I suddenly want to be.

I need help.

I need a break.

I need them to take the kids every other weekend. And a month in the summer. And two nights a week.

I need them to sell their house, which is inconveniently an hour away, move next door, and pick up my kids from school. And, also, volunteer for the bake sale.

I need them never to say, “Well, they don’t act like that around us.”

And I need them to throw out the f***ing fairy garden and promise never to make another.

I need my parents to focus solely on me.

The other day I was so distraught, so tired, so past the point of feeling confident in my parenting or in myself. It had been another trying weekend full of tantrums, backtalk, and complaints. I woke up before the girls so I could have a few minutes to compose myself. I texted my dad the kind of text I don’t normally send—one fraught with emotion:

“I’m not strong enough to be their mother.”

I stared through tears at the screen until the three glowing bubbles appeared.

“Yes you are.”

A moment passed before three more bubbles began to glow:

“You’re a great mother.”

I knew he would be off to work in a few minutes, followed by a full evening of campaigning. I needed to get going, too, but I sat there reading that text over and over until I could will myself to move.

Jim was out of town, and my mother was driving up that evening to watch the girls while I taught class—she’s my emergency backup when all of our babysitters are booked. After class I came home to find my mother sitting on the couch reading. The house was quiet, the kids asleep. She hugged me, asked how class went, and then quickly left to race home and knock on doors with my father.

I sat down on the couch, exhausted. I noticed the carpet looked vacuumed. The pillows were neatly arranged on the couch, and there was not a toy in sight. Then I heard a beeping noise from the kitchen. I walked in to find the oven timer going off. I opened the door, looked in to see a fully cooked meatloaf, and burst into tears.

I pushed the fairy garden a few inches over and balanced my plate of food on the edge of the table. Then I opened my phone to reread my father’s encouraging text messages from that morning. And I realized something I hadn’t fully understood before having kids of my own:

I have grand parents.

Reply All

I hear a sound trumpet loud,

And I open just one eye.

It’s the alarm yelling at me,

To this I must reply.

The younger kid is waking up,

And I hear her begin to cry.

Her diaper is full, her belly is not,

To this I must reply.

The older child springs out of bed,

Her curls are all awry.

I go in search of detangler,

To this I must reply.

The dog begins to whimper,

A full bladder she can’t deny.

I rush to open the back door,

To this I must reply.

My husband heads out the door,

And turns to say good-bye.

He puckers up his lips,

To this I must reply.

I hear my phone whistle out,

A friend texting to verify

Our lunch plans later on today,

To this I must reply.

At the office there is a meeting,

And we need to unify.

They are asking for my input,

To this I must reply.

In the classroom I stand in front,

With a directive to edify.

A student has a question,

To this I must reply.

My phone lights up again,

My calendar wants to certify

That I’m headed to the next appointment,

To this I must reply.

Then Facebook begs to be opened,

There’s so much they want to notify.

The red badge glows angrily,

To this I must reply.

Then I click on Instagram,

For filters on which I rely.

Someone left a comment,

To this I must reply.

I was mentioned in another app,

With the blue bird that cannot fly.

And I need to be clever in so few words,

To this I must reply.

I open up my inbox,

Messages in strong supply.

I see a few from my boss,

To this I must reply.

There’s a knock on my office door,

A stressed-out student has stopped by.

The assignment is late, she’s concerned,

To this I must reply.

A breaking story fills my ears,

One that can only horrify.

I feel the need to speak or act,

To this I must reply.

I’m running late to pick up kids,

But my gas tank has run dry.

I pull off at a station,

To this I must reply.

The children scream and shout

For food to satisfy

The hunger in their bellies,

To this I must reply.

I hear a buzzer from a machine

To alert me clothes are dry.

I grab a basket in preparation,

To this I must reply.

We turn on the TV to relax,

Netflix shows seem to multiply.

There’s so much left to get through,

To this I must reply.

I see the covers turned down,

And in the bed I want to lie.

Even though I owe more responses,

To this I must reply.

Critical Condition

During my semester abroad in undergrad, I enrolled in a theatre class, along with the four girls with whom I was traveling. The course format included 12 productions in various theatres across London; everything from big, glamorous musicals on the West End, to tiny indie plays near Westminster.

After each production we’d walk out into the dark London night in search of a pub so we could eat and drink and dissect the play. This wasn’t just for fun, of course; this was the assignment. We were being graded on our ability to critically evaluate the productions.

One evening we went to a small studio theatre in SoHo to see a play called the Pugilist Specialist. This was a post-9/11 play with anti-war undertones and a damning portrayal of the armed forces. The set, only two benches; the cast, just four soldiers.

After the show, the five of us walked in silence to the nearest pub, ordered beers and looked at each other. We were Americans, living abroad during the early years of the war in Iraq, and we had just seen a play critical of the American military complex. There was so much to critically assess, yet we said nothing.

It was the last production of the semester. We’d spent months in class passionately dissecting all the many plays we had attended. We’d torn apart lighting schemes, set pieces, costume designs. We’d criticized acting, dialogue, and chemistry. We’d challenged director’s choices and questioned a few musical scores. We even slammed one play’s use of a prosthetic penis when an actor unzipped his pants and revealed it to the audience, because its artificial look was distracting (only to later find out in a Guardian review, it wasn’t a prosthetic after all). But that night, after watching the Pugilist Specialist, I think we were all a little tired of throwing punches.

Thinking critically is a smart man’s game. It’s the purpose of education, the mark of intelligence, and what we all want our children and politicians alike to be good at. By default, thinking critically automatically rejects anything at face value. It’s the kind of high-level thinking that digs deeper into an understanding of something, be it as small as a play, or as big as a war. But perhaps the high value placed on thinking critically has manifested into a mindset of always being critical.

My oldest daughter Lowery was given a Beado set for her birthday. This is a craft in which microscopic beads are assembled on a tiny plate, then sprayed with water and left to dry and gel into a solid trinket. The set came with patterns to make butterflies, rainbows, and puppies. But after a few rounds of the prescribed shapes, Lowery wanted to branch out. She was determined to make a phone. Without a pattern, she used my own phone to determine the size and shape, and then freehanded the middle to look somewhat like a smart phone screen full of apps.

While working in her room on her free-style phone, I heard Lowery erupt in anger, followed by the tinkling of tiny beads hitting hardwood. I ran up the stairs to find her thrashing around the room, her face soaked in tears. “I’m so bad at this!” she screamed. I scanned the room to try to piece together what had happened. I saw the Beado tray overturned and beads scattered in all directions of her room; the phone was completely destroyed.

“I’m bad at everything!” she yelled as she flung herself face down on her bed.

I ran to her side, held her tightly, and let her rage within the confines of my arms. She eventually calmed herself, and all that was left was a deflated five-year-old who had spent the last few minutes beating herself up.

I listened closely to her self-criticisms. How she wanted the phone to be perfect, how she was excited to put it in her purse, how she was hopeful it would give her more chances to FaceTime with Nana. But it wasn’t coming together on the tray exactly how she had imagined it in her head. I explained to her, as gently as I could, that she is not allowed to talk badly about herself. “People will only think as highly of you as you do,” I said. “So be your own biggest champion.”

There I was, trying to persuade my daughter to be less critical of herself. Something I can’t even convince myself to do.

A few years into our marriage, I was explaining to Jim one night how disappointed I was in a particular chapter of my dissertation’s rough draft. And, at the same time, I was really unhappy with my design for Lowery’s first birthday party invitations. I was critical of both in equal measure. Jim listened with compassion and empathy, and was able to help me strategize ways to move forward on both fronts. When he could tell I was relaxing a bit he said, “I think if anyone looked inside your brain at any given time, they’d see an image of you sitting in a chair, punching yourself repeatedly in the face.” It was said in jest, and I took it that way, but it was the first time anyone had ever pointed out to me that I am extremely hard on myself.

I didn’t know there was any other way to be.

And yet, I can’t deny that many of my conversations with Jim, then and now, circle around my feelings on how a class could have gone better, or the worry over how a talk I presented at an event had been received, or the pressure I feel with the second book.

I’m not self-loathing, I don’t have low self-esteem, and I don’t feel unworthy of love. And yet, I spend a great deal of time steeped in pugilism, beating myself up over expectations that I put there in the first place.

In the classroom, I encourage my students to think critically, just as I had been forced by a very frightening British theatre expert. And I’ve got to assess their ability to do so by grading their papers with a very critical eye. At the end of the semester, they get to critically assess me when they fill out their evaluations. There is an expectation—a pressure—to be critical at every point along the way.

That expectation is maybe the most damning expectation upon us all. The need we all feel to be constantly judging, assessing, or assuming we know how to do something better. What else explains why people take to social media to publicly—and unnecessarily—criticize something as trivial as mixing up “your” and “you’re”?

But just because I don’t typically lob criticisms (especially publically) at people doesn’t mean I’m not a deeply critical person. I just turn it all inward. It’s often harsh and seemingly unending. Am I just anticipating the many ways I’ll be criticized by others, and am I just trying to beat everyone to the punch? Which is better: endlessly criticizing others, or harshly criticizing oneself? There’s certainly no reason to censure instances of bad grammar (which are, most often, just typos), but there’s really no reason that I am so damn hard on myself.

And nothing highlights that more than watching my five-year-old beat herself up over a simple arts and crafts project. Where was this coming from? Jim and I aren’t critical of her. Most of what Jim and I say to her is positive and uplifting. We don’t talk down to her, patronize her, or fill her head with self-doubt. She never hears us talk that way to each other either. And Lowery and London are always excited for the other’s small victories, openly offering each other praise. This isn’t to say the Morgan house is all compliments and positivity all the time, but for the most part, I take pride in how much our little family boosts each other up.

And I know Lowery doesn’t hear me verbally vilify myself. I consciously never say anything critical of my hair, my body, or the way I look. I’ve been so deliberate about that with my girls, that most of those thoughts have stopped even popping into my head at all. But it’s certainly possible that Lowery hears me self-criticize in tiny, covert ways. Maybe she hears me second guess myself. Verbally overthink something. Describe the ways I wish I could have done more and done better.

Maybe turning all my criticisms inward have made them spill out.

I often think about that play, and the silence among us after. How good it felt to sit there and just accept the play for what it was. The beer might have been part of that. But it wasn’t that the play was perfect; it was that we all needed a break from the criticism.

I’ve reached a point like I did in the theatre district in London: I’m tired of throwing punches.

I’ve got to be kinder to, and less critical of, myself. If I don’t, I’ll be to blame for my daughter being hard on herself. It’s a trait she either inherited from me, or it’s a trait she has developed watching me. But I refuse to be the reason my child is self-critical. I will not be a role model for that. So I resolve to knock it off with all this self-criticism. Of course, I know exactly what will happen if I don’t:

I’ll beat myself up.





Buy Harebrained

Storytelling

My life often feels divided into three equal parts: teaching, parenting, and writing. And the commonality among them is presence of storytelling.

At work, current and prospective students—mostly female—stop by my office to chat about work, school and life. Often, they are there for a specific reason, a question about an assignment or a struggle at the office, but sometimes they are there just to talk. I am always amazed and grateful they share their stories with me. Sometimes it’s the story of a new puppy or a promotion at work; sometimes it’s a darker tale I feel humbled to hear. At home, I have two daughters who do nothing but tell stories. A tall tale about why the lamp is broken. Or a story that is merely the mark of an exploding imagination. And when I sit down to write, I craft my own stories, hoping I share one to which someone else can relate. In all the areas of my life, I am in the presence of women and their stories. And I’ve noticed that often, we as women don’t do the best job as storytellers.

The lives we are living, the experiences we are choosing, are the most important stories we will ever tell. We pick the plot points, we choose the cast of characters. And yet, I find that women spend the least amount of time crafting their own stories. I see them get swept up in other people’s narratives, or playing a secondary character in someone else’s tale, or—even worse—giving up on their own stories.

But if we see our lives as stories, we can use three rules of storytelling to weave tales we are proud to tell.

The first of these rules is: Don’t Just Be the Hero

I constantly hear the phase: Be the hero of your own story. I see it on posters, on memes, on home décor. And that is fine advice. We should be the hero of our own story. But I’ve seen enough Disney movies with my daughters to know that even when the princess is the hero of the story, it’s always narrated by someone else. An omnipresent voice telling us the hero’s journey and, often, how to feel about it.

It’s not enough to be the hero of your story. Be the narrator. Then, write yourself as the hero.

I remember very clearly the first time I lost my narrative. It was right after the birth of my first daughter, who was born in the summer between semesters of my doctoral degree.

When the summer ended and the semester started up, I was able to secure two days of child care. This meant that on Tuesdays and Thursdays I would need to attend class, do any of the work for the university to fulfill my scholarship requirements, as well as schedule any dentist or doctor appointments. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I was at home with my newborn, taking her to story time at the library, Mommy and Me gymnastics class, or to see the elephants at the zoo. While she napped, I worked on my dissertation. When Jim came home from work, I made us dinner and then left to drive an hour away, to another university, where I taught two night classes that lasted until about 11. The next morning, it started all over again. This was my routine for two years.

At the time, when people would ask what I was doing now that the baby had arrived, I enumerated all of that. And most every person I told this to responded in one of three ways: 1) Gasp and express how unbelievably lucky I was to find a man who would support me in all of this, or 2) Bring up the financial ramifications of my choices; many were quick to point out that the expense of graduate school must have put undue pressure on Jim to support us fully on his salary, or 3) Lightly suggest that I could be on the verge of ruining all of it.

The narrative was: here’s a woman being careless, selfish and irresponsible with her family. And after frequently hearing that story told about my own life, I bought into that narrative so completely that it became the story I told. I’d sheepishly say I was in school, but express that it wasn’t a big deal. Or I’d lead by saying how lucky I was to have a husband like Jim who supported my school work. Or I’d undersell how overwhelmed I was because I didn’t want anyone assuming my stress meant stress in our marriage.

One morning in the shower, while scrubbing my hair, I enumerated all I had to do that day—get Jim off to work, feed and change the baby, get her to day care, get to class, go into the office to run data for the grant I was working on, get my hair cut, pick up the baby, get dinner ready, grade papers while we ate, and create my lecture in my head while I drove an hour to class. And it suddenly hit me: the narrative was all wrong.

The true story was this: I was and am lucky to have Jim, sure. But not because of the reasons people kept saying. If the rationale is that I am lucky because my spouse supports me in my personal and professional goals, then Jim is damn lucky, too. I was also not a financial burden at all. I was caring for our child nearly full time (saving us thousands of dollars), I was on full scholarship for school (again, several thousands of dollars), and I was bringing in money from adjunct teaching (let’s not get into the monetary value on this one). Further, I wasn’t on the verge of ruining my marriage with all my stress. I actually handle stress really well. And it was insulting to imply I wouldn’t be aware of it if I were.

Wasn’t any of my journey impressive? Wasn’t anything I was doing worthy of admiration, or respect? Why was it that everyone only saw my story as it related to my poor, put upon, stressed-out, financially struggling husband?

How had he become the hero of my story?

It was because I had let go of the narrative.

So after that shower, when I was good and steamed, I took back my narrative. Sometimes in overt ways—like writing about it—but often it was just in how I responded to people who asked about my life. I stopped downplaying it, or hiding it, for fear I seemed selfish and reckless. I was proud of my story, and I took pride in the narrative. Which I know made me preform better in school and at home.

I reveled in my story because I realized I was the hero.

I see a lot of women who let their narratives go to someone else, be it a parent, a child, a spouse, even strangers. And the problem with that is that no one else is ever going to write you as the hero.

Recently, a young woman who had just graduated college asked to meet with me. She was interested in applying to the graduate program I help administer. She told me that she absolutely wanted to do the program, she just didn’t know when. Her problem was she was waiting to see where her boyfriend got a job. Then she would probably move with him, as they were probably going to get married and then she could make a decision about starting graduate school.

I have no problem with women embarking on an adventure for—or because of—love. But in that conversation, she was talking more about her boyfriend’s career, opportunities, and desires than her own. She had given him the narrative and was living as a secondary character in his story. And if she gave over the narrative that time, making the boyfriend the hero, she’s more likely to do it again. And again.

Life is about compromise, sure. But that doesn’t mean giving over your narrative. Be the hero of your own story. But more importantly, be the one telling your story. Be the narrator. Be the main character. And dare to write yourself as heroically as you can.

The second rule is: Don’t Put Plot Before Character

The most interesting and compelling stories are made up of characters you can relate to, fall in love with, and root for. The stuff that happens to them is just plot. And it only matters because of who the character is.

If you ask someone about Harry Potter, they don’t say, “Oh, I love all that stuff that happens to Harry Potter.” No, they say, “I love Harry Potter.” At that point, it’s best to walk away because they are about to tell you all the many reasons why they do, and you do not have that kind of time.

I find that people—especially women—focus on the plot way more than the character.

I met with a prospective student last summer. I knew her only by her sterling reputation, so I was beyond excited when she reached out to me about the graduate program.

She started our meeting with a disclaimer—she was going to have a baby. I was thrilled for this stranger, congratulating her for the good news, and, of course, reminding her not to give her narrative away to the baby or her husband. She promptly corrected me by saying she wasn’t actually pregnant yet, but she wanted me to know her frame of mind to give our conversation context.

Now, this isn’t unusual. Many of the women I talk to mention this right up front. I think it’s great to voice our desires. And, as their potential advisor, it helps me know what kind of life they are striving for—which is helpful when it comes to career counseling and course selection.

But the reason for mentioning her interest in having a child was because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take the program I help administer—which is a traditional in-person program—or one offered at another university online.

Again, that isn’t an unusual conflict, and I’ve heard many potential students express it. She thought that an online degree would offer more flexibility, which would be helpful whenever a child came to be.

Now, there’s a lot of data that suggests online programs are actually more time consuming, but I could tell that wasn’t really the direction our conversation needed to go, or the real root of her dilemma.

So I asked her: “Which one do you want to do?”

She laughed and said she would much rather take the program in person. She loved having conversations with her classmates, getting to interact with the professors, the camaraderie of school, etc.

So her conflict wasn’t between an online program and a traditional one. Her conflict was between plot and character. She clearly had a preference. And the reality was, her preference wasn’t detrimental to her other plot points—her future kid won’t know the difference.

But women continually jump to the plot point before they’ve thought about the character.

And one of the biggest lines of bullshit that women get fed is that the major plot point of parenting immediately comes with sacrifice. That motherhood equals martyrdom.

So we start sacrificing before we are ever asked to. I’m not saying parenting doesn’t come with some sacrifice; it absolutely does. And you never know what issues or challenges will come with each child. But by and large, my kids aren’t the ones asking me to sacrifice. The sacrifice my daughters ask me to make is to get off the couch and get them goldfish crackers; they do not ask me to give up on my hopes and dreams.

Yet when women are ready for motherhood, we start clearing our life of all the things we really want in preparation for all the sacrificing.

I kept putting off getting pregnant with our second child, trying to accommodate a possible job opening at the university--the position I now occupy. After months of waiting, I gave up on the plot point and listened to my character. I wanted another kid. And the university patiently waited until after I gave birth to that kid to interview me.

If we think about character first, then logical plot lines flow from there. The prospective student can choose to do the program she wants and make the arrangements with the baby around that. But if she jumps to plot first, picking a program she is less excited about just because she thinks the plot dictates that, then she is not only putting plot before character, but she’s handing over her narrative.

So, if you’ve got a hold of your narrative, and you’re writing yourself as the hero, then accept the plot points that make sense from the point of view of your main character. Which is you. Remember? The hero.

The final rule is: Don’t Recycle Plot Lines

My husband and I stream a lot of Netflix. And Hulu, and Amazon Prime. We’ve instituted two minutes of eye contact between episodes, so it’s fine. Sometimes, a few minutes into a new show, we’ll turn to each other and say, “Have we seen this? This seems familiar.” Now, whether or not we have seen it before, the familiarity has already weakened our interest.

Our own plot lines should be compelling. Unique. And keep us on the edge of our seats as we progress in the story. If it feels familiar, you’re gonna be bored.

And yet we often get caught up in the common plot points we’ve heard about. I’m not talking about big major life milestones, like school, marriage, kids, and the like. I’m talking about the small points of plot we think are necessary for our character to experience.

For the first two years recruiting for our graduate program I got the exact same question from every prospective student: “What can I do with this degree?” For two years I showed them statistics on what other students had gone on to do. I showed them income reporting from alumni across the region. I showed them the most common jobs that look for someone with this degree. But after two years, I had a young woman in my office who asked that same question and I snapped (I apologized, we’re good) and said: “What can’t you do with this degree?” I was just so tired of recycling plot lines to students.

Look, I get that people don’t want to take unnecessary risks. But there’s also a point at which we have to stop thinking everything is an equal input-to-output exchange. That if we follow the same path as someone else, it will result in the same outcome. Or that we can only get to point B if we go through point A. I’m guessing going through C is way more fun anyway. Very few things in life have a replication model of success. Would we encourage our youth to drop out of college because look how it worked out for Bill Gates? No. And we shouldn’t be doing that with our own points of plot. There is not going to be a direct path to anything. Or a guarantee on anything that looks like a direct path.

But I see my students, especially my female students, get caught up in the tiniest points of plot when they don’t follow the prescribed order.

I recently had a student in my office upset that she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill the requirements in our program for a “concentration,” which is three courses in a specialized area. She bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t realized there was a concentration option until she had already taken all of her electives. She was very worried this would impact her success on the job market. I asked her why she picked the electives she did, and she said it was because they sounded the most interesting to her, and lo and behold, they were among her favorite classes in the program.

So I explained to her that her experience in school is her very own. There will not be a hiring manager who has her resume sitting next to someone else’s identical resume. Rarely, if ever, is a single line on a resume (in this case, a concentration) going to make or break the candidate. My student laughed when I phrased it this way. I reminded her that she is more than just tiny plot points that other people have already experienced (concentrations, degrees, trainings). She’s a character, and a narrator. And she can easily get into an interview and tell her own story of why she’s the best candidate. Very rarely, if ever, does a transcript or a resume do that.

Don’t get swept up in recycled plot points. They are what they are, simply experiences other people have used in their story. And if you insist they have to be in your story, you’re going to get that sinking feeling of familiarity that causes people to stop streaming.

The story of your life can be as dramatic, or mysterious, or romantic, or adventurous, or as funny as you choose to make it. You own your story. You pick the plot points; you choose the cast of characters. The only thing standing between you and a great story is simply your own ability to narrate it.

So tell it well.





The Book 
The TED Talk

Back to School

August 19, 2016


Dear Lowery,

You are starting kindergarten this Monday. And I'm feeling only one emotion about it: excitement.

For the past few weeks, many people have asked how I'm handling the fact that you are starting school. They have looked at me with sympathy, a hand across their chest, head tilted to the side. Your grandmother asked me yesterday if I was holding up ok, and she was teary just forming the question. My friends are struggling with sending their own children off to school. And I remember how your Aunt Minnie struggled when your cousin Payton started kindergarten.

But regardless of all the sadness I'm expected—and allowed—to feel, I don't feel any of it. Not a single drop. I feel nothing but excitement. Well, that's not true. I feel mostly excited. The other feelings I have, to a much lesser degree, are: overwhelmed, anxious, fatigued, and gassy. In no particular order.

This doesn't mean I don't understand the strong emotions people are feeling. I completely do. No matter what the milestone you come across as my kid, I'm always a bit baffled it's time for it already. And when you go off to college, I'll sing a different tune, but for now I don't feel sadness.

The past few days I've watched pictures of children on their first day back to school populate my newsfeeds (which is exactly what Facebook should be for; I doubt it will still be around when you are a parent because the political articles and time lapse recipes will have imploded it). I've read all the emotional turmoil other parents are in watching their children getting ready for something they still can’t believe it’s time for. And I've tried to mirror that sadness, that longing for your infancy, that mad grasp at your youth. I've worked like hell to tap into some deep, repressed sadness that I could get to bubble to the surface so I could have a good cry about the fact that you are starting school. Because just yesterday you were emerging—albeit begrudgingly—from my womb.

But I've had to come to terms with the fact that there is no deep, repressed sadness. I'm not in denial. I'm not ignoring true feelings.

And this week I finally figured out why.

You and I went to the mall. We were there to get your ears pierced. For more than a year you've said you were ready to get your ears pierced, but you kept talking yourself out of it. But this week, you said you were ready and I don't know why, I don't know what it was about how you said it, but I knew this time you meant it. So there we were, the minute the mall opened. You strode with confidence—but you still wanted to hold my hand—into Claire's, the very place I had my own ears pierced 20 years ago.

You were curious and animated—your most defining traits—but something was different. Something I couldn't quite articulate until the technician explained that she was the only one working and so she would have to pierce your ears one at a time. She asked if you were brave enough to do that—to not chicken out before the second ear. I shrugged at her, and then I looked to you for the answer. And you nodded, once. Then you picked out a beautiful pair of sparkly pink earrings, you sat still as she marked the dots on your ears, and you barely cried while she submerged the post into your lobes, one ear at a time.

And that’s when it hit me, the reasons behind the excitement I've been feeling about you. About school. About you growing up.

I'm finally getting the relationship with you I had always dreamed of before you were ever born. I'm no longer making all your choices. I'm no longer responsible for every decision put before you. You've grown into a person who is all her own. And I have a relationship with you.

When I dreamt of children, when your dad and I planned for them, this, this time right now, is what I had imagined. The conversations we’d have. The choices you’d make. The aspects of you I’d learn. Babies are great, sure. They are cuddly, adorable, the clothes are fun, the sweet looks from strangers are heartwarming. There are some real perks. But nothing that comes close to what I was witnessing in the bright fluorescent lighting of Claire’s.

Which was you, sitting in a chair admiring your newly pierced ears in a hand mirror. Two pink, sparkly marks of your own accord.

And while I'm not ever going to stop being your mom, I am so grateful I am easing off a bit on things you are now proudly taking over. Because with every bit that you take, the more whole you become.

And you're shaping up quite nicely. You're funny. You're compassionate. You're smart as hell. And you're mine.

So no, I'm not the least bit sad about you starting school because it's only going to add more to your wholeness. It's only going to make you more of everything you already are, and more of a few things we’ve yet to learn about you.

What's even more exciting about you getting your ears pierced and you starting school is that I remember my own experiences doing those things. I don't remember being a baby, or taking my first steps, or learning my first words. But I very clearly remember my first day of school. And sitting in that chair at Claire's and gripping the arm rests like you did in preparation for the pain. So now, now you and I have some experiences we can share, memories we can compare, and best of all, you're letting me relive some of my favorites.

All I ask is you let me keep growing right along with you. Keep sharing, keep reliving. And that for a little bit longer you hold my hand while you stride with courage. But even when you're ready to let go, I'll be ready, too. Because we would have grown together.

I know you are ready for school. And I'm ready because you are ready.

But it's important for you to know, as you prepare to start school, that getting to know you, learning about you—watching you become you—well, my darling, it's been the best education of my life.

Now go, learn, grow.

Then come home and tell me all about it.

Love,


Mama



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Watch the TED Talk

White Noise

There is a sound machine in every bedroom of our house. And I leave them turned on and at pleasing levels, all day every day. When Lowery was first born, I had hers turned on to the “heartbeat” setting. After eight weeks, she burst out of her swaddle sack and tried to pull up the floor boards.

So I switched the setting to “downpour” and there it stayed. In our bedroom, the sound machine has always been set to “ocean.” Before London was born, our house was just a rainy day at the beach.

But as I was preparing for our second child, I had to decide which noise machine would be best for the new baby. I didn’t find frogs of the Amazon to be all that soothing, and thunder could potentially be frightening. The hoot owl was a bit too ominous and the lullaby setting would most certainly piccolo me all the way to the asylum. So I opted for a simple “white noise” machine. The package promised to create a restful environment for the baby, assured me she’d get a good night’s sleep, and guaranteed to lower the age of potty training.

On the first night home from the hospital with London, I flicked on the noise machine, filling the nursery with a gentle, whirring hum. And for the next two years and two months, it stayed on around the clock.

Until last week.

I had done the usual routine for London’s bedtime: giving her a bath; brushing her teeth; coaxing her off the stool she stands on to brush her teeth; reading her a book; singing her a bedtime song (The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme); and placing her into the crib, sleepy and happy.

Back downstairs, not a few minutes later, I heard London call out:

“Mommy Meg, what’s that noise?”

I waited a few minutes to see if she could answer her own question—the mark of parenting the second time around—but she kept calling out, demanding to know what the noise was.

I begrudgingly climbed back up the stairs and into her room, only to hear nothing. But she was standing, covering her ears, and screaming for the noise to stop. I looked around the room to try to locate the source of the sound. I ran out into the hallway and across to the bathroom to make sure the water had been turned off at the sink. But there was no noise. The air conditioner wasn’t even running. All I could hear was the peaceful white noise drifting from the miracle machine in the corner.

“Do you mean this?” I asked as I flipped the sound machine off.

London relaxed, her cupped hands dropping from the sides of her head. She nodded her head enthusiastically.

“But Lunny, this is your noise machine. You have slept with it on every night for two years.” I flicked it back on.

“No!” she yelled. “I don’t want that noise! No more noise! Turn it off!”

And with that rare outburst from my youngest, I flipped off the machine and walked out. She quickly fell asleep.

London’s ability to ask for exactly what she wants, and nothing more, is perhaps one of her most defining characteristics. Her sister Lowery is the kind who asks for everything she wants, plus a bit more in case she wants it later. And a bit of something else on the chance she changes her mind about the first thing she asked for. And then she’ll ask why you aren’t getting all those things for her right this second. Then she’ll ask why you seem so irritated.

But London uses her asks in a different way. She’s a bit more methodical, and also, a bit more forceful. When she was just over a year, we discovered London had an extreme aversion to elevators and would fall into an emotional pit of despair when we were in one. Given that it was one of very few quirks, we happily climbed several flights of stairs to keep her happy. That’s something we’d never do for her sister because Lowery would have as big an opinion about the stairwell as she would about the elevator. But then, a year later, London insisted on elevators again, ignoring all the panic-induced screaming she’d done in the past.

For the last few years I thought we always let London have what she wanted when she asked for it because she asked for so much less than Lowery. Then we theorized it was because she was the second born and this was a common birth order default. Or maybe our concessions were just sheer laziness. Later we hypothesized that it equaled out because they both got the same amount, it’s just that Lowery got less than she asked for; London got more. Finally, we agreed that we were—as usual—over thinking it, so we threw a bunch of cookies at both girls and laid down for a nap.

But no matter how much we give in or stand strong—and obsess why and when we do either—someone is always asking for something.

There is so much asking, begging, pleading, demanding, and whining that I’m not sure my children know how to speak sentences without their voices going up at the end to make it a question. On one end is Lowery, asking for everything. On the other is London, holding out for bigger asks.

Answering all of their asks has not just made me a fairly irritated person, it has also taught me the power of asking.

At home I’ve utilized the Lowery method of asking, by demanding the children do a lot of things for me. For example, I now ask that they take their dinner plates to the sink (though sometimes they land on the floor); I ask that they clean their rooms (though they technically leave them messier); I ask that they let me pee alone (although they think talking to me through the bathroom door is a good compromise). But I just keep on asking. The odds are, I’ll get something I asked for.

And I’ve embraced the London method of reverse asking, by changing my mind any damn time I please about what I want. For example, I never minded where the girls did their coloring, but then recently changed my mind, only allowing it at the kitchen table (they were coloring a little too far outside the lines); I insisted they had either Jim or me outside with them while they played, but then later both of us refused to go outside with them (that’s Oklahoma in the summer for you); I once promised them I would read any book they brought to me at any time, citing the importance of reading, but later changed my policy to exclude a few choice titles (Clifford the Big Red Dog, Green Eggs and Ham, Frog and Toad). But I kept asking for change when I got a better grip on what I wanted.

I’ve also adapted Lowery and London's approaches into my professional life.

Having just wrapped up my summer class, I’m aware I asked a lot of the students. They read through two entire books and more than 35 peer-reviewed journal articles; wrote a total of seven papers; and prepared and delivered a presentation, all in the span of three weekends. And this isn’t uncommon. That’s an acceptable work load for a graduate student (I mean don’t ask them, they are still tired and cranky) but I recognize that even though it’s acceptable, it’s asking a lot. It’s asking them to give up three weekends of their summer to come to campus and sit, in fluorescent lighting and brutally cold air conditioning, while we collectively work through all the course material. It’s asking them to be away from their families, give up activities, and miss out on sunshine. On top of all those asks, I keep making even more asks. Notably, I ask for no cell phones or laptops during class. Of all the things I ask for, that might be the biggest. Pokemon run rampant through campus.

I ask for all of this in every class I teach. Happily for me, everyone always complies. And this summer I had yet another ask, an ask I never made because I was fully aware of all the other asks I was making of them: I asked they obey my new policy--no late papers. Now, this seems like an obvious ask—get your assignments in on time. But with graduate school, it’s not always that easy. All of the students have full time jobs at which they have a great amount of responsibility. Many are married, some have kids. A handful are commuting long distances just to attend class. So for those reasons, my policy has always been that late papers will be accepted (often for points deducted) on a case-by-case, better-have-a-damn-good-excuse basis.

But this summer, I decided I wasn’t going to allow late assignments for the first time in nearly 10 years of teaching. As I was drafting up the syllabus in late spring, I realized how much I was looking forward to the summer break. The more time I spent grading, the less time I would be able to spend doing regular summer activities in Oklahoma, like taking pictures of the thermometer on my dashboard. Delayed assignment submissions always prolong my ability to finish up grading, or at least draws it out into times I’d rather be doing anything else.

Surprisingly, not a single student complained about my new ask. Even those who have taken four or five courses with me and had benefited from the occasional extended deadline. I wasn’t exactly expecting a coup. But I was expecting more push back. Yet the class went as smoothly as ever and every assignment was turned in on time. By every single student. And aside from the group collectively trying to push back deadlines in jest, no one privately attempted to ask for an extension.

I guess my hesitation in making the ask was only because I was worried I had asked for too much already, and that it was too late to make an ask that was such a departure from what I’ve always accepted.

But Lowery assured me that was ridiculous, reminding me I can ask for every damn thing I want and then some, for good measure. And London reiterated how perfectly acceptable it is to change my mind and make asks that accommodate.

Despite it all, asking for what I really want--what I really need--is difficult. Maybe because there is potential to not get what it is I want. But then I remember, that never stops Lowery. She just keeps on asking and asking and asking. Even when I ask her to stop asking. And I think of London, who realigns her asks when her needs change. The right time to ask for more, or to ask for a change, is the exact moment I feel I need it.

Which means no matter how much I begged for—and have grown accustomed to—the noise, it’s ok to ask for the sound of silence.

Negotiating for your Life

My first born is five years old. When you meet her, you might be fooled by her white tendrils and the angelic smile, but that girl is a shrewd negotiator.  One of her many, 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 cookie. The answer is usually no. She’ll nod respectfully, but then ask for the same thing in a different way: Can she put a cookie 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 a cookie. And if it is, the cookie will be ready for her. This is surprisingly effective. 

At any given time in our house, the kitchen table is littered with objects and treats over which my child is in current negotiations. And yet, by bedtime, the table is always magically cleared of clutter. She’s an example for women everywhere. Especially my young female students.

In general, the women I mentor are in the middle of a negotiation. And I don’t mean a salary negotiation—though we go over and over how they deserve at least equal pay. I mean they are in the middle of a life negotiation. Negotiating for the lives they want. Now, it’s humbling to have women in my general age bracket ask me for life advice. But they come to me because I’m an expert on this. Well, I gave birth to the expert. As she’s taught me three powerful negotiating strategies that I pass on to my female students as they negotiate for the life they want.

The first of these strategies is understanding: one choice does not eliminate another. My daughter has it in her mind that negotiating for a cookie now, in no way makes her ineligible for a popsicle later. And yet, an hour after eating the cookie—when she’s negotiating for the Popsicle—she’s baffled when we explain to her that she already made her choice. My daughter doesn’t ever think one choice eliminates another.

And yet my students believe if they take a certain job or pursue a certain degree, they have essentially made a choice that will render them ineligible for any other choices. Every single student I talk with has several interests and skills, and numerous ideas for how her career could go. Lots of things she wants to do. Last semester a student was talking to me about her career path in the nonprofit sector, while lamenting the fact that she couldn’t also be an artist in New York. When I asked her “Why can’t you?” She replied, “Well, those choices just don’t make sense together.” So she had to choose one at the expense of the other.

 We’ve had that drilled into our heads, that we have to make a choice. The choice. Select a major. Choose a career. Pick a small dot far off on the horizon and spend your life aiming for it.  My daughter would find this line of thinking ridiculous. And I tend to agree with her.

 As a faculty member at a university, I help run a graduate program that prepares people to be leaders in the public and nonprofit sector. I believe in what I do, I love what I do. But my path to this job wasn’t a straight line headed at a small dot. It wasn’t a choice I made in the distant past. Unlike most academics, my job wasn’t even in my plan five years ago. I was actually an English and Creative Writing major in college. Now there’s a choice I think some people questioned, namely my parents. But I simply chose what interested me at the time: writing. And even though my graduate work, my research, and my subsequent faculty position are in an entirely different field from English, writing is still a part of my career.

 In fact, writing is my career. I’m a creative non-fiction writer. And an author. I write for magazines, websites, I run a blog, and I’ve published a book that ranked in the top ten humorous books on Amazon and won a few awards. So in my daughter’s worldview, the choice to be a professor is the cookie, and choice to also be a writer is the popsicle. Choosing one didn’t and doesn’t eliminate the other.

 Yet, like my students do, I struggled to make sense of these two choices I was pursuing at the same time. And when my book came out last summer I was conflicted about how separate I should keep these endeavors. Up until that point, they had been dirty secrets from one another.

But at the book launch, when I looked out in the big crowd, I was surprised to see the first row was filled with my female students. Unbeknownst to me, my students had been reading my writing all along. They had read my very candid accounts of my own life negotiations. And that’s why they were coming to me at the university. My writing career was unintentionally fostering healthy relationships with my students. These two choices I made at different times, and for different reasons, made perfect sense together when I stopped trying to define my career by a single choice.

 Choices become overwhelming when we see them defining our lives or our careers. But I’d argue the less defined your career is, the more protected it is. If people can’t expalin what it is you do, then they can’t come after it. So live a life and build a career your parents can’t explain to your grandmother. And when my students come to me grappling with a single life or career choice, I just tell them: play to your strengths, and pursue your passions, and your career and your life will make sense and take shape all on its own. And whatever the choice is you are struggling with, it’s not going to eliminate another.
 
The second negotiating strategy I’ve learned from my daughter is: have it all by never giving your all. My daughter will often ask for something, maybe a new toy. And, if in a moment of weakness—or sheer exhaustion—we agree, she’ll immediately say, “Well how about two new toys?” She never stops to think about how she’ll be able to play with two toys at the same time. She’s only worried about the things she wants. And her strategy is stockpiling. Now, society likes to ask if it’s possible for women to have it all, and our gender should never feel compelled to dignify that with an response. But I appreciate that my female students do grapple over their ability to “give their all” to everything they want in their life.

This isn’t just a question I get from current students. I’ve had countless prospective students come talk to be about graduate school. One young woman came to talk with me about the program and I’ve never seen anyone as fired up for graduate school as she was. She expressed her intense desire for the program, and conveyed her true passion for the field. As we were wrapping up our meeting I told her I looked forward to receiving her application. Her hands went up in protest and her face twisted with tension. She said, “Oh I’m not going to apply right now. I want to wait until it’s the right time. So I can really give it my all.”

 Now, maybe that was just a turn of phrase. But it’s become the rhetoric, and the practice, of my generation of women. This idea of giving your all. Give your children your all. Give your all to your spouse. Give that career of yours all you’ve got. But all that does is make women hesitate for something they really want to do.

 Look, it’s fine if you don’t want kids. Ok if you don’t want to pursue graduate school. And fine if you don’t even care all the much about establishing and nurturing a career path. But let’s say you do want any or all of those things, then the worse thing you can do is wait around for a time in which you can give it your all.

 I won’t go into the graphic details of this, but my husband and I planned to get me pregnant while I was in the middle of my doctoral program. We were successful—again, none of your business—but people at the time thought we were crazy. And sure, it was difficult slogging away at a dissertation with a screaming newborn on my lap, but I relished in the fact that I was making progress on everything I wanted in this life. I wasn’t letting my desire for children interrupt my desire to finish school. Nor was I letting my career put my personal life on hold.

 Look, sometimes my kid got drive thru nuggets when I had to run data. And sometimes my dissertation sat idle for weeks while my child was sick. But it was never about being able to give my all to either. If I waited until I had the ability to give my all, I currently wouldn’t have a PhD or any children.

We have to stop using phrases like this. And we have to stop thinking like this. You physically can’t, and emotionally shouldn’t, give your all to any one thing. So instead, give your some to a lot of things.
 
And that’s what I want my female students to know. Yes, you can have it all. But not if you put any aspect of your life on hold to benefit another. Try my daughters’ strategy and stock pile everything you want. You will sort it out later. Don’t worry about giving your all to each thing at the same time, that’s never actually required. Take the pressure off of yourself and go have it all by never giving your all.

The final negotiating strategy I’ve learned from daughter is: don’t confuse your wants with someone else’s. I was cautioned that when my second daughter was born, my oldest would become very jealous. She would suddenly have to compete for resources that had always been solely available for her. Everything I read, and every seasoned mother, warned me of how competitive siblings can be. Especially two little girls. So, after the birth of my second daughter, I braced myself for sibling rivalry and female competition.
 
Now, don’t let my Instagram account—brimming with pictures of sisterly love—fool you. There were times my two daughters competed for my attention. But over time, I began to see they weren’t really competitors. I mean, my oldest couldn’t care less about this little red dinosaur we have, until she saw her younger sister want to play with it. Then my oldest would become immediately entrenched in a cutthroat battle over something she didn’t care about five minutes earlier. She was confusing her wants for someone else’s. But, one day I saw my oldest child reconcile this as she watched her baby sister play with the red dinosaur. She looked around the playroom and realized all the other toys were up for grabs. Toys she in which she was actually interested. And so, from that point forward—as best a preschooler can—she stopped confusing her wants for someone else’s.

 Now, competition between women is expected to exist. And for a while, I strongly believed it did. That was just my conditioning in junior high. But over the years of mentoring women, and watching my two daughters get along better than anticipated, I’ve come to realize we aren’t actually in competition with each other. Because a competition implies we are vying for the same goal. Mutually and equally engaged in a struggle for the exact same thing.

 Now, I know a lot of women. I’m friends with women. I teach women. I’m raising two little women. I see women, you know, walking around. And I’ve never once seen two women trying to do the exact same thing.  Not once.

 All of my female students are roughly the same age and pursuing the same specific degree program, and yet none of them have the same personal goals or career aspirations. No two women are ever trying to do the exact same thing. I mean, rarely are there even two women running for president in the same election year. And even then, it’s never on the same side. So if we aren’t competing, what are we doing?

 We are comparing.  And that’s a much more dangerous thing because comparison sets arbitrary metrics for our life. And creates random timelines for when life experiences will or should happen. Comparison makes you confuse your wants with someone else’s.

I had a student in my office a few semesters ago who had just started the program and she told me, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to complete graduate school as quickly as possible. When I asked her why she wanted to speed the process up, she explained that she had to graduate quickly so that she could have kids by the time she’s thirty. Now, I didn’t have her full medical chart in front of me, so I can’t speak to reasons behind her time pressure. But I can argue it’s coming from looking around at her group of friends and placing an arbitrary deadline on her life. Confusing her wants for someone else’s.

When I first became a mother, I was suddenly—overwhelmingly—out of my element. My parenting in that first year was based mostly on what I saw other mothers doing. One mother in particular made sweeping claims about the importance, the benefits, and sheer joy, of making her own organic baby food. My interpretation of that at the time was if I wanted my child to have a shot at Harvard, I’d need a hand mixer.

So that first year of parenting—despite being a full time doctoral student and an adjunct instructor—you could find me at home, for hours on end, (ignoring my child) in the kitchen elbow deep in farmer’s market squash. Sautéing it, pureeing it, blending it, pouring it, and serving it up to my six-month-old who would immediately spit it out in disgust. But I would start that process over and over because this was important.

 Then one day I was in the grocery store and I don’t know if I just don’t ever look around, but can you just imagine what I saw? Jars and jars and jars of organic baby food. Aisles of this stuff. And I picked up a jar and I studied the baby on the label. A very happy, well-adjusted looking, Harvard-bound baby. And I thought—wait, what am I doing? What I was doing was spending an inordinate amount of time on something that was never a priority for me.  Like my oldest daughter, I looked around at others mothers and I had immediately become entrenched in something I have never cared about before. There is not a distant version of myself that couldn’t wait to blend avocado and rhubarb in a BPA-free container. I don’t even like to cook.

 But I was comparing myself to these others mothers and it set me up for failure because, as I said before, I didn’t have the same goals as these women. Not in parenting, and not in life.  But that feeling, that knee-jerk reaction of panic and pressure, that crops up in other aspects of my life. Not just parenting. I feel it in my professional life. Especially as a female in the field of academics. And as a female writer in the competitive world of book publishing. It’s hard not to look at other scholars, other authors, and not feel intimidated. Or immediately compare myself. My book is in the same category as Mindy Kaling and Tina Fey. That’s rough. But I’ve got to remember why I wrote my book, what my plans were with my life. I can’t get bogged down in the comparison because I’ll look around and confuse my wants for someone else’s.

 We are all negotiating for the lives we want. What we’re willing to give and what we need to get. And I particularly invested in making sure my female students are equipped to negotiate for the life they want. And when they come to me I hope my advice is helpful, I hope our conversations are productive.  But the truth is I’m just borrowing the advice I give them. Because I’m relying on the wisdom of my demanding, opinionated, negotiating five-year-old daughter at home—begging for a cookie to put on the kitchen table until later—because she has taught me the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned as a woman: Ask for everything you want, find a way to have it all. And leave nothing on the table.




Watch the Performance