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.




Buy the Book!

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.





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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.





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