Day 91

     First and foremost, I marched for her.

My "life changer"

     Something about having a daughter changed things for me. I consider myself a feminist, but for a long time I allowed myself to fall into the societal "norms". I didn't speak up enough against misogynistic comments. I didn't challenge the barriers that were put in my way throughout schooling- off handed comments that demeaned my intellect and questioned my achievements. I accepted that this is how things were and that I would have been labeled a bitch if I complained.

     Now that I am raising a daughter, I think about the things I put up with and I could never forgive myself if I didn't fight for her.

     Donald Trump terrifies me. I look at him and hear the teacher who told me I would never be successful in math, despite my outstanding grades. I see the men- yes MEN- who groped me in bars and said it was ok because they were older and married. I see the car salesman who would only shake hands with and address my husband. The man who pulled up alongside of me during a run and told me "nice view". This isn't ok. It wasn't ok then, and i sure as hell don't want it for my daughter.

     The treatment of the women in his life concerns me. The audio tapes concern me. The lawsuits concern me. The complete disconnect from the experience of the average American woman concerns me. Yet our country has said, "it's ok, just give him a chance". Honestly, what does he have to do for people to say, you know what, maybe this isn't acceptable. If our society says it's fine for our leader to be so blatantly offensive and out of touch with 51% of our country, than what does that say about our culture? Our leader sets the tone for our government and thus our nation. This is the man who now represents our country? The face of America?

I cannot, in good conscious, condone him, and so I protest.

Day 90

     There have been lots of questions this past week about the purpose behind the Woman's March on Washington. The mission behind the march can be found here. As a participant in one of the sister marches, I'm going to spend the next few posts discussing the personal reasons for which I attended. These include concerns about the rights of immigrants, members of the LGBTQIA community, persons with disabilities, and those trapped in poverty.

   Starting her young

     I marched because I wanted to be engaged. This was a stepping stone from frustrated observer to an actively involved citizen. I don't want to sit back and watch what happens as rights are stripped away, and essential programs are defunded. I chose to speak up. This is not a case of "whining because my side lost", an argument I've heard frequently. Quite the contrary, I'd like to think we are all on the side of humanity and I just cannot stand by without speaking up as I watch our government leaders make decisions with which I do not agree.

    

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,

Nothing is going to get better. It's not.” 

― Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

Day 89

Celebrating American heritage in an America I don't recognize. 

     I've been quiet for some time now. Always thinking, but not sure how give voice to the place I'm at. I've tried to transfer my frustration into writing, but I don't feel any better- and I won't change any minds. In fact, the postpartum depression that I've been battling feels amplified knowing that there is a large portion of the population that I simply don't understand. I cannot comprehend the hatred and I wonder what kind of world lies before us. I'm truly concerned for my friends and family. 

     In times like this, and in such a negative head space, finding something to be thankful for can seem like a monumental task. Even though I am blessed with an amazing family, I fear the world they are growing up in. The already present anxiety has multiplied with each news story. I, like many, have been struggling. 

     On Tuesday during choir rehearsal with Princeton Pro Musica, our conductor Ryan talked to us about giving thanks for the people who brought him music. He spoke about how there are people in the world who were never given that gift, who cannot find solace in beautiful music. It was a moment of clarity for me. 

My very first concert.

      This year, I'm thankful for those that brought music into my life. From my grandfather playing "Beautiful Doll" on the organ while I sang, to Mr. Ketterer who introduced me to chorus, the French horn and "Danse Macabre". Ginny Kraft who believed in an awkward freshman and gave her amazing performance opportunities. Rich, whose musical influence is too much and too personal to retell here. And my amazing college friends who shaped my life in ways I never anticipated. Or Dr. Gardner who instilled a work ethic toward musical excellence that I was too young and stupid to appreciate at the time. Dr. Reeves for supporting and treating me like family during a time I was truly lost. My "work husband" Keith, who makes me a better musician and teacher everyday. And today, Ryan and PPM for reminding me that I am a musician. Music is in my soul. I'm truly lucky. 

Music has brought me life during times I struggled to find the positive. I'm so thankful to everyone who has contributed and nurtured this aspect of myself. Happy Thanksgiving, and may you enjoy all that you are thankful for as well. 

Day 88

     Dear Stranger at the grocery store,

I can't hide my exhaustion anymore.

     I'm just kidding. Well, sort of. I don't love those types of posts, so I always promised myself I would never write one. However, I had an experience that prompted me to want to address a man I met in the grocery store.

     On Tuesday, I went to the store to pick up our food for the week. Grocery shopping can be pretty intense because of my dietary restrictions and the boys' aversion to any food I make. I'm pretty sure I prepare three or more options for each meal and now that I'm also making the baby's food… the cart fills quickly, and the refrigerator empties even faster.

     On this particular day, my daughter was clingy, so I wore her in a carrier as I shopped. She was rather comfortable as I walked through the aisles, eventually falling asleep. While I love baby wearing and it's convenience, I'd still rather shop alone. I enjoy wandering the aisles and imagining meals I could make if I had the time (and the eaters!). Shopping with a kid- baby or grade schooler- just doesn't go the same way. I end up with things in my cart that I don't really want and usually forget half of my list.
      As I sped down the laundry aisle for dryer sheets, a kindly older man stopped me to find out where I had picked up the item I was carrying, the baby. It was like a pick-up line, only he was a grandfatherly character looking to dote over a baby. Something about the man seemed very comforting and we engaged in a conversation about babies and how fast the time flies. It turned out that he also had three children-two boys and then a girl. I enjoyed the brief conversation but had to move on to finish the shopping and check out before the baby woke up.
     I went to the register and began to put my purchases on the belt. I frequent this particular grocery store often, so I know many of the workers. There is a bagger who either may not pick up on social cues or who may be uncomfortable helping me, but he avoids whichever register I go to. I don't mind at all as he seems to be a very nice man who completes each specific task he is given. My daughter woke up while I was being rung up and immediately began to cry. Picture an overtired woman, wearing a baby, trying to simultaneously move three hundred dollars worth of groceries out of the cart, into a bag and back into the cart. It wasn't going well, but I could handle it. I consciously thought "I don't need help". I was sweating, Caroline was crying and people were looking. The bagger stood at the register next to mine with nothing to do, but would not help. I didn't want to cause a scene by asking him to assist me. But, if I'm honest with myself, I was quickly losing my composure. Then, a hand grabbed my arm. It was the gentleman I had met in the laundry aisle.
     This older man, who was about 80ish years old, walked with a cane and was at least two inches shorter than me said "let me help you, dear". I told him that I was fine and he didn't need to pick up anything. He grabbed my arm again, looked me in the eyes and said firmly, "It's ok to ask for help. I'm telling you this because I wish someone had told me. Please ask for help."

    Well as you can imagine, I began to cry in the middle of Stop & Shop. I was overflowing with emotion. I think I still am.

     Plenty of people have told me to ask for help if I need it. In fact, I know there are those of you who are reading this post who have specifically offered help. I am terrible at taking people up on the offer. I think I am not really sure what kind of help I need, so I guess I'll start off with asking for suggestions.

    How do you do this? How do you get through each day and give your kids, your partner, your job, and yourself the proper attention and energy each aspect deserves? Any tricks? Hints? Life hacks?
   I'm asking because I need help being a better mom, wife, and friend.

     So, thank you to the man at the grocery store who helped me to focus on the bigger picture of my life, which I hope will help me get through the regular tasks of everyday living. I hope you know how much your kind words meant to a haggard mom on a Tuesday afternoon.

Day 87

     On Saturday night we took our kids to the university football game, which was followed by fireworks. This picture is of my daughter's reaction to those fireworks.

What are those?!?!?!?

     I want to capture this moment for forever. The look of joy and wonderment. What must she be thinking as she watched the colorful explosions? Everyday she is confronted with new sights, sounds, smells, and sensations. She explores, learns about and enjoys the world around her. There is so much in life that she has yet to discover.

     There was difficult news out of our town this past week, the loss of a young man to suicide. As my children grow, it becomes harder to digest moments like this. I've had personal experiences- the loss of a friend, as well as my own suicidal thoughts during my battle with postpartum depression.
     I remember being void of emotion. I think that is what stands out the most for me- there was no joy, no anger, no frustration. There was nothing. I don't ever want my children to experience that emptiness. There is so much around us to experience- good, bad, painful, wonderful. I used to focus on being happy. I felt that if I wasn't happy, I was probably doing something wrong- weren't we all supposed to strive for happiness? I have come to realize that it's an unrealistic expectation- particularly when you battle depression and anxiety. Now, I just focus on feeling.

     Right now, I feel raw. I do not know what led to this young man's desperation. I don't even know the complete spectrum of what led me to my own desperation. I also don't know what it was that led me to get help before I caused myself harm. This is what frightens me- the complete lack of control. There is so much that the world has to offer. Yes, there are times when the news is awful, the politics unbearable, and reality overwhelming. But I want my children to experience it all. I want them to know that difficult situations don't have to be desperate. That I will always be there for them. I will love them always.
     The uncertainty of life is what makes it so precious, but it is also what makes parenthood the most challenging undertaking I have ever faced.

   

Day 86

     Fifteen years ago, I witnessed a horrific event unfold before my very eyes. Today, I shared my memories with my son.

Confronting a hard truth

     A lot has changed in fifteen years. In fact, the entire trajectory of my life changed because of that gorgeous Tuesday morning.
     The memories I have of that day are not particularly intriguing, but they are etched in my mind unlike any other moment. It truly feels like yesterday- the details are so vivid. I woke up early to go to the gym. This was not something I normally did, but I was trying my best to work through some intense anxiety and depression as I entered my senior year of college. I was stressed about my final year, my grandmother and my favorite professor were both dying of cancer, and I felt like I had no control over my life. The gym seemed like a good place to start out the semester. The sky was the beautiful shade of blue that everyone from the NY metro area recalls. The late summer air was cool, with the hint of autumn. I checked into the gym, got on the elliptical and looked at the TV. I watched in horror as the attack unfolded before me. Most concerning to me was the lack of response from my fellow gym goers. When the second place crashed, I screamed out loud. No one else reacted. Was I dreaming? This all felt so wrong. I ran out of the gym as fast as I could, back to my apartment.
     I woke up my roommate, turned on the TV and watched. I called my professor to tell him I wasn't making it to class. I knew this wasn't good. I called my mom and told her she needed to turn on the TV. I started crying, thinking about all of those people on the planes. I tried to figure out how the people above the impact would get out of the building-then it hit me hard. I knew they wouldn't. The buildings looked wrong. I screamed. That scream haunts me- I have never made a sound like that in my life. The buildings were coming down. This feeling of terror, I knew this was terrorism. That's what they want you to feel, the way I felt that morning. The way I still feel today as I try to recount my experience. That was when I lost my innocence.

     This morning, I took my oldest son to church after his first Sunday school class, and as we walked between buildings, we were confronted by this enormous tribute. A flag for every life lost was planted into the grounds of the parish. It took my breath away.
     My son asked me for an explanation. How do you explain that day? I paused and knew that I had to share the truth with him. This wasn't something I could brush off- the impact of those flags was too great.
   
     I don't know if I said the right things, but I was honest. I got down to his level and held him as we talked. I told him that we must share kindness and not hatred. I said that we must pay tribute to the lives that were lost with loving actions.

     I changed on September 11, 2001. It was the catalyst for long and painful process that took me to some pretty dark places. I ended relationships, started new ones, changed my plans for senior year by postponing graduation and reexamined my career plans. These decisions led me to where I am today. My life today is not what I had planned for on September 10, 2001. I can only hope that I am living a life that honors and respects the victims of 9/11 and their families.

Day 85

     I had hoped to return to frequent writing, as my stress level has been high and writing has always helped me to sort through my emotions to gain a clearer perspective. But here I am yet again, beginning a post with the same complaint that a lack of time and energy are preventing me from blogging with any sort of consistency. The truth is, how much time does it really take to turn on my computer and write a few thoughts? Surely I can cut back on my scrolling through Twitter and Facebook… Nope, even as I wrote out this sentence, I picked up my phone and began scrolling again!

One of us is in deep thought...

     

     I'm pretty sure that I am avoiding deep thought. Staying abreast of world news makes me miserable. Contemplating another year away from working outside of the home and the independence that allows makes me feel guilty. In fact, addressing a multitude of issues in my life only brings about increased depression/anxiety. So, I stay superficial. I stay isolated. I stay quiet. 

     But I've slowly begun to think again. What type of role model am I for my children- my daughter in particular- if I become aloof and lose my identity? I used to have opinions. I was well read. I would argue my perspective with thoughtfulness and intelligence (at least I think I did). I set goals for myself. 

     When I was at the height of my postpartum depression after Ben was born, I began this blog with the intent to write for 40 consecutive days. It was a short-term goal and at the end of the 40 days, I felt accomplished. It's been around two and half years since I wrote that first post and I've only added an additional 45 days after the first 40. That realization does not sit well with me. What am I doing?

     As an individual with a leaning toward perfectionism, I either go 110% toward something or I barely make it through. If I cannot do something perfectly, I lose the motivation to continue. I think it's important to acknowledge this about myself. It's a strength, as well as a weakness. In HS and graduate school it lead to straight As. In my undergraduate education, this was nearly my undoing. As a wife, mother, and friend, the impact remains unknown.

     Do I attempt to set goals again for myself in each facet of my life? I know that by doing this, I will give myself motivation beyond "making it through the day", but I will also open myself up to increased depression and anxiety should I not achieve the goals. I could start small, but will my perfectionism lead me down a dark path? This has happened before. Do I trust myself? 

I cannot continue the way I have been. I deserve better.