One Year In

When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, an all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or someone else. - Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace

The first time I got drunk, I was 16 and it was prom night. My date and I went to an after party where I slugged back Purple Passion out of a 2 liter bottle, and then Mad Dog 20/20. It was as if I had been given the most delicious sugary Kool Aid or the key to some magical city that I’d not yet visited before. I was a literal child, making and experiencing what would become the first of thousands of terrible decisions I’ve made along the way. I have two memories of that night: the first is sitting on the edge of my then-classmate’s bathtub waiting for a friend to finish peeing so I could go, and watching the room spin wildly around me. The second is arriving home and trying to climb up the stairs to my bedroom. I assume my date drove us, and I can also assume he shouldn’t have. It’s amazing, honestly, that I have survived this long in my life. I have a memory of slipping and tumbling back down the stairs onto the landing before finally making it up to bed. I laughed so much that night. I thought it was hilarious and fun. And I should have known right then and there that alcohol would become a problem for me.

The last time I got drunk, I was 48 years old. Exactly one year ago.

A year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. 525,600 minutes. How do you measure a year in a life, like the song says. This year for me was measured in a million moments of intentionally not doing all the things I’d done in the past. Not the 12 steps. Though, I suppose that I began those steps in my own way. A “sans God, self-guided” 12 step program, if you will…it’s not ideal. It’s more like a million tiny steps every single moment of every single day.

I wish I had some sort of exciting story to tell you about the day I had my last drink. Or maybe I don’t, actually. I am so thankful there’s not a story, that there wasn’t a “rock bottom”, or that I never hurt anyone but myself along the way. Mostly it was a night like so many others. A drink at a friend’s house that turned into several. Then, more when I got home. Taking my glass back to the fridge multiple other times to fill it with shitty boxed wine before I finally decided I’d had enough to make sleep come easily. As if I was actually sleeping at all in those days. This was the pattern for me most nights. Nothing wild. Not really even a rock bottom. Just numbing all the things. Sadness. Anxiety. Worry about money, kids, relationships, work, bills, my elderly house, my elderly mother with dementia…you name it. So I drank. It’s what we all do, right? We build our social lives around where and when we’ll drink. For me, the where was anywhere, and the when was anytime after 5pm. I had strict rules around when I drank because surely that meant I didn’t have a problem. Which is hilarious to me now - as if putting parameters around my drinking helped a thing. It did not.

It was always very clear to me, even early on, that while the other people around me enjoyed drinking, I LOVED it. I was very good at it. Pouring alcohol into my brain was (I thought) like pouring water onto a dry sponge. The Kate who was sober was riddled with worry, convinced she was going to meet and untimely demise, overly concerned about literally everything and everyone. The Kate who was drunk was relaxed. Mellowed. Diluted. Cool. The funniest girl in the room. Or so I thought. Spoiler alert: none of this was actually true.

On the evening of January 8th, I took a shower and was planning to be in bed early. I felt off, physically. But, I almost always felt “off”, if I’m being honest. I felt worn out. Tired. Hungover. Achy. Anxious. I felt like this almost all of the time because I drank almost every single night and my body never had any recovery time. I always had things under control, or so I thought. But that night when I got out of the shower my heart started fluttering. More than the normal anxious feeling I always carried, this felt very different. I sat on the couch downstairs and told Gregg and Lucy that I wasn’t feeling right. My heart was doing some wild beating, and it started to scare me enough that when Gregg told me to put on my sweats so we could go to the ER, I didn’t fight him.

When you walk into an ER complaining of your heart, they do NOT fuck around. I was back in a bed within minutes, hooked up to a bajillion different cords and wires. After an EKG they knew immediately that my heart was in atrial fibrillation. I was told that it’s not unusual. I had a lot of different nurses that night who tried to tell me how normal it all was. As normal as having 7 glasses of wine every night, I’d guessed. As in. NOT normal. To be clear, I hadn’t had anything to drink that day, and nowhere during the next few days would anyone - doctor, nurse, not ANYONE, tell me that drinking likely caused my heart to go haywire. No one suggested - even when I admitted that I drank quite a bit - that I should cut back. Please consider this. I was WANTING someone to tell me that drinking was the cause of my health problems. I had never been honest with a doctor about my drinking prior to that hospital stay, and even when I finally told the truth, no one seemed bothered by it. People who work in healthcare: THIS is a problem.

It turns out that I’d had an undiagnosed thyroid issue that they told me was the likely culprit. I knew it was probably more than that. That my drinking had likely disrupted my sleep, and thrown me into sleep apnea, which affected my heart. No one actually told me that was the case, but I’m not stupid - I was doing my body no favors, and the AFIB was exactly the sign I needed to quit. I knew that my drinking was teetering on the edge of a bigger problem, and like I said, I had been wanting a sign that I should stop. Like, I just couldn’t imagine a life without drinking, and I certainly didn’t think I had the willpower to stop on my own. In my head, there would have to be some sort of divine intervention - though I didn’t (and still don’t) believe in that sort of thing. Apparently, the intervention was my heart, and it literally scared the fuck out of me to be in a hospital bed for two days while my kids were at our home waiting to hear what was happening to me. I never want to feel that kind of fear again. Ever.

I’ve had a LOT of time in the last 365 days to reflect on what being a drinker meant. And also what being sober means. Sobriety for me isn’t just a healthier version of the old shit, though for sure it’s that. Sobriety has quite literally changed the fibers of my being. I don’t think I’ve yet given enough thought to or credit for that. Drinking, for me, often felt like being wrapped in a sleeping bag. It was warm and cozy (for a while) and it allowed me to tune out or turn down everything that was happening around me. On the contrary, being sober feels a little like removing my skin and hanging out with all of my organs on the outside of my body. Recently, I burned my forearm on the oven, and it bubbled up almost immediately. It feels like that. Only, instead of a little bubble of burned skin, it’s every emotion I’ve felt for years just sitting right there on the surface. No longer hiding. A little sore and red so I can feel it when things brush against it in just the right way.

What I’ve learned is that humans really aren’t equipped to feel all the things. For literal centuries we’ve numbed our feelings with drugs or alcohol or worse. If a woman felt too many things? We’d give her laudanum. How about a lobotomy? But if someone chooses sobriety? God forbid. People will ask, why? What happened? What is wrong with you?! People feel as though they need an answer to this. Which, I realize now is way more about them than it is about me. And I’m happy to share why I quit drinking, but, if you’re curious about someone’s sobriety, maybe just ask them instead of making assumptions. I’m happy to share how good I was at drinking for so long. I was also a bartender once upon a time. I am still happy to share the best way to make a drink, or the best places in the city to get a drink. But please don’t treat me as if I am the one who has done something wrong by choosing to not put poison into my body anymore.

During this year, I’ve been forced to navigate some stuff with my kids and their other parent that I not only didn’t see coming, (well, maybe I did, if I’m being honest) but that I wouldn’t wish on anyone’s children. Not even on the most horrible children. This is a story for another day. Perhaps I’ll write a book about it. And, ultimately, I can only tell you how it felt to me: awful. My kids will have their own stories to tell about this. I guess I just mention this to say that maintaining sobriety through the rage I have felt this year has felt insurmountable sometimes. Overwhelming. Nearly impossible on some days. All the other synonyms you can think of. I’ve felt all of the feelings. ALL OF THEM. I’m certain it’s made me a terrible partner. I’m certain it’s affected my parenting. Old me would have been angry or resentful until that 3rd glass of wine hit me, and then I’d just laugh about it.

There’s not a lot of laughing now about things that are simply terrible: shitty co-parents, the election, the state of the world, in general. On the other hand, sobriety has also allowed me to be fully present for those hard conversations with my kids in a way that I’ve never really been previously. The three of us are a really good team. I am so thankful for my children, and I have been honest with them about my decision to stop drinking. We have a strong relationship that fills me with gratitude and joy. But I believe they know that I wasn’t fully present with them until now. I’m proud that they’re watching this journey, and I will keep doing the work so that they continue to see me making decisions that are for the benefit of my health and happiness. And theirs.

One thing I’ve learned this year, and especially in the last few weeks over the holidays, is that parties are really just a reason for people to get together and drink. I thought they would be no big deal, that I’d gotten beyond the place where that would bother me. I was wrong. Just a few weeks ago at lunch, a dear friend who is also sober was asking me how I handled this. I told him, very honestly, that most recently on the drive home from a party, I sat in the car and cried. I was just so sad. For me, that I can’t be the kind of person to have a few drinks and stop. For friendships that have changed because of my choice. For being so hyper aware of every fucking thing at a social event, when I used to be numb and happy, and fun. I don't feel very fun anymore, and that part might suck more than anything. And so, I deeply understand now why people need the support and the community they find in those 12 step programs. Being my own support system this year has been really hard. Just ask Gregg. Sweet, patient Gregg, who has buckled into this shitty ride and has stayed on, despite all of the bumps. Who has almost completely quit drinking himself, not because he needed to, but out of solidarity and support. When I think about the selflessness it has taken for him to not only do that, but to continue to be right by my side throughout this year, I am at a loss for words. I simply can’t imagine what I have done to deserve a person who loves and respects me so deeply.

I still have more mornings than not when I wake up and think, man, it sure is nice not to feel like shit. Not to feel hazy. Not to be hungover. Not to wonder if I said anything that might have upset someone. I don’t ever want to feel that way again. Has sobriety solved all of my problems, as I once imagined it would? Nope. Probably it created more problems, if I’m being honest. But at least I’m aware enough to know what they are. Do I miss drinking? I do. Not as much now as I did in the beginning, but I do still wish I could be the kind of drinker who could have one glass of wine at dinner, or at a party. I’m not that kind of drinker. It’s clear to me now that I never was. Sobriety right now feels like the greatest gift I’ve ever given myself, and I don’t want to do anything to fuck it up. My thyroid is under control, I was released from my cardiologist for another year. I am only on two fairly simple medications to get my body right, not the handful of shit that I was taking initially. I feel better today than I have in decades.

One million tiny steps and one long day at a time.

Leaving is Not Enough

"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.”
- Frida Kahlo

The things I learned when I was 17 about love were the things that have shaped every relationship I had after that: for better or worse. Things I have had to unlearn and unlearn and unlearn. A thousand times and then some. 

Be subservient. Be quiet. Don’t cause too much trouble. At best, your feelings and emotions aren’t important. At worst, don’t trust anything you feel. Don't trust yourself. Don’t trust men. Second guess everything you do, because you're not REALLY that smart. Those books don’t mean anything in real life. Give of yourself in every way and don’t ask for anything in return. Your needs are not important. Your pleasure is not important. His is. Everyone else’s needs come first. Don't be selfish.
 
I want to take 17 year old me (and then, also, 18, 19, 20, and 21 year old me) and I want to hold her. I want to tell her that it doesn’t have to be this way. That love isn’t angry. Love isn’t imbalanced. Love isn’t threatening or violent. Love doesn’t strangle you. Literally or figuratively. I want to tell her that the boy she finds so interesting, the one who REALLY pays attention to her for the first time in her life, is not representative of the people who will deserve her attention. I want to tell her that accepting attention from a boy, who will eventually make her feel bad in every way, isn’t necessary. I want her to pay attention to herself. To give herself what she needs. To stop latching on to men who have families they try to sell as “better than yours”. ALL FAMILIES ARE FUCKED UP. 
 
I want to tell her that she will find a way to dig through all the things that made her believe she wasn’t worthy of more. That she will one day understand how all of that connects to the things that she will choose to let into her heart. To all of the relationships she will have. With people. With jobs. With material things. I want to tell her that she will eventually figure out how to break that cycle. It will take her decades. But finding a real love without the hurt will be worth every bit of the struggle it took to get there. 
 
I want to tell teenaged Kate that eventually she won’t need to look beyond herself to be whole. And happiness will NEVER be found in one person. Except maybe in herself. Not in an angry, possessive, violent man. Leave when you’re 17. Not when you’re over 21 and your lives are so intertwined it feels impossible to go. Leave before you learn all of the things that will shape you in ugly ways. 
 
I want to tell her to stop crying. Stop fighting. Stop going back. Stop sleeping in her car to get away from him. Just stop. Stop. Stop. And then? Go. Don't look back. 
 
I want to tell her that one day that boy she thought she knew will get so angry and he will hurt someone so much that it will end an innocent life. I want to tell her that he really does have that capacity. A little push here and a little yelling there. A phone cord around the neck. All of those little things will turn into a gun pointed at a woman's head. A murder. He WILL eventually do all those things he threatened. When someone tells you who they are, believe them the first time. 
 
One day he will commit a crime so heinous that even he won’t believe it. 
 
And then, I want to tell 17-year-old Kate that she will have some closure. That one day, she will be there to see his face when he is told that he will never, ever do it again.
 

2023: A Eulogy

I'm feeling a little reflective this morning…2023 was hard. And sad. And sometimes even dreadful. But it also had some beautiful sparks of joy and light. Did the joy outweigh the sadness? Some days I’m still not sure, but despite it all, we kept waking up and facing each new day. Even when that seemed daunting. Isn’t that life?

Lucy graduated from high school and began a new (albeit very challenging) adventure at KU. Three cheers for a much better second semester…

We traveled - to Texas twice, and to Chicago. We saw a ton of live music here and in those places, and experiencing some of that with Zo was probably the highlight of my year. Watching them being brought to tears by their favorite artist reminded me of why we all need art so much.

We attended (and Gregg officiated) two weddings for dear friends. Proving to me once again that one can be skeptical or jaded about the sacrament of marriage and still have a deep sense of respect for those who are brave enough to take that leap. Also, that love is just a beautiful thing, and finding your person when you thought you might not is everything.

We lost three people this year who meant something deep and powerful to both of us. I first met my friend Andy at summer camp, and he stuck by me through 35 years of what life threw at us. Andy was the wise owl of my friend group, always knowing the right thing to say, sharing new music he’d found, or the right piece of advice for even the hardest situations. His absence in my life has left a gaping hole that can’t be filled. We lost our funny and incredibly talented friend Quan, who was Gregg’s friend and band mate first, but who, from the first time I met him, made me feel like we’d been old friends for a long time. And we lost our friend Jon Paul, who Gregg had known since he was a teenager. JP, or “Buddy” as most of us called him, was not only the most well-read person I’ve ever met - you never saw Buddy without a book in his hand - he was an incredible musician, a lover of animals (especially the ones that no one else would have) and one the funniest dudes I’ve known. All of these losses have hit both of us so hard. I don’t want to experience loss like that for a very, very long time, if ever again.

Gregg broke his leg in February, which is something only he can describe. All I can say is that it was hard, but his recovering here on a bed in my living room also showed us that we CAN live together, and that my jaded ass who said I’d never share my home with another adult could be proven wrong. Maybe we all just need each other more than we’ll ever admit. Hallelujah for being able to see where change is good and necessary.

I’m not sad to see 2023 take its leave. I may even do a hesitant little happy dance as it makes its exit. But I am ever thankful for what it has taught me: to never take anything for granted. To hug your friends, and to reach out when you’re thinking of them - you just don’t know when it might be the last time you can. To be open to change. It’s hard, but it’s what makes us grow as humans. And? To enjoy your children when they’re under your roof - even and maybe especially when those days and hours can be challenging. Soon they will be off making a life of their own, just like we all did. Circle of life, and such.

If you’re still here, thank you for reading this. I’m glad we are connected, in big or small ways. 🖤

Andy.

Andy Boettger had way more life ahead of him. He had more to do. More to see. More to say. More drums to play. More law to practice. More music to share. More books to read. More Jesus to love. He was only 49 years old. And yet, I just arrived home from a weekend in Ames, Iowa where yesterday, I attended his funeral. The universe really fucked this one up. No parent should have to bury their child. Children should not have to speak at their father’s funeral. Friends shouldn’t have to eulogize their 49-year-old childhood friends. Instead, they should be planning 50^th birthday parties, buying tickets to the next concert they’ll see together. Finding a football game with rival teams that they will stand and cheer on together. People were doing all of those things when Andy died suddenly on July 7^th.

I met Andy in the summer of 1988 when I was 13 years old and we both arrived at the Joseph Baldwin Academy for Eminent Young Scholars (otherwise known as JBA) on the campus of what was then Northeast Missouri State University. I learned from Andy’s uncle this weekend, that he had been flown in a private plane to the NMSU campus in Kirksville, MO for camp. If I had flown to summer camp in a private plane, I would have told anyone who would listen. Andy never told any of us that he arrived this way. He probably didn’t want to brag or stand out. That’s just how he was. 

We spent 3 weeks together in the summer of 1988 and then again in the summer of 1989 on the campus of NMSU taking college level classes and living in the dorms. It was the first time I’d been away from home for any amount of time, and I LOVED it. Before I got there, I was really angry at my parents for sending me away to what we still lovingly refer to as, “nerd camp”. In retrospect, it was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me in this lifetime. During my time at camp, I not only met Andy, but I also met Taline (from Texas) and John (from Minnesota). The four of us quickly became close friends, powered, mostly I think by a sense that we had found our people: weirdos, silly people, smart kids who thrived on learning new things: NERDS.

In the days that followed the end of JBA, we would write letters to each other to keep in touch. Hundreds of letters. It was the 80s, and there were no iPhones, no social media, no internet, and no long-distance phone calls that didn’t cost a fortune. I have been thinking about those days after camp was over, and how I sat sobbing on the couch in the house I grew up in, absolutely heartbroken that I wouldn’t see my friends again for at least another year, maybe more. I realize now that JBA was my first true love, and also my first heartbreak. It was the first time that I felt a true, real, honest connection with people – a connection greater, in some ways than what I’d had with my family. I can’t explain to you why this was. It just was. Ask any of us and we’ll say the same thing. Andy, Taline, John, and I became as close as we did not just from the days we spent at camp with one another, we remained as close as we still are because we spent time writing to one another, planning visits when we could, and once we got older, being very intentional about seeing each other anytime we could make it happen. We have been with each other through graduations (a bunch), weddings (many), divorces (a few), babies (MANY), our babies’ graduations (a few so far), deaths of a parent (two). These friends I made when I was 13 are my family. Losing Andy feels like losing a family member, someone I have loved dearly for almost my whole life.

I adored Andy from the day we met. Not only was he handsome and smart, he also had a dry sense of humor and a wit about him that I couldn’t NOT fall in love with. Thankfully, my teenage crush on Andy was just that, nothing more, and we were able to have a lovely friendship that spanned 35 years. When Andy spent his first year in college at KU, I drove over to the campus in Lawrence, and we had dinner together on at least one occasion. My 17-year-old brain and heart were certain that this was it: we were going to fall madly in love and get married. Shockingly, this would not be the case. Instead, we debated things like religion, politics, pop culture, and music. We laughed and smoked cigarettes in the parking lot before heading our separate ways and back into our separate and much different lives. Andy was never meant to be a romance; he was, and will always remain a brother to me. 

Andy had a deep faith in God, but he never, ever tried to tell me I was wrong, or tried to persuade me when I struggled with my own faith over the years about the things I believed. I think he would be the first to tell you that some of the finest humans he knew and loved don’t consider themselves Christian, but rather believe that being humble, just, and kind are traits that anyone SHOULD have. I have a lot of issues with Christianity, but listening to his friends and family talk about Andy’s faith this weekend reminded me how lucky I was to be friends a person who accepted me exactly as I am: God or no God. It also reminded me of the importance of believing in something bigger than myself. This weekend, my friend John asked, “Isn’t that how people explain horrible things, like losing a friend at 49? By believing that there is something better out there?” I suppose he’s right, even in his deep skepticism, which I share. But I, too, need to believe in things that I can’t see to help me make any sense at all of the death of my sweet friend.

For example: Andy loved owls. He would almost always send some sort of owl emoji when he texted, and one of the last texts he sent our group chat was an owl with heart eyes for my birthday. The night Andy died, I was outside on my patio crying, and talking to him (because YES, I do that) when an owl began hooting in the trees above. I’d say that I could not believe it, but of course I could. I do have faith in the unseen, just in a different way than my old friend. I think he knew that. When we arrived at Andy’s home on Friday night in Iowa for a celebration of his life with his parents, the first thing I noticed was a carved owl on his front porch. And inside the house? More owls. Of course, there were more owls.

Andy and I often communicated through songs. He would send me something to listen to, and I would in return, do the same. The week before he died, he sent me a text asking if I’d heard the band Susto, and I had not. I didn’t listen right away…life got in the way, and I honestly forgot. Until he was gone. That night, I opened my Spotify and began to play the album he recommended. These words stopped me in my tracks:

What if we could fly
Right out the window
Go find a new place
Somewhere clean enough to breathe
One look in your eyes
It fills me up with hope
It changes my mind
Tells me
I'm not dead yet
No I'm not dead yet

There I was, sitting listening to this song that he’d suggested, and I couldn’t even text him to tell him I loved it. And I couldn’t call him to give him a rash of shit for sending me a song with those lyrics. The lyrics that I didn’t listen to until after he was dead. Fuck. Life certainly has a way of gut punching you sometimes. 

I honestly don’t know what else to say about this situation, other than it’s complete bullshit. I am angry. I am more sad than I’ve been in a very long time. My heart feels like it did when I was 13. It is broken, and this time there is not an “until next time” to look forward to. I will continue to mourn Andy until I am no longer on this earth. I mourn for his children. The older ones who had plenty of time to learn from their dad, and who know fully what they are missing in his absence. The younger ones who knew how much their dad loved them but might not have fully grasped yet the enormity of what they might learn from him in the coming years. I mourn for his family. I mourn for all of the things he didn’t get to do in this life. I mourn for me, and for my friends John and Taline, who also lost a brother.  It feels like a gaping hole inside of me, and I’m sure it will for a very long time. 

Friday night, before his funeral, I slept terribly. I tossed and turned and had weird dreams all night. Andy showed up in every single one of my dreams that night, except for the last one. In the last one, my dad was sitting with my Grandma Jeanie, who had curlers in her hair. She would hate that I’m including that detail, but it made me happy. I don’t really know why she was there, but when we were handed the funeral program I noticed that the one hymn that was listed was the one that ALWAYS reminds me of Jeanie. I don’t know if those things are related, but I think in some way they must be. And while I can think of a thousand other lines from a thousand other songs that we’ve shared over the years, it seems fitting to end this drawn-out brain dump about my pal with the words from that hymn. Andy would approve, I am certain. And while we don’t share the same faith? I have to believe that he is happy wherever he is. I believe that his faith has created that for him. Hug your favorite people. Call them. Make plans with them: even if they don’t come to fruition. Tell your friends that you love them every single chance you get.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow, in humble adoration
And then proclaim, my God, how great Thou art

Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art...

 

 

 

Zoe and the Buckeyes - Literary Lunch 2021

When they were eight, as an assignment for school, my youngest, Zoe, had to create a movie that showed their class how to make a recipe. They chose to make peanut butter buckeyes. We gathered all of the ingredients. A short list, actually: peanut butter, powdered sugar, vanilla extract and chocolate chips. Then, we set up the kitchen and I filmed them going through the steps to make the buckeyes. The recipe was simple, but Zoe brought it to life. Mixing. Talking. Mistaking the word “Q-tip” for the “toothpick” which is used to dip the little peanut butter balls into the melted chocolate. We still laugh about that, and interchange those words whenever possible like a silly inside joke. When Zoe was eight, their little world had been turned upside down by my divorce. They had begun living in two houses. Sharing their parents and celebrating each holiday twice. They went with the flow, and were fairly amenable to the change, given their young age. The kitchen was where we connected. Then and now. 

 Zoe is a hugger. A cuddler. A lover. Zoe is funny. Zoe loves to bake. I think Zoe finds connection to me through being in the kitchen, as it is also my happy place. It’s the place I spend the most of my time. I often say there’s a path I’ve worn in the hardwood floors in my kitchen from the stove to the dishwasher and sink, and back. It’s not untrue. I sometimes think that Zoe realizes they are making up for lost time in the kitchen. Zoe was born with a host of terrible food allergies. They couldn’t have milk proteins. Or soy proteins. Or eggs. Or peanut butter. We even avoided gluten for a while. So, definitely no buckeyes. It was awful. As a parent, it was painful to watch Zoe get so sick in those first days as we were figuring out what was going on. Later, it was hard to explain to so many people why they weren’t able to have the birthday cakes, or the Happy Meals. When we went out to eat, we packed Zoe their own meal. Zoe was the one who went with the flow most of all. They seemed largely unaffected by their allergies, often telling teachers and friends, “I can’t have that.” Still. It was sometimes heartbreaking to hear. Thankfully, they seem to have grown out of the allergies. We still do alternative milks, but cow milk no longer makes Zoe sick. Last night they enjoyed a bowl of ice cream the size of their head. 

 Zoe is stubborn and feisty, and they are not down to take anyone’s bullshit. Like, ever. Even from birth, they were the kid who screamed when they were angry. Full on tantrums. Once, I had to carry Zoe out of Target because of their crying, and as we walked out the door, they yelled, “STOP! YOU ARE NOT MY MOM!” Which was awesome to explain to security. The same qualities that drive me to tears some days are also the qualities in Zoe that I envy. I could be holding a yellow flower, and they will tell me it’s red. They’ll insist I am wrong, roll their eyes, tell me again that I’m wrong, and then go slam a door to prove their point. Each time something like this happens, it leaves me wondering about my perspective. Was I wrong? That isn’t always a bad thing, really. Frustrating, but not a bad thing. When stuff like this happens, it always makes me wonder about who Zoe will be in 10 years. I hope this fire within them stays. I hope that they’re able to funnel that into something that they feel passionately about, and that what seems to me sometimes as frustrating stubbornness will help them fight oppression or injustices. Zoe has a keen sense of equity. Sometimes I just mean in our house when they tell me that something their sister gets to do IS NOT FAIR, but I also see it in other parts of their life. 

Zoe is a noticer. They watch situations at school, and in the media, and are outraged when people are mistreated. At the end of their seventh grade school year, Zoe had had enough of their old school. They were vocal about how frustrating it was to witness injustice, and to be singled out for their gender, which, Zoe will tell you with an eye roll, is a social construct. On more than one occasion, Zoe was told that “girls don’t learn like boys do.” Which is ridiculous enough to have to hear as a female, but Zoe identifies as non-binary and is very sensitive about any talk of gender, especially these sorts of ridiculous stereotypes. I have never been silent about my thoughts on justice, or injustice – but Zoe has their own thoughts about these things and it makes me incredibly proud to watch them navigate that. Often I find myself surprised by their worldliness and knowledge at the age of 14. I know that I was far more self-absorbed at the same age.

In some ways, the kitchen has been both a lifeline and an olive branch for Zoe over the last 18 months. As a lifeline to some sort of normalcy, we have cooked and baked, and tried new recipes. We baked breads. We made desserts. We all gained a fair amount of quarantine weight; as taste testers, that was part of the deal, I guess? Zoe is always willing to help me out, and often it’s the most togetherness we’ve had during the day or week. Togetherness is so much different with teenagers. No one tells you that. As the mother of two children who are VERY close in age, I spent much of the first 10 years of their lives at their beck and call. “Mom! Mommy! Mom! Mommy!” It was so loud here. There was always noise and someone always needed something. Usually they needed me. 

This week we are visiting Jekyll Island, Georgia. We spent seven summers in a row here when the kids were little. We’ve not been here since their dad and I divorced in 2015. It’s been kind of a weird trip, I’ll be honest. We are traveling with my boyfriend and his son. Our kids get along very well. It’s been fun to watch them laughing and carrying on. But, this is still a place that belonged, at one time, to my kids and to the family they thought they were always going to have. Since our divorce, their dad has remarried and his wife has small children who take a lot of time and energy. Zoe went from being the youngest child, to being a middle child, in a very short amount of time. Those kinds of changes are incredibly hard. I have not remarried, but I do have a partner and he has a son. These kinds of changes can be hard, too. I like to think about it as more people to love my children, but I know that is sometimes naive of me. There are always so many layers. 

 The kitchen is an olive branch because sometimes being 14 is just hard. And sometimes when you’re 14, you’re kind of an asshole. And sometimes, when you’re 14, you recognize that you are struggling and probably lashing out at the people who love you most, and so you suggest that on this vacation, we should make buckeyes. So, we gather the ingredients. A short list, actually: peanut butter, powdered sugar, vanilla extract and chocolate chips. We set up in the small kitchen in this condo. The kitchen has a spectacular view of the ocean that makes us talk about moving here. Zoe and their sister Lucy, and Gregg’s son Ian mix and roll and melt chocolate and they laugh and laugh. And the buckeyes turn out to be huge and goopy and messy. The buckeyes are a lifeline and an olive branch. They are made with love and intention. And they are delicious.

Hopeful Perspective for 2021

The last few nights I’ve been having dreams about two things...tap dancing: something I love, and a former job: something I loathe. Each morning I wake up and lay in bed thinking about what it could all mean. I am one of those people who believes that dreams are trying to tell me something, so I try to listen when they seem to be repeating themselves. As I sit here on the last day of 2020, the year that wasn’t, I honestly believe that my subconscious is really just trying to remind me to have some perspective. Maybe that’s what I take away from the year that has been called a dumpster fire - one of the nicest things people say about it. Perspective.

2020 began for me with a brand new job. A job that I had been waiting for, and one that has been a complete blessing for me - and I hate using that word. I hadn’t realized how much I had been affected by my former job until it was behind me. I mean, I knew it was hard, and I knew that I had some secondary trauma as a result of the work I was doing, but what I didn’t realize was how much I needed leadership in my professional life that was equitable. What I didn’t realize was how much I needed to be trusted to do my job without someone trying to hold my hand or telling me later that I’d done it the wrong way. That stuff will really mess you up and take away your confidence. This year has been a shitshow for education, and that is putting it lightly, but I honestly believe I would have left the field of education all together without the job change that happened in January. And while it has not been a walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination, I am so thankful for the team of people I work for and with, who always, always put children first. Who always trust that teachers are doing what is best for children, and who always put equity on the forefront of anything they do. For this I am hopeful. 

I was not quite 3 months into my new job when we began to hear about a virus in China. My children were the first to talk about it with me. I remember thinking, “that is crazy, and thank GOODNESS it’s in China and won’t be affecting us.” HA. The week before spring break, it became clear that this virus was going to affect this country and I watched on as people made decisions about what to do next. For me, it meant packing a little bag of my work things and heading home, thinking we’d have a few extra days or a week added on to spring break. From that day until now, I’ve been back to my office three times. I now have a desk in my living room and stupid boundaries around when I work here. I’m working on that. The kids went to a completely remote model of school to finish out their 7th and 9th grade years. It was weird to say the least. What we didn’t know in March was that we’d still be remote in January of 2021 without any real idea if either of them will see the inside of a classroom in their 8th and 10th grade years. Zoe began 8th grade at a new school, Lincoln Middle, and that has been a good experience, but also I am continually reminded that they have never met any of their teachers or classmates in person. What a world. 

I’ve always been in the camp that believes that school isn’t a brick building with four walls. Rather, school is where you make it. Children should be learning all the time - when they are at home helping us cook, when they are outside exploring their neighborhood or just walking the dog. There is a huge part of me that is loving watching education change for our children. I feel very fortunate that our school district has erred on the side of caution since the beginning of this pandemic. We don’t have children or teachers in classrooms, which has taken some pressure off of everyone to feel safe, and has allowed teachers to rethink what education should look like and what should be important. I hear almost daily that children will be behind when we come back into classrooms. Socially and emotionally, yes, I will agree with that. Especially for the little ones I work with - we are going to have a lot of work to do when it comes to giving social experiences to children in new and distanced ways. But otherwise? I hope that this pandemic will make people realize that the ways in which we measure intelligence in children in our schools is outdated and is irrelevant. For years, we have set a bar for children based on what adults think is important. More importantly, what WHITE adults think is important. I hope that this time in education will force us to rethink what we value in learning, and how we go about teaching those things. I am hopeful for the first time in a long time that some of these things will change for our children. 

We survived the most tumultuous year in politics and in social justice that I’ve ever knowingly experienced in my lifetime. From this incredibly flawed election, to the murders of George Floyd, Brianna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery, this year has made me angry to the point of tears more than any other year I can recall. It’s also made me hopeful because for the first time ever, it feels like change is coming. It feels like white people are starting to understand our place in the systems that are so broken. It feels like people are coming together in ways I’ve never experienced to say we are done with people being murdered for the color of their skin. We are done with law enforcement systems that were created to enforce racism and Jim Crow laws that we say no longer exist, but certainly do. We are done with prisons disproportionately full of Black men who don’t deserve to be there. And I would like to say we are done with politics led by old rich white men, but this very week has told us otherwise and we still have so much work to be done here. I am hopeful that a new wave of politicians are ready to do the hard work of dismantling the systems that no longer serve anyone. It’s going to be long, painful work, but I am hopeful. 

I’m going to write a few sentences about mental health during this pandemic. Please know I could write an entire book about it. I’m not saying anything here that anyone will find shocking. This year has challenged my mental health more than any other year in the last decade. And remember: also in the last decade I had two toddlers, finished my masters degree, and went through a divorce and started my life over again. Please let that sit with you for a moment. I think the biggest difference is that during the toddler time, the school work, and the divorce, I had the physical support of an incredible group of friends. To hug me, to lift me up with nights out, and small gatherings on weekend nights with my children while they played and the adults talked. Being in the company of other people during those times gave me the strength to get shit done. A night out with my girlfriends gave me opportunities to work through things and to watch my friends’ faces as they considered the things I was saying and sharing. A gathering of our families meant that I watched my children laugh and play and put on dance shows or skits. I saw the joy on their faces as they interacted with their friends. Sitting with my friends during the darkest times of my divorce when I literally thought I might lose my home or my children gave me the strength to just know I was not alone. Those things were taken away from us during this year. I still talk with my girlfriends and we text, and we’ve had exactly two gatherings in person, distanced on a patio. That’s right, since March of last year, I’ve seen my best friends in person only a handful of times. And it SUCKS.  Please don’t get me wrong. I have an amazing partner in Gregg, but no one in a partnership is meant to be someone’s ONLY person. And that’s what he’s been for me for much of this time. We have spent more time together this year than we have in the last five, and somehow we are still together. Somehow, I think we still make each other happy, and somehow we haven’t stopped laughing together. Perspective. 

I can’t leave out that there has also been a lot of joy this year. Being at home with my children all the time has given me new opportunities I wouldn’t have had otherwise to know them. We have cooked together, painted rooms, cleared decades worth of trash in my basement to create a new hangout area for them. We’ve watched movies, played games, attempted home haircuts, and learned a LOT about each other in the process. I wouldn’t trade this time for anything in that regard. My kids are 13 and 15 and will soon be out in this big world finding their own ways. This extra time that we’ve had has been something I will never take for granted. It helps that I truly like my girls. They are smart and funny. They are creative and curious. They are MESSY and frustrating at times, and we are a good team, the three of us. This has been the easiest part of quarantining...having them with me. Also, Gregg and I have explored nearly the entire state of Missouri and part of Kansas on the little road trips that we’ve taken just to get out of the house. We pick a direction most weekends when we don’t have kids and we just go. At first I just needed to see something besides the four walls of my living room. But then the seasons changed from spring to summer, and then the changing leaves of fall. We drove and we talked and we listened to music, and we watched the world change around us from the safety of our car. We don’t stop and explore the little towns like we used to do, but just getting away from home has been a highlight of this year. Perspective. 

This year has been incredibly difficult for so many people. My stories here pale compared to dear friends who have lost beloved family members to this horrific virus. My stories don’t come close to what so many of my friends have experienced working on the front lines. My stories can’t compare with the myriad friends I have who work in the service industry or who have lost their livelihoods because of the way our federal government has handled this pandemic. I can’t even begin to imagine those experiences, and I am so grateful to my friends and family who put their lives on the line each and every day. It’s not what they signed up to do - no one goes through medical school thinking they’ll one day work during a global pandemic that might kill them. But they are still doing it, and we all owe an incredible debt of gratitude for that. Perspective. 

Just last week, the girls’ dad and his wife had a medical scare with her youngest child. It’s not my story to tell, but in these last days of 2020 it has put things into perspective for me in a way I never considered. The child will be fine, thank goodness, and that is the most important piece of the story, but in the days where they weren’t sure what was going to happen, it forced me to think about the health of my own children. It forced me to think about the relationship that Steve and his wife and I have, which can be difficult or strained most days. It has made me think about how so much of those things go out the window when someone’s health is on the line. How in this little bubble of our two families, we have to set aside some of the other things we struggle with when things get challenging. It’s not some miraculous happy ending, it’s just good perspective for all of us right now. It’s good perspective to end 2020. Some things are bigger than you. Some things are bigger than this mess we are in. We all have almost zero control, in the end, over the things that challenge us from day to day. We are very small in the grand scheme of things. And? We have survived this much during this terrible year. I am not sad to usher 2020 out tonight, but I also am not fooled into thinking that tomorrow will change everything. I am, however, confident when I say that this terrible year has given me the perspective to keep going. Into whatever 2021 brings my way.

Some Thoughts on Voting

I’ve been thinking a lot about this over the last few days, and I guess I just needed to write this down. Yesterday a friend sent me a message about a family member of mine who has recently been outspoken about their political views. My friend was shocked at this development. I was not. Yes, I very much hope they and anyone else who feels that way are reading this right now. I began to think about this divide we have in our country, and apparently as well in our family, and how, for me, it’s just not something that I am ok with swallowing and accepting as the norm anymore.  

When I was a kid, my Grandpa Bloom was an outspoken Republican. It was sort of a joke in our family that he and my dad would trade political punches during our visits to upstate New York. It was always in good humor. Always. I learned a lot from my Grandpa about what his party stood for (in the early 1980s, his Republicanism was very close in ideology to what most centrist Democrats think now) and I learned a lot from watching my dad and grandpa talk politics with both kindness and respect for each other. My grandfather would roll in his grave at this presidency, and at the heated climate of this presidential election. Rightfully so. I think he would be sick to his stomach at the idea that people are willing to trade basic human rights for a stable retirement fund and economic “growth” - if that’s even a thing. 

When I told my kids about this family member yesterday, my eldest daughter’s first response was, “I feel sorry for their mother.” Empathy. Her first response was empathy. Rather than the eye rolling, name calling anger that I felt when I think about what divides us, Lucy said, “It must be hard for her to know she raised someone who can hate other people like that.” And I agree. It must be hard. What’s easy for many people in this political season is to sink into their privilege and stay there in the imagined safety of that place. It’s easy to vote from a perspective that the issues at stake here don’t or won’t affect you or your loved ones. 

If that’s the case, let me remind you how lucky you are to not have to think about your children being taken from you and put in cages because you have chosen to seek a better life in a country that once prided itself on “bring me your weary…” You don’t have to think about driving (or walking, or shopping, or jogging) while Black. You don’t have to worry that you are 32% more likely to be shot by a law enforcement officer. Because of the color of your skin. You probably also don’t need to worry that the resources that support your family’s survival and success are being cut: Housing and Urban Development and SNAP to name a few. You probably have a great sense of superiority based on the color of your skin and your socioeconomic status. Your supremacy has been validated in these last four years. Why would you consider that systemic racism is an issue if it doesn’t affect you personally?

I wonder if you’ve ever considered that the children you are raising have ovaries and a right to have control over the decisions made about their bodies. I wonder if you’ve thought about the protections for women that have been rolled back by this administration? Protections for victims of sexual assault and discrimination? Title IX rules that make it harder for victims of sexual assault to press charges (hilarious, considering the president you defend has been accused TWENTY SIX TIMES of sexual assault). Have you considered that the gender pay gap during the Trump administration has tripled? 

I wonder if you’ve ever considered what it would be like to raise a child who is gay or trans? As a parent, all you ever want in this world is for your child to be happy and healthy. What is it like to weigh health and happiness over the safety of your child’s life as their LGBTQ rights continue to be on the line. I wonder if you’ve ever thought about what it would be like to watch your transgender child suffer a medical emergency with no healthcare because they’re no longer covered under the Affordable Care Act? I wonder if you’ve considered your daughter having a pregnancy that could potentially kill her. What if she needed an abortion to save her own life? 

I wonder if you’ve thought about your child having the right to love and marry whomever they want, regardless of their gender. I wonder how you even know what real love is if you can so easily tell someone with your vote that their love doesn’t matter. I wonder if you know that when I’m talking about this, I’m talking about my own children who will forever wonder how it was so easy for you to use your vote to take away their rights. It’s something I hope they’ll sit down and ask you someday. I wonder if you’ve considered that your vote affects family members who are retired, those who work in education, those who would like to put an end to senseless gun violence,  and those who believe that our environment is worth saving for our children and our children’s children. 

I know I can’t change anyone. If I’ve learned anything in my life it’s that. That’s not the point of writing this. The point is that I can ask questions. I can wonder. I can tell you that when you vote for Donald Trump in this election because he’s done something good for your financial bottom line? It looks to me that you’re choosing to ignore the basic human rights of people in your family. People you say that you love. Frankly, I’m just done defending that stuff anymore. It’s gross. It’s racist. It’s incredibly selfish. And I won’t make my children share a holiday table with people who would vote to hurt them. I just won’t. More people should think and move about this life with the kind of empathy my fifteen year old has. That kind of empathy is what is going to save this country, regardless of what happens on Tuesday.