Imagine

Imagine for a minute, you’re six years old. And after months of uncertainty, you’re happy to be back at the only school you’ve ever known with your best friends. And, without warning, an unimaginable storm comes tearing through your town. Imagine, at six years old, holding your best friend’s hand for the duration of the storm and singing to the babies around you in the hallway where you’re hiding.

Imagine that was the last day you’d ever attend that school.

Imagine being excited to start at a new school and being delayed for three weeks. Imagine during those three weeks, you must stay home with your dad who shoos you away consistently so he can do his job.

Imagine when you’re finally able to go to your new school, you have to enter alone. You enter a place you’ve never been with people you’ve never met. Imagine finding your way to your new classroom with a brand-new teacher-friend who you found on your own to help you.

Imagine only meeting half your class for weeks and only going to school every other day.

Imagine enjoying a somewhat normal holiday – dressing up with friends and grabbing candy from tables set up on a driveway. Imagine that because of that decision – to have some semblance of a normal childhood activity – you now have to stay home and learn from a screen.

Imagine then learning that your quarantine is extended and now includes over half your class. Imagine how exhausted your teacher must be. Planning multiple lesson plans each night.

Imagine celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas with just your family to stay safe - from a virus and future quarantines. Imagine going back to school - but only every other day again. And on the off days, you’re once again shooed away from your dad’s calls - from his job that helps to keep the roof over your head.

Imagine finally getting to go back to school every day. But not understanding why you’re scratching your skin more. Why when plans are changed in a routine way, you melt into tears. You fume with anger.

Imagine, seeing people outside your school with signs. The signs say you shouldn’t wear a mask to your school. That maybe you – a now seven-year-old – should make that decision.

Now, imagine having to make that choice together with your family. With no warning. Early one morning. Another change you weren’t prepared for. Imagine, visually being able to see which family has made which choice. Imagine wanting to stay healthy. To not be quarantined again. Imagine not understanding any of it completely.

Can you even imagine, Iowa?

Something About Me.

I once interviewed for a job with a man who would be my senior if I were to get the job. He asked me questions. I gave him answers. Confidently. I watched him become agitated with each answer. I was offered the job. I declined.

The next day my phone rang. It was the man wondering if he was the reason I didn’t take the job. The conversation was awkward as we both knew something about me triggered something in him. I don’t think either of us knew what it was exactly.

I do know, in my bones, my presence does this to people sometimes. The stories are endless. The man who was consistently – in the words of a dear colleague – “a dick when he spoke to me.” Or the one who went out of his way to text me to smile in the middle of a meeting in which I was simply concentrating. Or the insinuation that my career success will never compare to my husband's, or that any gains I make are entirely due to luck.

I tell these stories because watching Kamala Harris get sworn into the second highest office in the land means something to people like me. Even if I disagreed with every policy she ever put forth, her presence in that office would mean something to me and so many others - so many whose experiences have been far more intense than those above. In my bones, I know she knows these experiences. And I think her knowing is important.

When I was young, my dad used to take me golfing with him. We’d both tee off, then he’d have me pick my ball up, and we’d play the hole together from where his initial drive landed. To keep up the pace of the game. Then, one day, we teed off, and my ball went further. I turned to my dad and said; “want to grab your ball and we can play the hole from where my ball is?” 

You know, to keep up the pace of the game.

He smiled. Proud. And laughed.

He taught me I could play the game with the big boys. Maybe even beat them. And, I’d be met with a proud smile.

So, as Kamala grabs the proverbial ball and moves it forward. I’ll smile. Proud. And hope what my dad taught me will become more true for my daughter – that she can truly play whatever game she wants with the big boys. And, in my bones, I’ll know she’ll probably out-drive them.

In the eye of the storm.

My husband and I built a house in 2020. I distinctly remember telling him when it was time to move, I wanted the kids to go stay with family. I didn’t want them to have to be in the middle of the chaos that is moving. I wanted them to come home and see their rooms unpacked. To find comfort in their new home right away.

In retrospect, this is hilarious. And, ridiculous.

We moved in April 2020. In the eye of the storm. With lockdowns in place, we had little help and were certainly not sending our littles to stay with family. The kids, they were right in the center of the chaos - carrying boxes and sleeping on mattresses on the floor.

What I learned this year, and I continue to learn, over and over, is that we can’t shield those we love from the storm. Whether that storm is figurative or a literal derecho. We must sit in the dark hallway with the fear until the storm has passed.

In 2019, we made the decision to keep our daughter at her small private school for kindergarten. We assumed, when it was time to transition her to the public school she’d attend for first grade and beyond, we’d have the ability to tour the school. We’d attend an open house and acquaint ourselves with the teachers and school. We were wrong.

When her first day came this year, I walked her to the front door of the school. That was it. She was on her own. My six-year-old was masked-up, walking into a building neither one of us had ever entered, being greeted by people we had never met. She turned to me, with tears in her eyes and said; “Mom, I don’t know where I’m going!”

I cried the entire walk home.

When I picked her up that afternoon, I quickly noticed a different bounce in her step. She was walking with more confidence as she told me about the teacher she met when she got to school that morning. She told me every turn she took to get to her classroom.

This is what I'm learning over and over. We can't shield ourselves from the storm. We have to feel the cold darkness. To cry on the walk home. To allow the fear to fill our eyes and bubble over. Because only then will we be able to walk out of this year with a different bounce in our step. With a little more confidence. Telling each other every turn we took to get there.

Are We the Trees?

I recently spent ten minutes talking on the phone with my son’s new teacher. He knows her. She knows him. But I still felt compelled to spend ten minutes explaining his allergies, demeanor, and how he’s handled these last few months.

I’m scared for the school year ahead. Even so, I forgot to ask how many kids are in the class. It was lost on me to ask about COVID-19 protocol. Because in between catching up on email, paying bills, answering text messages, cleaning my house, trying to get my son excited to go back to school without his sister, and explaining to said sister why she’s delayed three weeks for her first day, I am craving the ability to root myself in some semblance of normal. To just talk allergies and demeanors. 

If you’re in the Cedar Rapids, Iowa area right now, you’ve grown used to seeing trees, branches and limbs all around these last few weeks. In fact, they’re downright obstructing our views around each corner. 

They’re leaning. Some uprooted. Some displaced. Some are bleeding. Some have fallen face first into the closest house, seeking some amount of comfort, I’m sure.

The trees are not okay.

A friend asked the other day after I confessed my overwhelm; “what has you overwhelmed?”

All I could muster up was to explain that it’s the sheer magnitude of it all. I’m leaning. Broken limbs all around, and I don’t even know which way to fall.

When those 140 mph winds came tearing through my community, I finally let go of all I had been trying to hold on to for the last six months.

Now I can see all the pieces scattered on the ground around me. And I know I'm not alone. 

Do I send my kids back to school? How can I work and parent? Should I be volunteering more? Do I submit a claim? Should I even be feeling any of this considering how well my family fared? Wait, should I hire a teacher? Am I doing enough to combat systematic racism in this country? Where are everyone’s masks? When does school start? Are sports bras acceptable to wear each day? Are my son’s tears normal or a sign that all this is wearing on him too? What’s a date night?

We are not okay. 

Survival Mode

This photo popped up on my memories recently. It was taken three years ago. My son was using a breathing treatment. Again. Because his oxygen levels were low. Again. I had just given him a steroid pill to help with said oxygen levels and he threw it up. Again. While I was cleaning that up, he drew all over his legs with a marker.

Three years ago, I was surviving. That was it.

Gather around, friends, there’s something I want you to know.

You are amazing. And, what you’re being asked to do right now is bullshit. Your survival mode isn’t endless. It’s essential, but not endless. So, when we are done surviving, we must care for ourselves properly in order to thrive.

18 months after this photo was taken, I stopped sleeping. I had not healed what my family had gone through. And it caught up with me.

Today, with proper self-care. Sleep. Writing. And therapy. I’m healing. I’m less in overdrive.

But, I’m worried about the state of parents right now, and what we will experience on the other side of this pandemic. I’m concerned we will all wake up at 3 am wondering what the hell just happened to our collective families.

Keep surviving, yes. But, let’s lean on each other to heal. If you need to chat, I have coffee. Looking for a therapist? I’ll hook you up with the name of a good one. If you want to run, my legs are strong. And if you need someone to truly hear how hard it is, I will listen.

So, stop on over. The boy might still be covered in marker but he’s probably not puking.

Cheers, my friends!

To the new owners of our first home...

Welcome home!

I hope you find this note as you unpack your things. Maybe the walls feel a bit foreign to you right now, but I promise you that in no time they’ll become familiar. At least they did for us.

We moved into this house after moving around for several years. Iowa to Oregon to Florida back to Iowa. This was the first house we bought. When we finally found our way to it, it quickly became our home.

We moved in just over two years after we got married. The plan was to move “home” and begin our family. But you know what they say about plans.

We struggled for the next two years with infertility. These walls, they know pain.

We decided to embark on the long journey of IVF. And, these walls watched as those plans got broken by two faint lines that showed up while we sat in disbelief. These walls, they know surprise.

These walls saw us bring our baby girl home. One of the most beautiful days of my life occurred within these walls. We sat and cuddled our new baby all day. These walls, they know gratitude!

Eight months later, these walls witnessed more tears. We saw two more faint lines (right as we were getting this whole parenting thing figured out). Yup, a little boy was making his presence known.

These walls saw us bring a second baby home just nine months later. And they watched as we not-so-quickly adjusted to becoming a family of four. These walls saw us way too many times in the middle of the night. Rocking. Walking. Crying. Feeding. Questioning. Sleeping. Waking. Re-waking… All in the name of helping our sweet boy through what turned out to be a food allergy that was discovered two years later. These walls, they know comfort.

These walls saw our boy get healthy. They know the girl’s sass and so many timeouts. They know laughter. They know holidays and celebrations. They know dance parties and learning to read. They know way too much about cars and super heroes and Disney singing performances and wine and late nights. They know first-steps and new jobs. They know the stories of countless friends and family. They know big decisions and just a few arguments. They know two people who slowly brought to life those plans they envisioned all those years ago.  

Above all else, these walls know love. We are so happy to share that love with you.

These walls, they hold our memories. I hope you enjoy making your own now as much as we did.

Welcome home!

What I Know Right Now.

I’ve always loved Oprah’s column in her magazine; “What I Know For Sure…”.

But, right now, I’m not sure I know anything for sure.

So, here are some things I know right now.

My kids eat a lot. I told Weston he was going to grow a foot while he was home and he was excited to get a third foot. He thinks he’ll run faster with an extra one. I didn’t correct him.

I believe in the separation of work and home. I got an email the other day, read it, got angry, and then Nora asked to take a nap. I was hot, sweating and barely able to focus on the story I was reading. It sucked. I pride myself on showing up for my work when I’m there and my home when I’m here. I'm trying to navigate these blurred lines. 

I like my husband. He’s a really good partner. And, he’s funny. And, handsome. I’m glad he’s the one I chose to do life with. I didn’t know life would include something called “social distancing” but it sure makes clear what a good decision I made almost exactly ten years ago.

My son is really good at puzzles, and my daughter can, in fact, play on her own! Because, the kids they are alright. These little people are learning tough lessons. And, maybe unlike their mama, they’re doing it with grace. I have a feeling their generation will be at least partially defined by this pandemic. They’ll know what lotion is best for cracked hands and will tell you something about resilience too.

We can do hard things, but maybe not easy things simultaneously. I spelled my name wrong the other day and sent more emails without attachments than I care to admit. Because, we can do hard things – like handle anxiety and uncertainty and decipher stimulus bills – but we can’t do easy things at the same time. Let’s cut each other some slack.

I like my Cabernet heavy on the oak. I said it.  

We need each other. The bright spots in each of these days are from friends who reach out. Some with words, others with scones, and still others with condos for your family to live in while you’re in between homes. Yes, we are apart right now, but we have this shared experience. There’s magic in that.

Hang in there, friends.