Humble

Someone forgot to brief the stupid cat that it's National Sleeping In Day Mother's Day.

Since I'm up, I thought I'd go ahead & do my Stream of Consciousness Sunday post.

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I want to write a Mother's Day post. I do. I sat down 67 times yesterday to write a Mother's Day post to all my lovely friends who do that mothering thing, and each time I sat, I wondered - what do I say to them that we haven't all heard thousands of times before?  That we don't know already?

Yes, mothering is the toughest job there is.  Yes, it changes everything. (Thank you Johnson & Johnson for that deep little insight into our existence).  Yes it does 'go so fast.'

But what I am only starting to grasp about mothering - although the lessons started the day that little changeling was born - is how profoundly humbling the task is.

Humbling.

Find me any mother out there who thinks she has done it perfectly.  Find me the very most confident, naturally-gifted mama, and in promise you that in the late night hours, the hours when we are most alone with our bare thoughts she will admit that she's afraid she messed up big.  Could have done it better.

I can't think of a single life experience that makes you question, on every level, almost daily, if you are doing the right thing.  Wondering if, in ten years, fifteen years, twenty years, you will be able to look at your child and say - I did it right.

But here's what I want to tell you, all of you gorgeous mother's out there on Mother's Day:  I guarantee you did it with love.  Whether you are finished, whether you are just starting out, whether you're right in the thick of potty training or pubescent angst, whether you're kissing your child on graduation weekend, whether you're wondering if your grandchildren will call:

You did it - do it - with love.  This I know for sure.

And surely, this is all that can be asked of a human, caring for another human:  I did it with love.

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Happy Mother's Day - to my own beautiful mother who shows superhuman amounts of love, always; to my mom friends who get me through this adventure with, yep, love (and um, snarking and wine); to all the moms out there on the interwebs who may come across this today.

My Mother's Day flowers: peonies make me smile like nothing else.

Grandparents

My eldest got really sick this afternoon, really quickly. She arrived home saying she felt 'tired' and an hour later had spiked a fever of 102 and was shivering on the couch in pajamas. She didn't ask for ice pops, ginger ale, or even Barbie movies. She asked for Grandma.

As I drove home from driving her to my mother's, I tried hard not to feel insulted. I mean, aren't kids supposed to want their MOM when they're sick?

Then I thought about my husband, travelling to Norway this week for his grandmother's funeral. I thought about the stories he told us at the dinner table, the night we heard she'd died: stories of cousins, of chocolate cakes, of a laughing, loving woman.

I thought of my own grandmother, who died in November 2006. My own memories were visceral, tonight - of her kitchen table, of her beautiful white hair, of her long graceful fingers on piano keys. She is present in so many of my day-to-day choices.

Today is November 1: All Saints Day. A day to remember the "great cloud of witnesses." Today, I am grateful for grandparents - those magical people in our lives who have the extra time, the extra space in their evening for sick little girls or the surreptitious morsel of cake to share.

Today I focus my heart on the gifts and wisdom of those who have traveled the path ahead of me, and I'm not insulted. I - we, we who have had loving grandparents in our lives - we are given the most profound gift.

The Grandparents of NilsenLife on the beach in the Lofoten Islands (and lil ol' me)

Those Pants

No, don't shake your computer, or tap at your screen. Nothing's wrong with your Google Reader. I have in fact posted two days in a row. Outrageous, I know.

Well I'm just popping in this afternoon to tell you about a nifty little guest-post feature I did over at Mommypants. Cheryl hosts a Monday feature called 'Mommypants Moment', and so today I'm there talking about the first time those Mommypants dug into my postpartum flesh.

Ever worn something that fits you so perfectly that you forget you have it on? Something that you love so much that you wear it to death, but every once in a while you look down and can't believe you've still got it on?

Those are Mommypants. They're standard issue, and you can't be a mom without 'em.

So go check out the guest post, and then while you're over there you could look around - Cheryl is so damn funny that her incredible talent as a writer is almost taken for granted. If you visit, you'll definitely be back, so be prepared to bookmark a new fave!

Thanks y'all - I'm just going to go scrub the pizza sauce off the knees of these here pants.

The Complicated Fairytale

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved stories. She loved stories of families: Little Women, All 0f a Kind Family, Stuart Little. She loved stories of quirky mothers, of steadfast fathers.

As the girl grew, she did not suffer with a wicked stepmother, she did not lose her father to a mystical dragon or a noble quest. It could be argued that she lived an almost-fairytale life. The girl dreamed many dreams, imagined many things for her life, but one future was certain, in her mind: she would be a mother.

She would have babies. She would change diapers, she would wipe noses, she would read stories, she would bake her specialty chocolate chip cookies. She would sit at the table and work on homework, she would cheer at soccer practice, she would get through adolescence somehow.

Sound like a fairytale? Yep.

Once upon a time, this same girl found out her dream would come true. She read the books, she rubbed her belly, and she read Goodnight Moon aloud to the small being in her belly.

Then, one early morning in September, this girl-grown-into-a-woman got her first indication that the fairy tale may have an alternate ending. That dreams come true are complicated. Her tiny daughter made her appearance over a month early: arrived with dark eyes and huge feet, and a serious little face. She fixed those old-soul eyes on her mother, and her mother knew instantly that life would never unfold like it had in the stories, but would reveal itself just as it was supposed to.

I don't quite believe it either. Still.

What the young mother learned, on that stunning September day, was that her fairytale was just beginning. That she had no idea what her story would include, but that it would be full of mystery, of surprises, of uncertainty and magic.

My changeling transformed the narrative completely, as all firstborn babies do. My complex, enchanting and enigmatic child leads the way, is writing the story, and I am delighted - honored - to be part of the adventure.

Happy Birthday to my amazing daughter. Her day is also mine: anniversary of the birth of the real fairytale. We are living: messily, neurotically, busily, noisily, ironically, and yes, happily - happily ever after.

What I want

What I want to do is write. 

What I want to do is sit at my desk and write the Red Writing Hood post that I've been noodling over since Tuesday.  I want to write the article for Classic Play that my extremely patient editor has been waiting on for, oh, say,  TWO WEEKS. [yes - deadline - come & gone.  lost in the wind.]  Hang on:  rather, let's say I want to re-write that article, because I've written it in my head about 46 times, and it's making me crazy, living in there. I want to curl up on the sofa with a glass of wine and write in my journal - write out all the tangly thoughts that won't work themselves into real ideas, write out all the complicated words that are too much ME for the rest of the world to have to suffer through.

But what I want to do is not going to happen.  Not this week. 

Instead, what I will do is my day job.  My day job that's also my night job which is my morning job which is my evening job.  I will drive to and from Vacation Bible School, providing canned good donations on Thursday and snacks on Friday.  I will come home and put stuff away and wash popsicle stains out of t-shirts.  I will nurse one out of three kids all week - they will very politely take turns with their illness, and leave a space of about 2 hours between one recovering from a 103-degree fever and the next falling on the couch holding their head.  I will read stories and practice math facts and clean up grilled cheese sandwiches and wonder about soccer in the fall and wonder about when exactly it was that I got so desperate for time to myself.

I will remember that it was always - that before kids it was work and before work it was school and that there was always something that had to be done, and that this idea of endless hours to pursue one's passions is abso-freaking-lutely unreasonable.  Nice to imagine, but completely without base in reality.

So - I will do what my friend Cheryl so charmingly calls 'putting on my Mommypants.'   I will suck it up and I will do it and I will make long lists in my head in my head of all that I want to do, all by myself.   For that long dreamed of and oft-mentioned Next Life.

Run run runaway

Back in college, there was this hill on my regular run - one of those hills that stretch forever upward. It was a long slow climb, steep enough to make your quads scream but not steep enough to justify walking.

I used to set myself these little goals to get myself up the incline:  "Just get to that little pothole - you can make it to there." Then, once I hit that, I'd look for the end of the pub fence, then the bumper of that red Fiesta up there, and so on.

Then, finally, the crest of the hill would come into focus, and often my running partner/steadfast friend Xander would dare me to sprint the last 100 feet.  And most times, I could do it:  with long strong strides,  I could spy the roundabout that marked the turn onto a long gorgeous straightaway through the village.

Well last week was the mothering equivalent of that hill.

I had a sick toddler, who apparently had nothing but a severe cold, but who constantly needed to wipe her snot fountain on my shoulders, constantly wanted to be held, and spent at least 4 nights waking up every hour, on the hour, and crying inconsolably until Mommy - of course only Mommy - would hold her and help her get a drink.  Her siblings, her father, her grandma - none were to touch her, none were to help her, or they'd be subject to the bloodcurdling wails of "noooooooooooooooooooo!  ONLEEEEEE MOMMMMMMEEEEEE!!"

Every morning I woke up more shattered than the night before, and encouraged myself just to get everyone off to school.  THEN I could catch a nap.  I slouched over my mid-morning coffee and told myself I could totally get through lunchtime, and then the baby would nap and then maybe I could too. Except that there was always laundry, always bills to pay, always One. More. Thing.  And then she'd wake up from the nap after 40 minutes, weeping from her own exhaustion and stuffy nose, and as I held her I'd promise myself if I could just make it through bedtime, I could go to bed early.  Of course I never did.

Which is all to say that this past weekend was my long glorious straightaway sprint.  It was my birthday, you see.  We had a long-postponed inn reservation in Annapolis, and plans for a quiet dinner.  Not fancy, not exotic, just...... away.

The drive away from my parents' was quiet - Torbjorn seemed to understand my need to sit without talking.  And then, in a sprint all of its own, my inner dialogue spilled out, for the rest of the forty mile trip.  It was a stream of consciousness brain dump, filled with all of the half-thoughts that had flitted across my mind all week.   Gently, cautiously,  my husband unwrapped the crazy talk, tried to make sense of it,  offered hilarious commentary and generally filled in as Best Guy Ever.

We checked in at the B&B, and changed for dinner.  I had time to put on makeup - even the frou-frou bits like [gasp!] concealer.

 This is a shot of our B&B, from the steps of the Maryland Capitol Building.

We ate at Level - A Small Plates Lounge.  Silly name, the small plates thing, but what a place.  All the menu items are sourced from local farms/fisherman, from the crab ceviche to the buffalo statay to the goats' cheese risotto.  They even make their own tonic for mixers - amazing.  With no rush, no sitter to return to, we savored bits of rice and chorizo, we toasted with a lovely Viognier, and we so enjoyed ourselves we didn't even bother with the Banana Dark Chocolate Bread Pudding with Vanilla Creme Anglaise.  (Not that I minded skipping it.  At all.  And not that I woke up thinking about it. At all. )

We then spent the evening wandering the brick-paved streets of Annapolis, under shadowy branches of blooming cherry and dogwood.  Then - guess what we did?  You'll never guess, I'll just tell you:  we went to sleep.  The week was that bad, people:  all I wanted for my 37th birthday was to go to sleep.

Well, to go to sleep, wake up at 7am - listen for the toddler wail, not hear it, decide I'll never sleep in again in a hundred years, and then wake up again at NINE. O. CLOCK.  Out-freakin-rageous.

 To make my twenty-four hour escape magic, all you had to do was top it off with diner coffee, Belgian waffles, a side of bacon, and watching sailboats on the harbor.  And that, my friends, is exactly what we did.

that's me, enjoying the silence, in the middle of a busy diner

I just might make the next leg of the run after all.

Transformed: More than meets the Eye

The decade between 26 and 36 is not overly obvious in the changes it wreaks.  Most definitely there are few bits & pieces headed south that weren't, ten years ago, but it's not like there is puberty or even a graduation to mark the passing of the years.

But on the last day of The Aughts when we review such things, the transformations of my life in this decade couldn't be more profound.

I added the title of Mother to my resume.  And have been sure that I'll be fired, every day since.

I started the decade loving good food.  I end the decade with a love of honest food.

I moved house, I moved continents, and I created Home.  (Even after leaving the place I call home.)

I consciously voted for less snark in my life. (Less is a moving target, of course.)  For those that knew me in the years before, you will grasp just how groundbreaking this shift was.

I went from believing that marriage is easy to knowing that marriage is hard, but absolutely worth any and all work required.

I went from thinking friends were just lovely to believing that friends belong in the same category as water, food, and oxygen.

I went from traveling to seven different countries in one year (2001) to traveling to seven different preschools in 2009.  (Really only one preschool and one elementary, but it feels like more.)  I also haven't traveled further than the next state over for two years.

I became an excellent cook.  And in the last six, I've cooked spaghetti, black bean chili, and macaroni and cheese at least once a week.

I found a community of faith that, literally, surprised me with its joy, and its depth.  Here is a sermon that left my jaw hanging open.

I realized I am a writer.  I spent so many years believing that my unique skill laid in appreciating what others wrote, never understanding that my time would come.

I fulfilled almost every childhood dream, and then learned that even a Dream Come True is complicated.

I became more educated than I ever imagined.  And I finish the decade aware of just how little I do know.


Somehow, all that I have learned in the last ten years seems to have 'settled' in 2009.  More and more I find myself feeling that finally I am glimpsing the Big Picture:   that all of the disparate elements listed above have come together to show me the way forward.  Is this all a bit mystical for you?  I'd say that's something new to me in recent years too.

I am willing to believe there is a great deal out there we don't know, or understand. I know that we must show love, and kindness, to make anything work. So there's my Super Duper Schmooper Big Idea:  be kind, show love, and don't ask Kirsten, because she's just figured out she doesn't know all that much.

Happy 2010 to all of you.  May it bring you great joy. 

Special kind of kindness

So I've been focusing on kindness in recent months - not just the idea of kindness, but really the practice of kindness.  In fact, I went as far as to make it my specific goal for this Christmas season - to find ways to extend kindness at a time when people are so, well, unkind.  (Imagine the parking lot at the mall, and you get the picture.)

This was my Facebook update yesterday afternoon: "who can explain to me why kindness is such a hard concept for people to embrace?"

Not three minutes after I posted this query, my four year old came banging in the front door.  His cheeks were bright pink, and he blurted out Mommy, the reason I had to come inside is that there are bullies - two big boys - outside throwing snowballs, an' one hit me in my face! 

A half-second later I was out on my front porch scanning the street for suspects.  I saw two pre-teen boys ambling up the path next to our house, and I demanded if those were the boys.  When Lars confirmed that yes, 'dose are the guys',  I tore down my front steps and out to the street without taking the time to change out of slippers.

HEY!  I shouted.  Are you the guys throwing snowballs at four year olds? [cue vague grunts & mumbling denials.]  I SAID, are you the guys who were down the hill there throwing snowballs at little kids?  Because I want to know IN WHAT WORLD is it ok for kids as old as you to throw snowballs in kindergarteners faces?  How OLD are you anyway? [uh, 13.]  AND HOW ABOUT YOU? [uh, I'm 11.]  SO REALLY?  YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE COOL TO THROW ICY SNOWBALLS IN MY  KIDS FACE?!?!?!  

At this point they tried to argue it wasn't them throwing the snowballs.  They tried - weakly - to suggest that my kid had thrown snowballs at them.  Both tacks, whilst perhaps inspired defenses in the 'tween mind, served only to fuel my indignation and wrath.

So I dropped my voice down low (an old cheerleading trick, much handier in parenting than it ever was on the sidelines.)  And here is what I said:

Listen - and listen good:  If I EVER see you NEAR my child, or my home, or if I EVER even HEAR about either one of you coming near my child, I will PERSONALLY make sure that you are VERY VERY SORRY.   Do you get that?  Get away from my house, and get away from the kids in this neighborhood. NOW.

Now, not only have I been 'choosing' kindness this year, not only have I been pursuing ways to be gentler with those around me, I also fancy myself as a bit of a cool customer when it comes to parenting.  I do my best not to freak out when there are injuries (real or imagined), I work hard at accepting all the outrageous things kids do without judging them, and I certainly never planned on screaming at preteen boys in my fake fur slippers.

If you'd asked me, maybe presented the above scene as a 'theoretical' to me, in the days before I became a parent, I would say maybe that the kids needed to figure it out.  I would say that maybe the four year old instigated it.  I would say that overreacting would only make the incident worse. 

Oh, but the white-hot fury.  The absolute primal reaction of a parent protecting a child - of wanting anyone, be they thirteen or ninety,  to know just how wrong hurting little people is?  Well I took myself by surprise. 

Seems I'm not quite as evolved as I'd imagined.  But with 24 hours to look back at the scenario, I still have the same reaction.  I will be as kind as I am able - just don't touch my cubs.

WWJD: What Would Joan Do?

Friday evening found me at a loss. There was a parenting challenge looming at The Yellow House, and even as I tried talking it over with distraught 'parentee,' I knew I wasn't saying the right words, the words that would help her believe that things will get better.

I came downstairs from tucking her in and sat, immobile, wondering where wisdom laid. And I found myself wishing I could ask my Grandma Joan about it.

Joan Mead Lintner was born at the start of the last century. As I raise children at the beginning of this one, as I am confronted with parenting crises, more and more frequently I stop and ask myself "what would Joan do here?"

I raise this query when I wonder about what is appropriate, what is necessary, what is important for the lives of my children, for the well-being of my family.

When Joan was raising her children, the world was a much tougher place, and a much simpler place. The memories of The Depression were still vivid, the losses and conservation of World War II a fresh memory. People faced harder lives then: they worked harder, they played less, and there was certainly much less to play with. Children were asked to take important roles within their family: their chores, their odd jobs were not 'nice to have.' They were critical to the functioning of the family.

This is Grandma Joan at 88, with Baby Cecilie Joan Nilsen at 1 (and Uncle John Lintner)

I spend a lot of time, actually, thinking about how to make my family's life simpler. I wonder just how many toys I could give away before the kids revolted. I wonder if one dresser to contain the clothes of two small-ish girls shouldn't really be enough? I sigh as I listen to the wailing about daily tasks, and wonder if maybe I should be more draconian in these things.

I know that Joan didn't entertain many thoughts of 'all' that her children should have. She remade dresses and coats along with the best of them. She expected that one doll would be "an elegant sufficiency" for one little girl's growing up years, and it was - even when a mean little brother tossed said doll down the basement stairs and gave poor Judy some premature aging. She was thrifty *almost* to the point of cheap - my mom is still resentful over wearing her older brother's sturdy black socks with dresses.

As a parent, I certainly don't pine for harder times. It's not that I want my kids to suffer more. But is the goal of modern life that they should never experience a lack? That they should never go without what this crazy 21st century world deems to be "the basics" - ballet lessons, New Balance shoes, trips to Disney, ski vacations, and math tutors? Should I be working towards a life where I am protecting them from all pain, all genuine struggle?

A great deal of more eloquent and in-depth articles have been published on this shift in parental thinking, from always demanding winners to wondering if those ankle-biters couldn't just feel the pain of loss once in a while. The best one I've read recently is Nancy Gibb's recent piece in Time Magazine: The Growing Backlash Against Overparenting.

As a parent, I've long been uncomfortable with this culture of parenting by fear: fear of danger, fear of failing, fear of saying No to your child. I dislike reading most parenting magazines, primarily because they seem to spend so much time/column space warning us of new dangers, recently discovered 'alerts', and 'recent research' that supports what a scary place this world is for our children.

My grandma knew risk. She knew danger. And yet she pushed her four kids towards adventure, towards growth, and therefore towards maturity - all the while working hard to create a trust-worthy community from which they could tentatively try these things, and then return back to that 'nest'.

The 1940s and 1950s were a harder time, perhaps. A less emotionally evolved time, possibly. But certainly a mother's life was simpler. Quieter. There was more space for her family to think, to create, to breathe. Without romanticizing a time which I know only through warmly-remembered stories, I do want to carve out that space for my family. A quiet place, a simple place, where love and trust reign supreme, and daily we work towards working better.

My grandma died three years ago today. I have so keenly felt her absence. She was full of grace, full of wisdom, full of sass, and full of spirit. She lived fully, but also gracefully, and I am forever in her debt for creating the example of a simple life, but equally a lovely life.

The World's Worst Nurse

Recently I was mulling over possible career options, and raised the idea of getting a nursing degree (flexible hours/shifts, great pay, etc.)  Torbjorn snorted a [very unflattering] sort of guffaw, and looked up to see if I was serious.  Unfortunately for him, I was.

He looked long and hard at me, and then said with uncharacteristic firmness "Kirsten. You would be a terrible nurse."

And I would.

I've got such minimal levels of sympathy for even the weepiest of small children.  I'm a huge believer in the 'ignore the bump and maybe they won't cry' school of thought.  I have even been known to sigh heavily and exclaim seriously? when presented with a self-inflected gardening wound dripping with blood.  Sarcasm plays a heavy role in my bedside manner.

But sick kids are different.  Small people with the flu have a way of melting my heart like nothing else:  the hot pink cheeks, the weary achy bodies, the sad half-hearted coughs - it is an affliction they didn't ask for and don't understand.  The only thing they know for sure is that their mom understands.

Here is the secret that many moms won't cop to:  a sick kid means the chance to hold and hold and hold.  A sick kid means you get to get in all of the loving that they are so quickly growing out of.   A sick kid, no matter how long the legs or strong the arms, is willing to curl up on your lap and have their hair stroked.  A sick kid will take the cool cloth on the forehead, and from the most true place in their heart say "I love you Mommy."

I spent much of my day holding, today. I got cups of water, found tissues, helped change sweat-dampened pajamas. I smoothed his straight dark hair over and over, and he closed his eyes and didn't protest.  I thought to myself, I may be the worst nurse in the world.  But right here, right now?  I am the world's very best mom.

Ordinary People Parenting the Extraordinary

I'm pretty.... ordinary.  I've known this for some time.  I'm cool with it.

I didn't do anything particularly outrageous as a teenager.  I didn't develop any alarming habits, didn't bring home any unsavory boyfriends (in fact I was so wholesome I never did attract much of the unsavory sort.)  I didn't stop washing my hair/start dyeing my hair,  and I didn't even slam doors very often.

My music tastes run toward the pedestrian, despite the huge number of music geek friends who have introduced me to any number of esoteric artists.  My home is attractive, but not remarkable.  My clothes are....perfectly acceptable.  

I was ready to be an ordinary parent.  The kind who would drive to ballet lessons and soccer games, who would let kids have lollipops on occasion, who make sure that we all eat our 5 fruits and veggies a day, the kind who reminded kids to brush teeth and put their socks in the hamper.  And I am all those things.

The night my first child arrived, however,  I became acutely aware that I would have to be so much more than ordinary, for I had given birth to the most extraordinary being.

At 5 weeks early she was just a tiny slip of a thing: she fit into my two hands much as a brand new puppy would, and she fixed those two very dark brown eyes on me.   I was immediately certain of two things:  1) this child had a deep, intuitive knowledge beyond anything I could come up with and 2) I now had proof of reincarnation.  She is an old soul, one of the 'cloud of saints, above us and below us.'

Cecilie at 5 months

Every single day since then, she has confounded us, confused us, surprised us, astounded us.  She began talking early - so early - and hasn't ever stopped.  Her perspective on the world has a laser-sharp acuity, and she doesn't miss a blessed detail. She is funny - so funny - with a quirky sense of humor that always arrives at a slightly oblique angle. She is articulate, and brave, and responsible, and quixotic.

She comes by these qualities almost in spite of me:  at every turn, when I try and guide her to the conventional, she shows me the extraordinary.  When I struggle with decisions about her future, invariably she knows the path to choose, and guides me towards it.

She exhausts me:  if ever you felt you were gaining in confidence as a parent, a child like this will regularly demonstrate that you have so very much more to learn.  If ever you felt that all that was required was to stand firm, a child like this presents you with endless logic that finally convinces you that your resistance is futile.

I read the poem that I posted last night with new eyes, realizing that it absolutely can be read as the claims of a lover to his beloved.  But perhaps we can look at it as the child petitioning the parent:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 

I pray daily for the ability to tread softly. To see her gifts for all that they are, and to tread softly enough to let her grow.

I am an ordinary person and I have been called to the realm of the extraordinary.

Planned Obsolescence

You are starting this new job - a new career, really.   

There wasn't exactly an interview process - it was more just trying hard,  going through the motions, a few tests, and eventually you find out you got the job.  It doesn't start, though, for another 9 months or so.  In that time, you will be expected to gather - and retain - as much information about performing your new job as humanly possible.  Any book, any magazine, any website with your job title in the name, you are to read it.

People who currently hold the job give you these wan smiles when you ask for tips on how to do it well.  Some will thoroughly enjoy sitting you down and scaring the crap out of you as they describe just how difficult this job will be.  Some will start sentences that sound promising, but then trail off with '....oh....you'll just figure it out as you go along.'

The months of preparation give you a real sense of confidence:  the workplace is ready, the equipment all prepared, and all you have to do is wait for confirmation of your start date. You know for a fact there will be a few weeks of adjustment - every new job has those - but that soon you'll get to know your employer, and that in no time you will show BossMan/Lady how truly good at this you can be.

Then the Big Day arrives.  It's all a bit hectic in the beginning, but at the end of that day you have this sort of eye-to-eye catchup with The Boss - quiet sort, that one - and as those dark eyes fix on you,  you begin to get a glimmer of just how complicated this new career might turn out to be.

Your pre-reading will come in handy:  you set long term goals for yourself,  short term goals for the group.  You'll get instant feedback on some projects, zero feedback on others.  The Boss keeps asking you to do new things, requiring you to analyze new information that feels waaaaaaay outside of your comfort zone, asking you to participate in fields that are absolutely not what you were trained in.  After a few years in the job, you may end up with a few employers - all of whom will have their own ideas about what your priorities should be.

As with all careers,  some days (and nights) will feel endless.  There  will be intense weeks, and you will feel that you might never survive this particular project.  And then all of the sudden you will raise your head, look at the calendar, and realize an entire season has passed.

You will start every day in this job thinking today I will be better at this. Today I will try harder.  (Actually, you will start every day thinking COFFEE.  Please God, please just make the coffee be ready FASTER!  And then you will think about doing better and trying harder.) You will end every night of this job reviewing your failures, and praying to whatever Higher Power you may believe in to give you the grace to forgive yourself, and to forgive your tyrant employers.

You will have moments of indescribable joy in this job.  There will almost certainly be moments of miraculousness. You will have moments where your very soul feels like it is being put through the In-Sinkerator.  You will mutter I QUIT to yourself at least once a week (honestly? once a day.)  At certain points you will look at yourself and think I had no idea I would ever be able to pull this off.  At certain other points you will ask yourself How on Earth did I think I would be able to pull this off? Never before have you done a job like this.  You will see the absolute best in you revealed, and the slimy angriest worst in you as well.

After a number of years, you begin to establish a rhythm that will get you through the days, the weeks, and the months.  You gain in confidence, enough to smile knowingly at people just entering the workforce, and say oh..... you'll just figure it out as you go along. 

But as your confidence grows, so does this niggling idea at the back of your head.  Some of these projects, heck, most parts of the Big Project have very long term objectives.  You'll have some mid-term reviews that will give you an indication of forecasted results, but really?  You won't know if your efforts are successful for at least fifteen, twenty years. 

This niggling idea, this noisome little voice of dissent in the back of your brain starts getting louder.  And here's what it says:  your job, in fact your entire career will only be successful if you make your job obsolete.  If you do your job well enough to make your participation unneccessary.  With every step closer to completed objectives, you are a step closer to working yourself out of a job.  Not only is that an end result, that is the goal.

So even as you adjust daily to this monumental role - the career of a lifetime - you have to keep asking yourself what you will do after this.  You must ask yourself what you are doing to prepare for life after this career - what is your exit strategy? - even whilst you find yourself utterly consumed by the task at hand. 

So that's it:  I'm working, in a glorious, messy and kiss-filled way, towards planned obsolescence.  The rewards of watching the power of language dawn in someone's eyes, of watching a sense of dry humor in action, of hearing tender words that demonstrate deep intuition?  Far greater - so very very much greater - than a severance check. 

What Is

Imagine you're a good husband who wants to be supportive of your wife who is clawing her way back from the Edge of Reason by doing something nutty like blogging every day for a month.

Imagine you read your wife's post for the day (because she asked you to, and because you're cool like that), and your comment is "yeah, I think that's great, Imaginary Wife.  This is really what your blog is all about - working your way through that labyrinth of individual vs. mom."  In this imaginary scenario, when you are this awesome husband who is working to understand and offer carefully phrased and useful input, you would probably not imagine your imaginary wife freaking out and being all Noooooooo!  This is the whole POINT!  I don't WANT the blog to be about moms!  Isn't there any way I can write something that reaches BEYOND the whole Mom Paradigm??  Don't I have anything to say to anyone that DOESN'T relate to being a mom?!?!? We are TALKING about the HUMAN CONDITION here!


Ahem. Before we continue, let's take a moment of silence and appreciate all those partners out there who continue to return home in the evenings, without advance confirmation on whether Crazy or Sane will be in residence when they arrive.

And then let's talk about this whole Identity Crisis issue.  Because although I know I said it is the scariest question a stay at home mom can ask herself, that query - Who am I? - is responsible for the ongoing salaries of many a therapist.  Therapists of parents and non-parents alike, I might add. 

It struck me recently that this stage in our adult lives seems to be the time when we revisit that question, and ask it with renewed intensity.  As a teenager, you truly believe that you can do anything, be anything, succeed at anything.  (Of course to wind up your parents you will shrug, when asked about your goals, and mumble I dunno. Maybe I'll work at The Gap for a while.)  As a young adult, those heady and freedom-filled 20s, you begin to grasp that you won't be able to do 'anything' (for example, I finally accepted I wouldn't be a supermodel. Ha.)  But as a tradeoff, you do start to figure out who you are, and areas where you might succeed.  And you start making your way down that merry path.

Then you hit your thirties, or maybe even your forties, and all of the sudden you poke your head up above the parapet and start wondering if This Is All There Is.  There might be a major event that raises the question to start with -  losing a job, finally getting married, finally getting divorced, having a kid, starting the 12 Steps - or it might just be the day to day disappointment of living a Life Too Ordinary.  Regardless of the prompt, the question starts to follow you around the house as you vacuum, climb in the car with you as you commute to work, fill your ears along with the pool water as you do your laps that day.  Is this all there is?

But here's a crazy idea.  What if, instead of asking if this is 'all' there is, could we try and just accept What Is?   Take your reality - be it SAHM, Divorced Dad, Single White Female - and accept that it IS.  Your reality might not be what you wish it was, not what you are hoping it will be, but try to wrap your head around the peace that comes with accepting that it just IS.


I was recently talking with a friend who is working through a major breakup - she was comparing her own life to what others sitting at the table that night 'had'. But through talking we realized that all of us in the group were working through our own version of the question: What happened to my career? What happened to my dreams? I thought I would be doing 'x' by my age.


Is it so terrible to accept your life for What Is? This requires a great deal of honesty, and that can be painful.  But can we not celebrate, or at least accept, our own choices, and where they have led us?
Instead of complaining about what we wish the situation could be, what we can do today is take a good look at What Is, and what choices can be made today, in the paradigm of our reality today.

Kids are a powerful mechanism to force you to just accept What Is. Whether you hoped you'd have a team of soccer players, or a child genius who would read Bleak House at age 6, or a musician who could hear tonal differences between Brahms and Bach - to quote the old preschool bromide "you get what you get and you don't get upset." Surely a parent can offer experiences/information/opportunities, but the kid is the kid is the kid. And fighting that is only setting yourself up for a world of hurt.

But here's the kicker:  the downside, the huge gaping hole in my theory of accepting What Is is that by accepting it, maybe you stop wondering if there is another path. You might not fight as hard to get out of a bad situation, you might stop imagining a life lived differently. Can anyone offer me wisdom on this? Where is the path of peace, between the What Is, and What Might Be?

Is there an Adult in the House?

So we're on Day 3 of the blogging challenge, and already I'm getting noise from my readers (ahem, reader, you know who you are) that yesterday's post on Halloween festivities was the equivalent of a Little League bunt.

So no happy shiny pictures for you today, my friends.  Instead you get to hear about how I found myself sitting in a teeny tiny chair, with my knees folded up around my ears (aren't there any 6-foot first graders with a chair I could borrow?) in front of an adorably cute, and truly gifted first grade teacher thinking I Guess I'm a Grown Up Now.

The teacher is going on with her happy chatter designed specifically for Parent Teacher Conferences, and all I hear is this thundering voice in my head going I don't feel old enough to be here!   I mean, I remember MY reading books from first grade!

this is um, Not Me.

Those moments, the moments where you think wait, am I the grown up here? are coming thick and fast these days.  There is somehow, somewhere, this odd transition between all the years you spent waiting to be an adult, to the point where you look back and wonder how you got to be the person in charge.

It's fair to say I've been wrestling a bit recently with my lot in life.  You know, no sackcloth and ashes, no tearing of the garments wailing Why God, WHY?!?!? - more just your run-of-the-mill existential angst.  I think it was the minivan that tipped me over the edge.

All of the sudden I have become a caricature of Suburban Mom, with my sparkly blue minivan and my worn-out jeans and my preschool pickups, and the scary question, the most scary question of all for a SAHM rears its ugly head:  just who ARE you?

This may be magnified to some extent by contact with old friends - childhood friends - on Facebook.  These people knew me before kids, before jobs, before credit cards.  Heck, some of these people knew me when I could string together sentences coherently enough to get into grad school. When I chat with these old friends I want to be Kirsten: not Mommy, not Torbjorn's wife (ooh, helloooooo Mrs Nilsen!), not (please God no) SoccerMom.**  And more and more I am finding that I want new friends to talk to Kirsten, and not those other versions.   But I'll tell you - trying to figure out who that is is tougher than convincing a two year old that we're not having Halloween candy for breakfast.


The directions these thoughts can go are dark and deep, my friends.  This may end up turning into a number of posts, 1) because if I can't share with you, then really I'll have to go talk about this on the street corner with the neighbor who has LSD flashbacks and 2) the opportunity for several days worth of posts cannot be ignored.

**For clarity:  Through use of this term, I do not impugn those parents, mothers and/or fathers, whose children play soccer.  In fact, I am greatly alarmed at my children's lack of ball handling skills.  I refer simply to the bipartisan shorthand that smug politicians find so useful.

Still, and still...

"Hurry is not of the devil; it is the devil." (Carl Jung 1875-1961)

I'm just going to say this: I behave terribly when it is time to get little people out the door. Partly because I'm always running just slightly late, always underestimating the time it takes to find one pink Croc, the 2 Very Special Playmobil Guys who are to travel with us, and the big sister who is Officially A Bit Dreamy. Partly because no one seems to grasp just how important it IS to get somewhere on time. Partly because no matter how many times it fails, I keep believing that yelling/sighing/stomping (I know, mature, right?) will actually change the outcome.

In fact, I think this ineffective yelling/sighing/stomping sort of behavior has been a bit of a hallmark of the last year or so. A development that doesn't necessarily fill me with pride.

So this was my Mother's Day present this year:


It is a Lisa Leonard necklace, titled "Be Still." I have worn it almost daily since that day in May - it is beautiful, and a sweet little accessory, but it has become a talisman to me. A meditation, if you will, to remind me in its weight against my collarbone that what is required of this moment is to simply Be Still.

It is so hard for any of us to be still.

Those of us with kids are fully occupied by the next activity, the next fight, the next birthday party. Those of us who work are stressing the next deadline, the next phone call, the next meeting. All of us have homes with dishes, with laundry, with bills to be paid, with projects large and small. We all sit with our computers, clicking from tab to tab, instant messaging-emailing-shopping-Facebooking-blogging. Maybe the TV is on for good measure, just in case all the websites go silent at once.

Psychic busy-ness is a specialty of mine: with worry, with guilt, with blame, with doubt. Yet none of those pursuits will bring me to stillness.

Most just avoid stillness through its antithesis: hurry. We are hurrying to the next thing, hurrying to finish, in a hurry to cook, in a hurry to eat, in a hurry to live.

Really, many have addressed this topic far more eloquently, more deeply than I can. For starters, try this post over at Zen Habits:

We are always on, always connected, always thinking, always talking. There is no time for stillness — and sitting in front of a frenetic computer all day, and then in front of the hyperactive television, doesn’t count as stillness.
This comes at a cost: we lose that time for contemplation, for observing and listening. We lose peace.

I am trying to find Still.

So what does this have to do with synchronicity, I hear you wondering. (These modern blogs are so freakin' interactive!) Well, just this: I started this post long ago, right after I got the necklace and I wanted to tell you about my new meditation tool. I'd been doing a lot of thinking about how to preserve stillness in my life, in my kids' lives. I'd been regretting my need to hurry, wondering how I could carve out stillness for my home. And then....I got busy. And hurried. And then I got an email, just ahead of a particularly busy weekend. And this is the photo that greeted me when I clicked 'open':

In every faith, in every tradition, there exists in some form this exhortation - this command: Be Still. It is a command designed to give us nothing less than our lives.

Stop. Cease. Slow Down.

Rest.