baby birds. and blessings.

Earlier this week, I was going to write about the baby cardinals we’d been watching over the past few weeks. I had taken notes about things I’d like to tell you. How the mama sat on those eggs and didn’t move for what seemed like weeks. How the babies were born and were bright red at birth (seriously, cardinal red) but then quickly turned a brown color as they grew. I was going to tell you about Steve finding the nest as he was doing yard work and how he ran to tell me about it and we laughed that cardinals would choose our yard to make their nest.  It was as if they knew how much I love these birds, and how if I believed in the whole “spirit animal” thing, mine would be the cardinal. I was going to tell you about watching the mom and the dad care for the babies – the dad was just as involved and there is as whole community of cardinals in our area, I suppose, as there were many, many others watching the three babies as they learned to fly. I was going to write about how I watched a cardinal go through all the things I’ve gone through as a mom: pregnancy, birth, feeding and caring for my girls, teaching them to fly (metaphorically, you know) only, she did in a matter of weeks what it will take us humans a lifetime to accomplish. I was going to tell you all of those things. But then Thursday night happened and I might have died.

I am being overly dramatic, to be sure, but I have to tell you how close it could have been. I was in a car wreck, and all things considered I am fine. We all walked away and the worst thing that happened to me are a few amazingly purple bruises, a car that needs some fixing, and the part about the responsible driver not having insurance. Here’s the thing: if that woman had blown through the red light (at a high rate of speed no less) any later? I would have been hit directly on the driver’s side. Had she come through a few moments later still?  I may have hit her directly and she or her 8-year-old daughter may have been very seriously injured. I have replayed the wreck over and over in my head and all the other scenarios are much worse. My children weren’t in the car, thank goodness.  I hit her back bumper and all of our airbags deployed. Our cars did what they were supposed to do to keep us safe. If the worst part of this is paying our insurance deductible because this woman was driving a brand new car without insurance? I suppose it’s not really that big of a deal, all things considered.

What I can’t stop thinking about, though, is that I have to have someone looking out for me. You guys, these past few weeks have been pretty fucking awful, there is no better way to say that. My stove caught fire (no one was hurt) a tree fell on our house. Let me repeat that last one: a tree fell. On our house. No one was hurt, though Steve might argue that his grill was flattened. A woman blew through a red light at a high rate of speed and I never saw her coming. No one was hurt. Someone was looking out for me. Someone has looked out for me quite a bit in the past few weeks.

I don’t know. What I do know is that rather than thinking about how bad things could have been, I need to start counting the blessings I do have. A lovely woman and her husband stopped to help me after the accident. They had been behind me in their car and were nice enough to stop, wait for the police and give a statement. She bought me a bottle of water and stood with us while we waited. There are not enough people in this world kind enough to do what she did that night. Before she left, she said to me, “you are really blessed.” Her words have stuck with me these past few days. I believe she is right. How can I possibly believe otherwise after all that has transpired these past few weeks?

I will sound utterly insane when I write this, but since my grandparents died we have all seen more cardinals. My grandfather loved birds and my cousins and I have all agreed that we see them in random (sometimes downright weird) places since his death. My friends will tell you I can spot a cardinal anywhere, but they do tend to always be around me. I’m more apt to think that there are now more cardinals in this world (thanks to that hard working mama who sat outside my window for weeks) so that I am better looked after.  So that when I catch glimpses of red or when I hear their pretty song, I can be reminded of my blessings.

a reunion of eminent young scholars

Once upon a time, before the age of social media, and even before the age of digital cameras, 13-year-old Kate went to summer camp. Not just any camp, either. I spent three weeks during the summers of 1988 and 1989 at the Joseph Baldwin Academy (for “eminent young scholars” – say that three times fast!).  Three weeks with about 130 kids from all over the country, living in dorms at what was then Northeast Missouri State University (now Truman State).  Three weeks away from home with strangers sounded like a horrible plan to me when my parents first suggested it. It turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life.

me - circa 1989

You learn a lot about the people you’re living with in close quarters over three weeks. And you make some amazing friends. You wouldn’t think that three weeks would be enough time to make that big of an impact, but this also predated email, and so when we all went our separate ways after the summer was over, we wrote each other letters: pages and pages of letters. Real letters. Certainly, if you know anything about me, you know how much I love letter writing – it’s something I do not do nearly as much as I should anymore. So, not only did we know each other from living together, we actually got to know each other even more through the letters we’d exchange. I wish I’d saved more of those letters.

Taline and me - 1989

The people I met at JBA are still some of the most amazing people I know, and this past weekend, four of us met in Iowa at my friend Andy’s farm for a reunion 25 years in the making. John, Taline and Andy are four people that I’ve spent time with separately over the years: one went to college near KC and we saw each other then, I was at the wedding of another in the mid 1990s, and thanks to Facebook, we’ve been privy to photos and snippets of each others lives for the past several years. But, it had literally been 25 years since the four of us had all been in the same room at the same time. I have to be honest I was a little bit skeptical about this reunion. I have such wonderful memories of these people and I wasn’t sure I wanted to change any of that. What if we weren’t the same people? What if one of us sucks now? I mean, 25 years is a LONG time. Someone might suck.

John, me, Andy, 1989

I’m so glad I went and I’m super happy to report that nobody sucked. My friend Andy has a lovely wife and six children. Six.  I’ll be honest, I’ve never wanted more than the two kids I have, but if anyone makes having six children look appealing, it’s Andy and Laura Lynn. Opening your home to complete strangers has to be a true test, and Laura Lynn made us all feel so comfortable in her beautiful home with delicious food, drinks and plenty of good music – some even played by their talented daughters. 

Taline and Bronwyn Taline (yep, we even name kids after each other) 

If anything, I just wanted more time with these people.  I drove home thinking about my time at JBA – which I still regard as one of the best parts of my growing up. I laughed thinking about the photos: our hair, our outfits, our awkwardness.  (My friend Taline will argue we never were awkward, but the photos tell another story!) I also got a little teary thinking that I hope it won’t be another 25 years before I see these people again. I wondered if we all lived in the same town if we would hang out. I like to think we would. Finally, I just started thinking about my own children.  I loved watching them play with the children of my friends. I wish for my girls that they will be lucky enough in their lives to find friends as good as mine. I wish for them that the friends they make when they are kids are amazing enough to want to see them 25 years later. I’m a lucky, lucky person to have John, Taline and Andy (and now Andy’s wife Laura Lynn) in my life. I hope my girls are half as lucky. 

John, Taline, Andy, Me - 25 years later.

nerd offspring - JBA 2020!

the transition...

I’ve begun referring to my new situation as “the transition.” I recently quit my job teaching preschool after 10 years, and while it feels like I should be in the midst of some sort of crisis, I’m really just trying to finish something I started years ago. In December I will finally have my master’s degree in Early Childhood Curriculum and Instruction. Feels a little weird to have a degree in curriculum and instruction while not planning curriculum or instructing anything. That’s not really, true, of course – I’m spending part of the summer co-facilitating a graduate level writing course at UMKC and the other part of the summer re-writing an anti-bullying curriculum for the KCMO health department. So why, when people ask me the million dollar question, “What are you going to do now?” do I freeze up and tell them I don’t know?

Yesterday, while meeting the participants of the Writing Project’s summer institute that I’m co-facilitating, we went around the table introducing ourselves and telling the name of our school. When it came to me, I said, “I’m Kate Willaredt, and I’m unemployed.” I laughed about it and then quickly said, “wait. that’s not entirely true…” but mostly I just felt embarrassed. Though I will always consider myself a teacher, does being jobless suddenly devalue or negate that part of me? It feels somehow like it does. The truth is, I don’t really know, of course, what is to come. Who really does? It feels very self-indulgent and silly to take time to focus on the remainder of my degree. I’ve gone this far while working full time. But it has been super, super hard – and not just hard on me.  Juggling a home, a family, a full time job and part time grad work has left me nearly unable to function – and nearly unable to give any one particular part of that equation very much of me.

I’m hoping that the next few months will lead to some serious reflection on where I want to go.  I know the next adventure of working with teachers from all over the city will be an amazing place to start.  Working with the SI this summer could not have come at a better time for me, I honestly would feel like it was a bit of divine intervention – if I believed in that sort of thing.  Not having the safety net of a job to fall back on will not only be refreshing, it will most likely push me more quickly to figure out what I really want to do with my degree. In my heart and in my head I know exactly what I want to do, but it requires more time or money than I have as well as plenty of stars aligning for me. I’m going to keep working on that part. In the meantime, please don’t ask me what I’m going to do next. I simply don’t know. And that is wildly scary and exciting all at the same time.

number 8

Eight years ago this week, I was standing at the precipice of something I only thought I knew. I was about to experience something that would forever change my life. Eight years ago this week I became a mom. I get it, trust me. I sound very sappy, and yes, I know there are people who have babies every day who either give them up (for whatever reason) or do not have any attachment to them (for whatever reason). I know that there are moms out there who say that having their children didn’t change them. I think they are the worst liars ever, but let them believe what they will. Becoming a mom, first to Lucy and then to Zoe, completely changed me.

I don’t know if I’d say that it’s all been for the better – I will tell you that I’ve never worried about more things EVER in my life. I don’t know if that part is so great, but the kids are pretty amazing. Eight years ago, I thought I knew what I was getting into. I always said that I wanted kids with Steve because they would be funny and smart and all the good things about each of us. I never considered how my children would also inherit those not-so-good things about us, too. The anxiety. The worry. The part where they have no internal editor and say whatever they are feeling (I can’t imagine where they got that). The part where they feel the need to question…everything.

Also, I’ll be honest. No one told me I’d lose that piece of myself. I can’t place my finger on the exact piece, but something in me has changed so drastically in the last 8 years that sometime I hardly know myself anymore. No one tells you that you internalize all the stuff your kids feel. At first when they are babies, you worry about their sleeping and eating and pooping. And then. And then it becomes more about whether they are being treated well outside of your home. Are they going to be kind to others? What is the bully at school saying to knock at pieces of your little girl’s self-esteem and why is my kid always the target? Am I doing it wrong? It’s one thing to have these internal struggles for yourself, it’s far yet another to have to carry the weight of two children as well.

I can’t say that I wouldn’t change anything about the last 8 years. I wish I could have been more relaxed. I wish I didn’t put my kids under such a microscope. I wish that I had been around more and at school less. These are things that my girls will likely never, ever remember. I know that they will come up with a far longer list of ways that I fucked them up over time. What I wouldn’t change is anything about those two sweet babies. I remember when we brought Lucy home.  I kept looking at her thinking two things: one was, “I can’t believe I made a person!” The second was, “Holy shit. Why did they send this baby home with me? What do I do now?!”  I’m happy to say that I still think about that first part. Human life is pretty amazing. The second part has been what has driven me the last 8 years. Clearly it wasn’t that bad. I mean, I did it again 21 months later with Zoe. I keep trying to answer the “What do I do now?” question. I believe I will for the rest of my life. That’s the beauty and the pain of motherhood, I suppose. 

for crying out loud.

who's crying now?

I just don’t understand our society. I mean, really, I know that’s a given – the majority of people make it hard for me not to think they are just mostly stupid. But when it comes to our children, I feel like we either completely don’t care at all or we’ve become total helicopter parents. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of middle ground. Prime example? This fantastic Tumblr a mother* has started called “Reasons my Son is Crying”.  It’s hysterical – and something I’m upset I didn’t think of myself.  Are you kidding me? How many times has your kid been crying about something so amazingly ridiculous that you’ve had to laugh about it? It happens daily in my house and my children are way older than the kiddo featured on the Tumblr.

Enter the group of sanctimonious mothers who are apparently such fabulous parents that they are bold enough to comment about another mother’s parenting: “Wow. I only looked at the first few pics when I came across a link yesterday. Yes, seems the parents are out of touch with... parenting.”  And, “Reason your son is crying: possibly because you are making fun of him and snapping pictures instead of connecting and empathizing?”  Or how about this stellar suggestion: “There are other ways to share the humor of being a parent that aren't directly humiliating to the child. Like, you could recreate the situation and snap a picture of yourself holding a broken cookie with a pleading look on your face with the caption "Who do you think I am, the dog? I don't want this broken cookie, milk lady." You could include yourself in the mocking and try to show it from the child's perspective, instead of just making fun of him.”  Here. Let me say it for you: what the FUCK?

Please don’t get me wrong. I am a mother. I’m also a teacher. I’m also about six credit hours away from a master’s degree in early childhood education, for the love. I am certainly concerned about valid, obvious forms of child abuse – and even those forms that aren’t so obvious. I get it. In fact, I’m a mandated reporter – which means I will call the authorities on your ass if you’re mistreating a child in my presence. But this? The reaction to this Tumblr is insanity. The first thing that I have learned as a mother is to NEVER. EVER judge another mother. I mean sure, if you’re dumb enough to be on the news because your kid is found wandering around alone on the street? I’m probably going to judge. If your kid consistently treats my kid like garbage or teaches my kid words I’m certain they didn’t get from me? I’m probably going to judge. But the run of the mill mom I see at the store or at my girls’ school struggling with their kids? Why would I ever judge that? I sure as hell don’t want you judging me for my parenting. If you want me to go into what is happening in the child's brain to trigger the frustration that is making him cry, I will detail that for you. I'm all about child development, but also? What happened to the simple fact that parenting is terribly hard work? Why is it so wrong to laugh at how ridiculous our children can be? 

I also understand that this mom chose to put her kid out there for the world to see…another way judgment may be forthcoming. But, what happened to having a sense of humor? I mean, really – the suggestion of recreating the situation for a photo? What planet do these people live on? I think the suggestion that you don’t make any parenting mistakes is absurd. I just don’t understand at all. I wish the people creating such a stink about this would funnel some of that crazy into other, more important things – like helping children who are REALLY being abused or neglected. What has parenting come to when we are either completely ignoring our children by sitting them in front of a screen, or when we are so far up their butts that we can’t even joke about how annoying they can be? OR that we can't admit how hard parenting really is and we'd rather just judge others for doing things differently instead of banding together and supporting each other? I am baffled by this.

But for now, if you’ll please excuse me, it’s time for me to let my kids go play in traffic. Where's my camera?

*correction - this Tumblr was actually started by a dad! hmmmm. interesting. (thanks to my smarty smart cousin Sara for pointing this out to me...d'oh!)

TEN.

In the week during which the majority of my friends changed their Facebook profile pictures to the big red equal sign in support of same-sex marriage, my husband and I will celebrate a decade of our own marriage. As I scrolled through the sea of red tonight I couldn’t help but to think about marriage: my own, my parent’s, my friend’s, the hundreds of thousands of people out there who have been denied the right to marry the partner they have chosen.  I read a great article earlier today about parenting titled, “I quit.” And frankly, I wouldn’t be forthcoming if I didn’t tell you how often in my marriage those words crept into my head. Parenting is tough, indeed, but marriage is ridiculously hard work. Aside from being a mother, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And it’s not because the person I’m married to is some sort of tyrannical bastard. He’s pretty fucking awesome, if you didn’t already know.  It’s just that when you get married, you join up with someone and your life becomes their life and your stuff becomes their stuff. (Frankly, I should be the one apologizing to Steve, because getting my load of shit by way of marriage is kind of imbalanced and unfair to him, let’s be honest.)

I digress. It just seems to me that if you love someone enough to be ok with taking on their family, and their weird issues (like how much they might like shoe shopping, or how they might not really like cleaning as much as they seemed to before you got married, or how much they really, really like a certain really not-so-awesome sci-fi TV show, or how much they might like pro-wrestling…it’s real, I get it) then maybe we should just shut the fuck up and let them marry each other already.  I know enough stupid heterosexuals who are out there ruining their own marriages that it makes me want to cry out for my gay friends who just want to have their relationships recognized as real and meaningful – and most importantly, LEGAL. I used to think it was the white people who made everything challenging and ridiculous in this world. Now I’m starting to think it’s us straight married people.

It seems to me that the root of this stupid marriage debate is people getting real. Who are we to say we have things figured out? Who is bold enough to say that they have all the answers? If you say you do, you are lying. You don’t. It’s the people who are bigoted and frankly just scared who will tell you that marriage is only for a man and a woman. You know what I think? Marriage is for anyone who is brave enough to take another person, warts and all, and make them part of their own heart. I know I’m no sparkling gem. And my husband, while he’s pretty fucking awesome, is also pretty annoying sometimes. By law, I get to take him or leave him. Ten years ago I took him. And I would continue to choose him over and over again. I just want the same for my gay friends. Farting and all, they should be able to have a legal relationship with whatever dummy they choose. 

packing my baggage

I should probably preface this by saying that I am not really certain anymore what the parameters are for sharing too much. Currently we are in the midst of having our entire sewer line replaced. It’s shitty business…literally. But I’m not even talking about that. I wish it were just that simple (simple! oh my lordy, it’s certainly NOT simple…) No. I just wanted to tell you about how I’m going to visit my mom next weekend. I haven’t seen her in 5 years and I suppose it just seems like the right time. That, or, hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of therapy are telling me it’s the right time. I’m not sure about that, really, either.

It will be hard for most people to understand not seeing their mom in that long. At least I hope it’s hard. It’s certainly not normal.  It’s even hard for me to fathom…and it’s my situation. Things just got weird. My mom is in bad health. She wasn’t very nice to me for a long time. It just wasn’t a priority. And after all of that, it still seems like it shouldn’t be a priority…but alas, it is. I have decided that I need to tell my mother that I forgive her. I forgive her for lying to me. For taking off when I really, really needed a mom. I forgive her for treating me like an acquaintance, even though she gave birth to me. I just forgive her. Plain and simple and complicated and painful.

I’m still trying to convince myself that I DO forgive her for all of those things and more. In fact, this trip is mostly going to be one big giant turd. The only good thing about it is that I have an amazing person traveling with me. A person who will no doubt get an ear full of my bitching and my crying. A person who understands that this is an important part of my moving on.

I have learned over the years – and even more so over the past few weeks and months – that though you don’t pick your family, you can pick people who surround you with love. I have been lucky enough in my life to pick people who are funny and caring and who encourage me every day to be a better person. Many of those people have moved away from me physically – but I still find ways for them to be an integral part of my life. I even met more of my own real family this year – family I knew about but had never met in person. I have been baffled ever since about genetics – how people who know nothing about each other could be so similar.

I don’t know so much about that old saying, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I’m still working on that. I like to think that I fell from the tree and continued to roll a long distance from it. I like to think that the person who birthed me doesn’t get to define me. I am making this trip partly out of obligation, partly out of curiosity, and partly out of a need to get a whole lifetime of stuff off my chest. I’m not certain that I will find any sort of peace. I may regret the trip…I just don’t know. I’m scared and I’m anxious, and mostly I’m sad that it’s come to this.

Tonight at dinner, we were talking with the girls about what they might want to do when they grow up. Zoe assured me that I could come visit her cats and her many children. Lucy, ever so matter of fact, told me she was “NEVER getting married.” but that I could still come visit. I don’t know what my children will do in the next 10-20 years, but I do hope that they never have to think about visiting their mom after being estranged for so long. I hope that the connections I believe I make with them every single day will be enough to ensure that. I hope, for their sake, that they never have to have an internal dialog that includes the words, “I forgive you for sucking at being a mom.” I’m trying. I really am. But I think this is going to stink nonetheless.

standing behind her man.

I just saw a news story that made me cringe. I guess the Kansas City Chiefs are getting a new head coach. Heh. I’m being facetious there. Of course they are. If you lived here, you would know that because apparently there is no other news this week. So, this morning I watched a story about the new dude’s wife. Now, most of you know I could care less about football, but I was waiting for the forecast, so what was I to do but watch the piece? The fact that the anchor introduced the story by saying, “we all know that behind a good man is a woman” really, really bothered me. Is it bad that as a woman, that offends me? It’s totally ridiculous, first of all, and it’s offensive to both women and men.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m married. I get the cliché, or the saying, or whatever it is, but it’s really, really stupid. I mean, first of all, why can’t the woman be in front leading the way? Are men really that stupid (as this cliché supposes) that they need a woman to tell them what to do? And more to the point, if any of you seriously believe that Andy Reid really chose this job in KC because his wife told him it was a good idea, I have a beach house to sell you in the arctic. I’m certain that they discussed this decision, but I imagine that she is going to go wherever the money is. Why wouldn’t she want to come to KC after being wined and dined at the Capital Grille and on the Country Club Plaza? I mean, her life will already afford her these things, why would she say no to more of that in a new city? Andy Reid wanted a job. He needed a job. Do you think the “woman behind him” is going to say no? On what grounds? The life she might live here wouldn’t be up to par? I doubt it.

Maybe that is why this story struck a nerve. When I think of women who “stand behind” their men. I think of Coretta Scott King. I think of Hilary Clinton, I think of Eleanor Roosevelt…women who, in their own right, are strong, smart and successful. Why should a woman’s place be behind a man? I take no responsibility for my husband’s success. I think that would be selfish and ridiculous, really. We talk, we share things and we create a life together, but we are separately successful and I would be offended if anyone referred to me as the woman behind her husband’s success. I hope he would be offended, too.  Just as I assume he wouldn’t take credit for my successes. That is not to say that we aren’t a team, but behind each other’s successes? No way.

I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to hear that Reid’s wife Tammy was going to practice law in KC. That she was a doctor or a teacher or would relocate her profession here, too. Instead, I heard a news story that included nothing personal about her: though it seemed as if it would go that way.  I had to do that research on my own.  (A “bling” jewelry business raising money for high school football, in case you wanted to know.) Because, as it turns out, of course no one cares what the hell Tammy Reid thinks as long as her husband is here. She’s in her rightful place, don’t you know? Behind her man.