Fixer Downer

I experienced a very dark time after the birth of my first child. Post partum depression sunk me like a rock in water, and for months I didn’t think I’d ever wash to shore. But I felt so triumphant when I finally did return because I felt stronger than ever. I knew if I experienced another dark time, I would come at it as a much stronger person, with a reserve of knowledge and wisdom.

Well, that time has come.

You see, people go into home renovations with the same delusional optimism of people going into parenthood. They convince themselves that the horror stories of others will never be their horror stories. No, no, our child will sleep. Our child won’t always follow me into the bathroom. Our child will be well behaved. And similarly, our contractor comes highly recommended, our renovation is a simple project, our contractor promises to stay on time and on budget.

Likewise, homeowners give advice about home renovations with the same heart-felt unhelpfulness of people a few years into parenthood. They convince themselves you’ve never thought of the advice with which they are about to grace you. Oh, so the baby’s mouth needs to go around the nipple? Got it. No, I never have tried holding my baby in a different position. Is dangling her by her feet not recommended? And similarly with renovations: No, we never considered just asking them how much longer they will be. And yes, we will totally try your guy next time.

Much like those new parents you see, walking zombies wondering if they will ever get their lives back, so are those people in the middle of a home update. I can safely say, the Morgans currently look and feel worse than our early days of parenting.

It started with a leak. A small drip at first, just a tiny pin prick in the ceiling of our kitchen, which is directly below our family bathroom. A few days later, as I was gathering snacks from the fridge for a family car trip, I felt a gush of water pour down on me from the ceiling fan above.

Sometimes you don’t want to update your home. Sometimes you have to.

We knew we could no longer use the tub in the upstairs bathroom, and it’s the only tub in the house. This meant that until we could get the bathroom fixed, we would need to shower in the basement.

Now, we are fortunate to have a finished basement that has a full bathroom, including a large vanity, sink, toilet, and a walk-in shower. But in case your mind has fixed on an image of a shower one might find in an upscale hotel, let me be clear. This shower stall is roughly one foot by one foot in diameter. There is a small shelf, perhaps the size of a deck of cards, reserved for shampoo bottles. No normal bottle will stay on the shelf, of course, so it’s necessary to purchase a large quantity of travel size bottles and stack them in a row using the same physics as a waiter carrying plates at a Mexican restaurant. With every reach of a bottle, two or three will fall to the base of the shower, and the process will repeat itself the more you try to reshelve. But take heart, there’s a luxury shower head, positioned at the neck line, that has two settings: Sputter and Skin Rip.

To clean my children, I simply put one at a time in the stall, turn the water on, keep the stall door open and allow myself to become drenched as I lean over the threshold and scrub them down. Luckily, both kids react to soap in their eyes, the spittle of water, the claustrophobia, and the bottles falling continually around them with the same measured temperament they do after a long day at the zoo.

Eventually, four weeks later, the project started. And it started strong. Demo went better than I expected. Mostly because with old homes such as ours, I always expect there to be human remains, or prohibition liquor, stored behind the lath and plaster. Or for the contactor to stand back, assess the inside of the walls and say, “Yep, the whole house has to come down.” Luckily, none of those scenarios played out.

I wanted to salvage much of the vintage charm, including the original cast iron tub. But, as was pointed out to me, the vintage charm was making it rain in my kitchen. It took a team of six men, and a saw, to break the thing apart and get it down the stairs.

With the strong start of the demolition, I assumed momentum would remain. But like thinking child birth would be easy just because I had an easy pregnancy, this was a false sense of security.

Sure enough, I was told the tile was on backorder and nothing could move forward without the tile. So we waited. And we waited. It was unclear to me why we were waiting, because I picked the most basic of tile, and saw heaps of it at the local hardware store, but far be it for me to question the process.

Eventually, the tile arrived. And when the contractor brought the tile guy in, he took one look at the sub floor, shook his head and said, “I cannot and will not work under these conditions.” And he walked out of my house, got into his truck, and drove away.

My contractor shrugged.

When a second tile guy was brought on the scene—one with reassuring confidence—he said the conditions weren’t ideal but he could make it so. And he spoke about the 17 easy steps he would take to get the subfloor just right. This sounded the same to me as when my mom tries to verbally explain a recipe. But like my mother, the tile guy managed to orchestrate ingredients into something wonderful, fixing whatever problem existed, and pretty soon he was tiling and singing away to Nirvana.

School had officially ended for my oldest and she came home saying she really wanted to take a shower. This relieved me, but only momentarily. When I asked why she wanted to step into the upright water coffin, she said her head had been itchy all day.

I’ll say this, when a child has tremendously curly hair like hers, it’s hard to spot those sonsabitches until you get deep within the curls. But there they were: a beautiful colony of lice. So that evening, I spent several hours, hunched over the threshold of the shower stall, scrubbing each girl in RID (travel size) while Jim burned all our sheets.

In the fifth week of our 10-day project, we found our house key had been accidentally left in the lock. A few days later, after giving it back to the contractors, it was mistakenly left in the deadbolt yet again. Perhaps it was just the lice, but Jim and I felt a bit itchy about that and decided to call a locksmith to re-key our house. On a Friday evening.

And just this week—as we seem to both be getting closer to the end, and seeing no end in sight—a rock from a lawn mower came up and hit our full glass screen door, shattering it instantly. As I bent down on my hands and knees, sweeping up thousands of shards of glass, hearing the table saw whirring in my front yard, and the swish of sanding upstairs in the bathroom, I felt that feeling I hadn’t felt since my first child was born.

I remember how I came to the conclusion that I needed to seek help for the post partum depression. I woke up one morning and everything was going well. The weather was nice and the baby was in a great mood. I’d even had a really good night’s sleep. Despite all the positives, I knew that no matter what we did that day, I didn’t want to be around any other people. And I certainly didn’t want anyone to come over to my house. No matter how good things were seemingly going, I still didn’t want to interact with anyone. I felt scared and alone, which made me avoid seeing other people. I had closed up my house and closed off myself.

And that’s how I know I’m in a bit of a dark place again. Not just because my children had lice, my house had to be re-keyed, and my newly potty-trained three-year-old has to traipse up and down the stairs to pee. And it’s not just because there has been an endless parade of workers in my house for the past seven weeks, constant noise, and shuffling of our work schedules to accommodate the progress. And not just because my glass door was shattered, the bottles won’t balance on the shelf, and certainly not just because my tile was f**king backordered.

But mostly because right now, I would give anything to be alone in my house.





megmyersmorgan.com

The Coin

While my two daughters are alike in countless ways, they have one glaring difference: their attitudes.

Lowery is constantly unsatisfied. With many, many things. She is not an inherently negative person, but she can easily see how things (all things) can be improved. Our lives, our meals, our laundry folding.

She’s got fire in her belly for a better world.

London, on the other hand, is just happy to be here. London lives in the present, enjoys making us all laugh, and is an expert at finding the joy in the smallest of things.

She sees the good in herself and the world.

London’s most common question is: “Mom, are you happy?” Lowery’s is: “Mom, when’s dinner? And it better not be chili.”

I am fully aware that I embody both of the traits—a good attitude and a continual quest for improvement—and I passed this on to them in utero. Unfortunately, it seems as if neither offspring got a healthy dose of both traits; instead, each got an unhealthy dose of one.

Both are remarkable traits, no doubt. Simply two sides of the same coin.

Recently London potty trained. Well, this isn’t an entirely accurate description. But what do you call it when someone wakes up one day, and—without so much as stretching—runs a marathon? Whatever that is, that’s what London did.

I didn’t have to bribe her, coax her, or plead with her. If anything, I think she started using the toilet because she sensed we were growing tired of changing diapers.

That’s London.

The problem is, Lowery didn’t like London’s easy take to potty training. She pulled London aside and explained to her that she should get an award, like M&Ms or a sticker, something. If she didn’t get an incentive, what was the point? Ask for more, Lowery will insist. Always ask for more.

Eventually, despite peeing happily in the potty for days, London gave in and started asking—politely—for candy when she peed. And, giving in to the guilt of parenting a second-born, we agreed.

But London had a stipulation: Lowery also had to get candy anytime either of them used the potty. Yes, Lowery is that good. Together they stood firm on the idea that shit wasn’t going down unless two Hershey kisses were involved.

One evening the girls became so worked up over who deserved candy and when, and could they have more water to drink (for obvious reasons), that the excitement got out of control. The noise became so loud that I raised my voice demanding they calm down.

London stopped, lowered her head and said, “Sorry, Mama. I’ll be quieter.” Lowery stopped, lifted her head, folded her arms across her chest and said: “Mom, this is what kids do. They yell and ask for candy. What did you expect would happen when you had children?” After that, all candy was immediately thrown out.

London is still successfully using the potty; Lowery is off somewhere strategizing her next move.

There is something to both of their attitudes. On the one hand, Lowery is continually fighting for more while London is making the most of every situation. And I see this play out in my students. Many are happy just to be in graduate school. Eager to learn, excited to debate and discuss, and are among those most willing to see the good in all. Others are there with an intense desire to improve something, everything. Our city, our state, the classroom temperature. They are completely caught up in continual improvement. When both kinds of people populate a classroom, it’s overpowering. And it is the most hopeful sign that progress is possible.

This presidential election has hit everyone in different ways. And, as a faculty member teaching a program about government and nonprofit management, ethics, and accountability, it’s hard to get through much of our course material without the students erupting in a way that is similar to my girls when candy is involved. Like my children, some students are eager to point out the many injustices and the multitude of efforts we need to make. Others are eager to shift the focus to the positive, affirming we are—and will continue to be—okay.

And I stand at the front of the classroom, tiptoeing on the edge of the coin.

I am truly horrified by what is happening. What I assess as unconscionable behavior. What I believe to be a breach of American values. And I’m fearful for the future. I want to stand up and scream until it is fixed. But as a parent to a child who is constantly standing up and yelling until it is fixed, I can see the drawbacks to such a tact. Part of me wants to have faith in the system and the people of this country, and believe that all is going to be okay. To readjust my perspective. But I’ve seen how London is so positive and passive that she often misses chances—like those four entire days she peed without candy.

But regardless of feeling uncertain as to which child I should emulate during such a stressful time in our country, I know I need to make some decisions.

Our hallways on campus are speckled with faculty and students talking through the meaning of a tweet. Our classrooms are filled with students (of very diverse political affiliations) questioning their fellow citizens, the system, and the law. My newsfeed is a continual stream of two sides of the same, enormous argument. And at home, my kids are trying, in vastly different ways, to talk me out of a cookie.

Never before have I been so overwhelmed with a desire to speak out and do something for every injustice, while also feeling like I should calmly maintain my happiness and a positive outlook. The coin has been flipped, but it refuses to land on a side.

I wish I had the right thing to say to my students. To empower them when they feel the need to run headlong into the wind. And to coax them into seeing the goodness—in people and in our country—where they can. Both seem to fall just short of what really needs to be done. But I have to get up in front of my class and encourage something. What exactly, I don’t know. Dialogue? Action? Attitude? Laughter?

At home, I have to stand up to my girls and encourage something. What exactly, I don’t know. Harmony? Action? Attitude? Peeing simply for the joy of an empty bladder?

There is an intense need for both the Lowerys and the Londons of the world. We can’t sit down for a moment. We can’t not fight for improvement. At the same time, we have to shift our attitudes. See the good where it is. Or we are never gonna make it through. After all, both attitudes are survival mechanisms. And yet—in response to a class full of students, a newsfeed full of doubt and hate, and a home filled with such different world views—which side of the coin makes the most sense for where we are right now?

I simply can’t make heads or tails of it.

Happiness is Just Around the Corner

I’ve always been naturally happy. That is one attribute I’ve never taken for granted. In much the same way that people say that, without your health you’ve got nothing, I feel the same about my happiness. Despite my own struggles with overthinking it—or what some might call high-functioning, or deceptively mild anxiety—I’ve long been secure in the happiness I feel from within. And among all things I must protect, my own happiness is at the top of the list. Mostly because I’m the only one able to fight for it.

And I’ve known that since one particular, somewhat mundane moment, in the middle of a lazy summer. A moment upon which my entire life has been based.

I was only ten years old. On my bike, in a worn camp t-shirt and gym shorts, slowly riding up and down our mile-long gravel driveway. I was waiting on my friend Kate to arrive for a sleep over, and her mom’s van would be pulling around the corner at any minute. As I swerved lazily back and forth along the gravel, I thought about our plans for that day. Kate and I had decided we would spend the entire afternoon down by the large creek that runs behind my house. And, as we always did, we would stay up late that night and talk. Perhaps prank call a few friends. My feet peddled faster the more I thought about how much fun we were going to have. My best friend, a hot summer day full of exploring in the fresh country air, and the thrill of staying up late. I stopped my bike a few yards from the end of the driveway. I was trying to process my excitement. Even at that young age I realized what I was feeling was something phenomenal. It was pure happiness. And I wanted it to last as long as possible.

I put out the kick stand of my bike, got off of it, and paced a while on the driveway. How could I keep this feeling? Kate was only staying one night, I realized. What could I do tomorrow to feel this full of hope, energy, and joy? I thought long and hard, searching my brain quickly as I wanted to get this figured out before I saw Kate’s van pull around the corner. Oh! I remembered! The following evening my dad was going to take us to the local baseball game, and my mom had agreed to pack a picnic. My mind kept going. What about the next day? What could keep this level up so that after Kate left, and after the baseball game, I’d always have something for the following day?

Before I could figure out what could follow the baseball game, I saw the van. I yelled out in excitement, jumped back on my bike, kicked up the stand, and peddled hard beside the vehicle, Kate laughing and waving from the back seat, as it made its way down our winding driveway toward my house. As I raced hard to keep up, I promised myself something: I would always find something to look forward to.

This became the practice of my youth: looking around for something to anticipate. The start of school, a slumber party, a movie, a birthday present, my sister coming home from college. I’d spend a few minutes each day consciously cataloguing what I was excited about. After a while, I didn’t have to stop and do it; I just became a person always looking forward to something. If there wasn’t something to anticipate, I’d create something. A new project, time with friends, a good book. This became so fluid that much of my marriage now centers on this concept: creating carrots in our relationship. A date, a trip, streaming a good show, trying a new recipe. We put incentives in our path to get us through tough, hectic work weeks—perhaps a bottle of wine on Friday to celebrate. Or something to anticipate so we can get through a very busy month—perhaps a babysitter and a night out.

This concept was the key to our success on a recent family vacation. Determined to finally have a good trip (an official overlay to all the others), I realized that the concept I discovered at the age of ten was the perfect way to make it happen. Jim and I went to The Dollar Store and purchased ten dollars’ worth of trinkets: slinkies, rubber balls, ponies with hair you could brush, coloring books, and a variety of other silly little prizes. On the eve of the trip, we told our girls they would get a prize for every block of time they were good—every hour during the car ride, each bathroom stop where they washed their hands well, stretches of time in which they didn’t subject us to one of their epic fits.

This was an intriguing idea to our children.

On the road, an hour into our trip, I handed each girl a little toy car. They squealed in delight and played happily in their car seats for the next hour, after which they were each given a tiny, plastic snake. These prizes became the pattern of the trip. In the beginning, my oldest was desperate to know what the next prize was, almost unable to control her excitement. But after a few, she became more patient with each trinket. On our way home, having earned eight new, tiny treats, Lowery made a comment as we turned the corner onto our street: “I really liked waiting for my prizes. I was the most excited right before you gave one to me.”

Before my students graduate, they always bemoan the fact that they will miss school. They claim it’s because they love learning—and that’s certainly part of it; people love who they are when they are learning. But a bigger part of it was the structured anticipation, which is the defining characteristic of school. Students look forward to the first day of class. They are eager to see who else will be there and what the teacher will be like. Soon, they find themselves immersed in school work, busy with readings and assignments. They look forward to getting the midterm over, and they anticipate Spring Break. Then they await the return to the classroom. Then they find themselves gearing up for finals week, and they can’t wait to celebrate the beginning of semester break. And this process repeats itself over and over. School is the template for having something to look forward to. It is no wonder students cringe when school comes to a close. In part because they will miss the learning, of course, but also because they will miss the anticipation of what is just around the corner.

When I entered the working world, I was saddened by how little there was to anticipate. There were the bank holidays, sure, but nothing like the structured anticipation I had spent the first 22 years of my life accustomed to. I sometimes wonder if I went back to graduate school as much for the field of study as I did for the regimented expectations. I’m sure it was both, but it’s also no surprise that I still haven’t left school. And I'm currently anticipating the first day of it.

At the end of that summer when I was ten years old, our daily newspaper was looking for kids to interview for a back-to-school feature. Every day for a week leading up to school, kids were asked about the fun they had over the summer. While playing at a friend's house, the editor of the paper stopped by to get our picture and a few quotes (doesn’t get more small town than that). She took a picture of my friend, and then of me, sitting on the porch swing. Then she took out a pad of paper and asked my friend what the most fun thing she did that summer was. She responded: “Our family’s trip to Disney World!” The editor then turned toward me and asked the same question, to which I responded: “I had fun every day.”

A few days later, when school started up, I overheard a few girls making fun of me for what I said in the paper. I brushed this off because, well, I was already understanding how to deal with mean girls. But also because I did have fun every day. I made fun every day. As a ten-year-old, I made the most important discovery of my life: Happiness was a choice I could make. I just have to find things that excite me, energize me, and fill me with joy. They are all around me. I just gotta keep turning the corner.




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