A Tale of Two Trees

When our oldest daughter was four she asked for a pink tree for her birthday.
We thought this was an adorable request for such a small child to make, so we obliged.
We took her to a local nursery and let her pick out a small, flowering weeping cherry tree that was full of little pink flowers.  She was delighted.

When we got home we let our four year old choose exactly where she wanted her pink tree to be planted.   She roamed the front yard for a while and then at a certain point she stuck her feet firmly in the ground and with a voice full of certainty she shouted, "Here!  This is the spot"

So, we dug a hole deep enough, threw some top soil in and called it a day.

I'd like to say we gave that tree a lot of tender loving care, but at the time we had a four year old and a two year old and we had other priorities.   Every now and then we would remember to water it when we saw the leaves starting to wilt.   Every year we would throw some top soil it's way if there was leftovers from gardening elsewhere in the yard.   And, if weeds were crowding it's trunk from time to time we would pull them.  Sometimes.

Not to say the tree didn't thrive.   Despite our neglect the tree thrived beautifully.   Every spring she (I like to give it that pronoun, although it hasn't stated a gender preference) gave us a canopy of beautiful pink buds.    She was the backdrop for every first day of school picture and she grew with the kids, first a sapling with a weak trunk, then a young tree that's trunk would still sway in the breeze, and finally a sturdy tree that could withstand any storm.   She was the centerpiece to our daughter's six year old fairy party.   Fairies lived in her for years and would sometimes leave notes for our daughters and they would write back.   Sometimes my daughter, the one who requested her, would stare dreamily out the window when she was in full bloom and just exclaim "I just love my pink tree!"  She did this at 6, 8, 10, and maybe even at 22.

This is not an obituary.  The pink tree is still doing fine and well.

However, a few years ago when a delivery truck came to our house and almost hit a electric wire running to our house, I suddenly looked up and realized that the tree was about to grow into the electric wire as well.  Oh No!   So, that year we had to prune her considerably to make sure she didn't interfere with the power.   How on earth did we never think to look up when we planted the tree?  That line had always been there.   Why didn't we think to look up?

So now we keep a watchful eye on the tree.   We make sure she is safe from the wires and now she grows wide instead of tall, but she still thrives despite our neglect and our obliviousness.  

In fact, unlike the famous tree in the book, "The Giving Tree" none of us have asked anything of her other than shade she naturally provides and the joy her pretty flowers give to us every spring.   The kids have moved out and she keeps growing and thriving and is a welcome site to them when they come home.   No one has ever asked for a branch, a trunk, or even a leaf from her.   Even her flowers are hers to keep until the wind or rain forces them from her branches to the ground below.  The girl who requested her all those years ago will even ask for pictures of her in full bloom when she is not home to see the "show".     In our opinion, she is simply the best giving tree ever.

But, this is not the end of my story.

This past weekend we planted a new tree in our yard.   My husband and I literally walked all over our yard looking for the ideal place to plant it.   We looked up and around and for shade and for sun.
"It won't thrive here!" one of us would say, "too shady", "too sunny", "it will block the windows", "it will break up the yard".

It was an exhausting process but we finally agreed on a place after squabbling over "a little to the left, a little to the right".   But before we put a spade in the earth we looked up, down and sideways to make sure it was the perfect place for it.   Once the hole was dug we turned the tree around and around to make sure the best side was facing the street and that the branches would grow to offer shade in just the right places.    I've been diligently watering it every day.

But despite the fact that this tree will surely be tended to fastidiously by an empty nester couple eager to nurture, I wonder if it will thrive as well as the other tree that was just plopped into the earth one day by a four year old girl with no clue, who had parents who were too busy to water her or look up at the dangers looming ahead.

But she grew beautifully despite all this, because a girl loved the tree.....

And the tree was happy.

Keep an Open Mind

If you asked me to name 3 adjectives to describe myself I'm fairly certain "open-minded" would be one of them.

I really don't care what color your skin is, what shape your eyes are, what God you believe in (or don't don't believe in), who you marry or sleep with, what you keep in your uterus (or what you don't keep in there) or what your genitals are in relation to your gender identification.   It's all good as long as you are a "good" person.

Recently a friend that I've known for over 20 years asked me to be open-minded about something that was so opposite of my own beliefs it challenged me to the core.

How can I say I'm open-minded if I'm only open to ideas that are similar to my own?

So I gave it some serious thought.   I mean some really serious thought.

I don't care if you are gay.
I don't care if you are trans.
I don't care if you are black.
I don't care if you are muslim.
I really don't care.

But, what if you are a white, Christian heterosexual with beliefs that challenge these other beliefs?
Do I care then?

The aforementioned friend sent me a video this morning of a white pastor asking his community to be open-minded in both directions.   He asked them to be open and accepting to communities that were different than their own and asked those communities for the same favor in return.   "Please allow us to be and think this way." he basically said.

I pondered this.

Perhaps I should.   Perhaps I should just let everyone think the way they want to.  Live and let live.

I asked my husband, "Am I truly being open-minded if I am closed off to ideas that don't align with my own".

In one line, my smart, insightful husband summed it up perfectly for me, he said something like, "There is a difference between being open to different ideas that are inclusive in nature, versus exclusive in nature."

And in that one sentence he summed up the core of my beliefs.

Open your hearts and your doors.

Open them to everyone.

Let in the people that are gay, trans, black, muslim but also those that are white, straight and Christian.   Everyone should have a place at the table.  Let them all into your "house".   Let them all into your heart.   Turn to them all and say, "Hello friend, you are welcome here."
Let there be discussion and a sharing of ideas.   Listen to each other.   Absorb new ideas and thoughts.  Do not be fearful or afraid of ideas that are different.  Thank each other for expanding your horizons.  Say things like "I never thought of it that way before."   Smile at each other.  Love each other.

But, here's the thing.

As soon as you shut the door on any one group, your request for anyone else to keep an open mind is denied.
It's that simple.
You do not have the right to say, "Understand my perspective" if you are not truly doing the same.

It really is that simple.

Note:  This blog was not written to make anyone feel bad about their beliefs, but instead, for all of us to question whether our doors and hearts are truly open.

High School vs. College graduation - A Parent's perspective

1.  Weeks before high school graduation:  Mom and Dad cry as they send in the deposit money to Jr.'s future college.   Parents are busy sending out graduation party "save the date" announcements, compiling pictures to create a scrapbook (or slideshow or video), and perhaps renting tents, bouncy houses, and balloon clowns for said party.    There is hot debate over the invitation list and discussion over whether the kid who accidentally hit your kid with a pencil in 3rd grade should be invited to the festivities.   Balloons and napkins are ordered in the colors of Junior's future college.   Caterers are called until Mom decides it will be cheaper to cook (big mistake!).

Weeks before college graduation:  Mom and Dad cried tears of happiness when they paid the last tuition bill and now Mom and Dad are vacationing in Puerto Rico.   One day while sunning themselves on lounge chairs, right after fresh Pina Coladas are delivered, Mom turns to Dad and says, "When does Junior graduate again?".   Dad sips his drink, turns to his wife and says, "I think in May?"   Mom looks at him for a moment and then says "oh, right."

(LOL of course this isn't true!  Mom and Dad don't have the money to go to Puerto Rico!!  They just sent their kid to four years of college!  But the conversation really does occur in their own kitchen, over their ramen noodles!)

2.   One week before high school graduation:   Senior Week begins and Mom and Dad spend the next week worrying about Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll!  They stay up late at night praying their sons and daughters come home safe from all night parties.   They talk to their children over and over again about the dangers of drinking and driving and safe sex (which is abstinence of course) and tell them to please call if they feel like they are in an unsafe situation.

One week before college graduation:  Senior Week begins and Mom and Dad go to bed and watch the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Netflix.  They have no idea what their child is doing and really don't want to think about it.   They just hope they aren't woken in the middle of the night by their phones ringing with a call from their child begging them to "Venmo" them some money for pizza.

3.  A few days before high school graduation:   The grandparents arrive, the aunts and uncles arrive and everyone starts getting the house ready for the party.    Everyone cries every time the soon to be graduate comes down the stairs at noon looking underslept (and probably hungover) and everyone keeps muttering "how is this possible!"  "You were just born!" and hugging the poor child.    Appropriate attire is purchased and/or ironed so that everyone looks shiny and clean on graduation day.

A few days before college graduation:   Mom and Dad go to bed and watch Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Netflix.   Dad turns to Mom and says, "Are your parents coming to graduation?"  Mom says, "shhh, this is my favorite part". "Besides don't you remember the nursing home said they won't let my dad out after that incident last year?"   Dad smiles, "Oh yeah.  That was a good one!  And I didn't think your dad could still run a mile....... and naked.....in the snow....pretty damn impressive."  Mom says, "I know, right?" then she turns and laughs at the tv.

4.  The day before high school graduation:   Junior wakes up and says, "Mom, I think I forgot to order my graduation gown."   WTF?  Really?   Mom spends the next 6 hours calling everyone she knows trying to find one.  It turns out the neighbor's cousin's son ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning on prom night (no worries, he'll be okay) so he won't be attending graduation so "sure, he can borrow it."   Once the gown has been procured Mom can't stop crying.   She spends 3 hours looking at Junior's baby book and recounts the story of how he lost his first tooth when he fell off the slide on Park St. to anyone who will listen.   No one is listening.  Grandma makes a cake but forgets that Junior is allergic to peanuts and she has made a peanut butter cake.  So, other grandma makes another cake, Junior's favorite double chocolate with butter cream frosting.    Peanut Butter grandma gets upset about this and locks herself in the guest room and her son spends hours telling her "She is not Junior's favorite grandmother.   I'm sorry you never had a daughter so you could be the favorite of the grandchildren.  They love you Mom.  Really.   No Mom, it is too late for you to have a daughter.   Dad died three years ago.  Remember?   Yes.  You are too old for artificial insemination."

The day before college graduation:   Mom and Dad spend the morning reading the New York Times.  Mom turns to Dad and says, "Did you make the coffee yet?"   Dad looks at her, thinks for a second, then says, "Silly me, I forgot". Then he gets up to make the coffee.

5.  The day of high school graduation:   The whole family shows up three hours early to the venue to get good seats.   Mom and Dad stand in a crowd of people they have known for about 13 years.   Everyone is chatting with each other politely all while quietly thinking, "Your kid was the one who threw the pencil at my kid in 3rd grade.  I haven't forgotten and I will happily push you over for a good seat".   When the doors open, there is a race for the "good seats".  As the kids march into the venue, all cleaned up looking handsome, pretty, or maybe both, Mom and Dad tear up remembering them all growing up, all the soccer games, the plays, the play dates, and the real dates.   It all went too fast.   As they march across the stage one by one Mom and Dad clap for each and every one.  Except for that pencil throwing kid.  They refrain from clapping for that kid.   They stand up and cheer when their kid crosses the stage.  They fumble to take a picture but know that it will come out blurry.    When it is all over they rush down to the field, or the floor to hug their child and they feel such a mix of pride and profound sadness that this stage of their child's life, their family's life, is over.   That night when they go to bed, with their child safely tucked into their own bed, just a couple doors down from theirs, they cry at the thought that in a few months that bed will be empty.

The day of college graduation (pure conjecture on my part):  Mom and Dad arrive on campus and get coffee at one of the numerous Starbucks on campus.   They don't really know anyone so they spend some time before graduation in the campus art museum.   They make their way to the graduation venue and don't worry too much about their seats because the diploma ceremony is somewhere else later in the day and they have never heard of the keynote speaker.   Later at the diploma ceremony they look at the kids as they cross the stage and try to remember if that was the kid who came to their house that weekend one time.   Who knows?   When their kid crosses the stage and shakes the Dean's hand with a smile that indicates recognition, Mom and Dad suddenly realize that their kid has a life and people that they know nothing about.   At the reception afterwords, Junior introduces them to professors and friends who all speak glowingly about their child and say things like, "See you later at Charlie's!" to your child as they disappear back into the crowd.  Mom and Dad wonder who Charlie is - is it a friend?  more than a friend?  who knows?   After the festivities, the family goes back to their child's dorm room to pack it all up.   Mom notices pictures of people all over the wall that she's never met, and probably never will meet.   Dad finds a bong and looks at Junior across the room, who quickly says, "that's Charlie's!".   Who the heck is Charlie?  When the room is empty they give the key to the lady at the desk.   Junior looks at Mom and Dad and says, "So, I'll see you at home later?"
"Sure," they say, and they retreat to their car.
"Should we watch the last episode of Mrs. Maisel when we get home?" asks Dad.

6.  One month after high school graduation:  Junior is exhausted from weekend after weekend of grad parties.  Mom is after junior to go shopping for college supplies.  Things are tense at home.  "You need to spend some time at home" Mom says, "We have things to do".   Junior says "I know" and then heads out the door.  Mom's heart sinks.  Sometimes Junior falls asleep on the couch in the afternoon and she looks at that sweet, angelic face.  "It really hasn't changed" she thinks as she remembers the same face on a napping kindergartener.   Her love for her child swells in her heart and she's so grateful to have them, at this moment, on the couch, even if they are sleeping.

One month after college graduation (also pure conjecture on my part):   Dad has fallen asleep early again and Mom is sneaking downstairs to get a glass of water.  She passes Junior's room and can't resist going in and turning on the light to look around.  No one lives in this room anymore.   They live in an apartment in the city now, miles away.   They have a new home.  She runs her finger over the bookshelf and realizes it needs dusting.   She smiles as she looks at the book spines and remembers the hours spent in this very room on the bed just behind her, sharing these beloved books, laughing at the antics of the BFG, turning pages quickly to find out what mischief Voldemort was up to, being amazed at the contraptions the Baudelaire children came up with to escape the evil Count Olaf, and crying when the lovely Beth March died.   Mom runs her fingers over the books with great tenderness.  She hears footsteps behind her.   "You coming to bed?" Dad says.  "Yeah" says Mom.   "We should really think of getting rid of all those books and making this room into something else."  Dad says.  Mom shuffles back towards the bedroom forgetting all about her water.   Dad goes to turn off the light and as he shuts the door, he peeks his head in and says to no one in particular, "Good Night Moon!"

What Did You Expect?

Recently I was visiting my parents and was helping them load some awkwardly shaped items into a car.   When I succeeded, my mother and I had a conversation about why I had never become an engineer, because clearly I have a proclivity for spatial awareness.   I was a child of the 70s, when Gloria Steinem was in her heyday screaming for women's lib and creating Ms. magazine.   You would have thought that little girls would have been encouraged to be engineers.   But, nope.

I blame my parents for many things, but not this.  In the 70s and 80s people just didn't think about little girls growing up to be engineers.   Even little girls, like me, who spent their summers and afternoons building all sorts of things in the backyard with the boy next door.   We re-purposed an old wooden refrigerator carton so many times that eventually it just fell apart.  But not before it was a working car, club house and row boat.   In the winter we fashioned giant multi room forts in the snow with built in supports and escape routes.   But why on earth would a girl want to be an engineer?
My father had studied electrical engineering in college and I distinctly remember it being discussed at the dinner table that my brother who spent his days and nights locked in his room reading Homer, Twain and Shakespeare might not actually be meant to be an engineer.    That made sense.   But nobody ever looked at the other kid at the table, the one with the grubby fingernails, with the permanent-skinned knees, who was always up to date on her tetanus shots because she needed to be, and said, "Now this girl has engineer written all over her."

Again.  I don't blame them.   It was how things were back them.   These were the days when people threw their kids outside in the morning and hoped they didn't return until dinnertime.   It was the 70s. People didn't overthink their children.

I've never understood why engineering isn't part of most public education curriculum.  Maybe if it had been I would have made the connection between building a car out of scrap wood in my back yard and putting together a real car.  But, alas, I wasn't one to put those things together on my own.    So, I didn't become an engineer and honestly I don't really regret it.   There are women my age, and older,  who actually are engineers and I admire them greatly because I know it probably wasn't such an easy track.

When I did go to college I became a psychology major which I quite enjoyed.   Actually, I enjoyed it so much I was thinking of going on to graduate school and becoming a psychologist.
One day (or maybe more than once) my Dad jokingly said to me that psychology was "witchcraft" and I quickly lost interest in pursuing an advanced degree.   I thought the expectation was that I find a less "kooky" path and maybe a more lucrative one.   Does being a stay-at-home mom fit that bill Dad?

Again, I don't blame my Dad. I don't think he realized the power of his words, I'm sure he was (sort of) joking.

This is all my very long winded way of saying that the power of expectation, or lack thereof, can have a huge impact on what we do, and who we choose to be.

Of course, parental expectations can have the opposite effect as well.
My daughter is an EMT in her "spare time" at college.   This is the same daughter who to this day screams and goes running at the idea of a shot or a blood test.   In fact, I'm sure if she's reading this, she has become squeamish at the mere mention of shots and blood tests.    I recently learned that when she initially told me that she wanted to be an EMT my response was barely contained laughter and "No way.  You?  You could never be an EMT!  You are scared of needles and blood and everything that an EMT does."

She became and EMT to spite me.
She told me this.
Yup.
She dealt with her worst fears to prove me wrong.
Well played.

Now, of course, I tell her that she "can't" do things that I want her to do, so it might have been a mistake to tell me this story.   She doesn't buy it when I tell her "there's no way you can shovel the driveway" anyway.

Of course, this daughter does things daily that surprise me and amaze me and that I would have NEVER EVER expected of the shy, scared kid she was just a very few years ago.

I honestly think in the moment that she became an EMT she severed some kind of fishing line that was attaching her to us her parents.   It's like she cut herself free of all expectation.   If she can do this, what else can she do?

She shows us every day.

Now I will give her the credit she deserves for being a pretty amazing person but I won't go as far as to say we are spectacular parents for giving her this freedom.    She demanded it and our hand was forced.   And now her expectations of herself have far exceeded what we could have ever thought up.   And she has unknowingly given a great gift to her younger sister because she now has the freedom to expect the absolute most from herself and not to be as concerned with what our expectations are of her, and we can see that internal power beginning to take hold and we know it will take her to magnificent places.  But, it's okay if it doesn't.  No expectations here :)

But enough about them.

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about how expectation effects us (or is it affects us, which is it?) and I've gone back and read many things by many women writers (no offense to the men out there but I am a woman).   I've read numerous articles by the time honored Erma Bombeck, powerhouse writer/columnist Anna Quindlan, and the modern women writers/bloggers such as Elizabeth Gilbert, Kelly Corrigan and Glennon Doyle, and I keep hearing the same message across the generations -"Women are trapped by expectation."  "Don't be trapped by expectation."

And here I am.  Me.   Not my kids.

I am totally trapped by expectation.

Everything I am, that I have become, is pretty much to please or displease someone else.

And that is ridiculous.

So how do I change this?

And what does that look like?

I'm not sure.

Nothing radical.

I mean I love my family and I have a pretty good life.

But I constantly worry about what others expect of me and I act accordingly, for the most part.

I think many women are guilty of this.  I am not alone.

This is even true with my writing. 

My beloved writing.

I worry all the time whether people will like what I have to say and it keeps me from truly expressing myself.   I worry if people think I am writing too much or too little or if what I say is too personal or too impersonal.  I don't want to write anything that might hurt anyone's feelings or might make someone think less of me.

So I don't write.   

And people stop expecting me to write.

I stop expecting me to write.

And where does this leave me?  

Meeting everyone else's expectations but not my own.

And even as I finish this blog entry, as I write these very words, I find that I am doubting myself.   I am wondering if I should send this blog to a friend to assure me that it is worth publishing.   Perhaps I should shelve it like many other things I have written.   Perhaps I should delete everything I have done and start again?  Yes.

Yes.  Yes.

Or No.

What did you expect?

Marie Kondo, high heels and purple keds

Today I did some Marie Kondo-ing (I think that is a verb now).   I tackled our mudroom, which was choking on at least a decade of shoes.   It was clear that many of these shoes were too small (size 5 ballet slippers anyone?), outdated, over worn, or just plain ugly.   As I went through the shoe bins it was pretty easy to decide what sparked joy and what sparked something else, like when I caught a whiff of the inside of an old tap shoe (little girls shouldn't be capable of creating such odor).

Then I came upon what is probably my only pair of high heel shoes at this point in my life.  They are very elegant, black patent leather with a 2, maybe 3 inch heel.   Since I am 5'9" in height, these shoes bring me up to the Amazonian height of six feet.

The thing is, these shoes spark minimal joy in my heart.   I am no Marie Kondo expert but I am fairly certain she would have me toss them.   I have never really enjoyed high heels.  After all, the only thing worse than being 5'9" in high school (and being 3 inches taller than every boy) was being 6' in heels (and being 6 inches taller than every boy).   I also have very wide feet and have yet to find a comfortable pair of heels that don't have me dreaming of kicking them off within a half hour of wearing them.   I have danced in my bare feet at many a wedding.   And, yes, I'd rather have my foot stepped on by men in thick-soled loafers than endure the pain of high heels.

In contrast to the high heels, I find buried in a bin my pair of purple keds.   Oh!  These bring me so much joy!  Alas, I don't have much use for my purple canvas keds in New England in February.  That being said, they are carefully placed back in the bin, to wait patiently for the warmer weather.   That day cannot come soon enough.

I look back at the high heels.  They are taunting me.

"You need us for weddings!" they seem to shout.
"You need us for graduations, cocktail parties, and fancy dinners out"

I peer into the bin at my purple keds,
"Sorry, we're no good at weddings" they seem to say, "you're on your own."

Thanks a lot purple keds.

I think of my daughters' generation.   They regularly shout "Screw the patriarchy" and they don't wear any shoe or any outfit that doesn't fit their own personal style and I so admire that.     And, to a certain degree, I embrace that mindset.   I wear what I am comfortable in and I try not to get caught up in societal "shoulds", whatever they may be.   I am who I am.

But, these pumps have me stumped.

An image of my five year old self keeps running through my head.   I am wearing a floral mini-dress, the style that was so popular in the 70s, the kind of dress that was barely long enough to cover your underpants    My legs are long and tan (because no one believed in sunscreen), and my knees are all scraped up from running and chasing my brother and his friends.   No mini-dress was going to stop me from keeping up with the neighborhood boys.   And, just to make sure I kept up I.always wore a pair of red keds.   Every. Single. Day.   With a dress.   Always.   It didn't faze me in the least bit, or anyone else for that matter.   I was five.  It was the 70s.  Everything was groovy.

Until it wasn't.

As I grew up I didn't wear dresses anymore because someone probably told me that they could see my underwear when I climbed a tree.   And, I started to care.   And, when I did wear a dress, someone probably told me that I should wear proper shoes with a dress, like flats or heels.  So, I conformed.   I conformed for years.

Eventually, as my foot grew, I stopped replacing my keds.   I only wore sneakers for sports.
That's just how it was.

But now things are changing.   Girls are wearing whatever shoes they want to, and for that matter so do boys.   And, just last year I bought myself that pair of purple keds (red is not longer my happy color) and it sparked sooooo much joy in my heart.

But, what do I do with the damn heels?  Why am I hesitating?

I text a few friends who unanimously suggest that I toss them.
"there is absolutely no where that you need to wear heels anymore" one wise friend said.

My husband is sitting in the other room and even though he has never had to squish his feet into a pair of heels I decide to ask his opinion, "What should I do with these heels?  They spark no joy in me."

Now mind you, my husband was the one who encouraged me to Marie Kondo my life in the first place.   He's all about getting rid of the clutter in our lives.

"I have a pair of tuxedo shoes in the bedroom closet.  I will only ever wear them if I wear a tuxedo, which is rare, but I keep them for such events.   You should keep the heels."   Hmmm.   Is he part of the patriarchal conspiracy to keep women in uncomfortable footwear?????  

I think not.

I realize in that moment that the heels don't spark any joy in me, but maybe they spark some joy in him.   On this cold February day, he is imagining another day, or perhaps a warm evening, where we are both in fine clothes and he is in his tuxedo shoes and I am in my high heels, perhaps we are dancing under a lit tent at a wedding and that lovely image sparks joy in his heart, okay, maybe in mine too.

He is smiling and suddenly I know that I can't bear to throw the shoes away.  Not yet anyway.

I think maybe this is where Marie Kondo gets it wrong.   Sometimes an item doesn't spark joy in our own heart, but maybe somebody elses, and THAT joy sparks our joy, so that that item is worth holding onto.  I think.   At least for now.

So, the shoes are saved, for now.

But, I make sure that when I put them back into the shoe bin, they are tucked safely under my absolute joy-sparking purple keds.
And, as I push the shoe bin back under the boot bench I whisper to my beloved keds, "Oh.  I'll find a floral mini-dress and we WILL rock the next wedding we go to,  heels, consider yourself on notice."

Instead of purging things that don't bring joy, let's Marie Kondo to the next level and go get what brings us joy!

A Social Media Respite

So, a few weeks ago I took a break from Facebook.   Did you notice my absence?   I'm sorry if I missed your birthday.   I'm not sure if you care why I dropped off the social media planet but here are my main reasons.   I am consciously omitting the current political climate and our current president from this list because I do not wish to make this post political but you can feel free to put that all in category #3.

1.  The Great Time Sink.   We all know what a huge time sink social media is, and I was not immune to it's siren call.   I found myself reflexively opening the app ten times an hour even when there was nothing new to see.   "Gee, it's still "Sue's" birthday.  Did I wish her a happy birthday yet?  I'm sure her birthday will be completely ruined if I don't wish her a happy day.   Let me check her wall.  Yup.  Looks like I did and she even gave it a heart emoji.  Yay!   I just love "Sue".    Hmmmm.  When was the last time I spoke with her?  2002?  No.   Maybe 1998?  Definitely when we worked together in 1992.   I should really contact "Sue"."

Which brings me to my next reason

2.  Lack of real Social Interaction.   There are many times when I'm out and about and people come up to me and say, "Wow.   Looks like you and your husband are having a lot of fun empty nesting."  Fair.   If you look at our social media sites our life looks a lot of fun, maybe even enviable.  But, truth is this year has been one of the toughest we have had.  Not that I need to post that on social media.  No one wants to see depressing "Life Sucks" posts and when I post anything remoting smelling of negativity I instantaneously get messages from my kids saying, "You are so emo!  Why did you post that?"  Ok.  That's fair too.    In any case, before I took a break from Facebook  I had a false sense that I had many, many friends.   However, in real life I only regularly interacted with the same 10-15 people.    When I took my break from social media I posted that I would still respond to private messages and texts.  You know who I heard from?   The same 10-15 people I communicate with all the time anyway.    That being said, I have had some contact with a few people outside my usual "sphere" and I was able to have real interactions with them and find out more details about what is actually going on with them and their families    That was a pleasant bonus and I look forward to more interactions like this.    And, for those of you who are not in my "sphere" but are indeed reading this.   My sphere is not impermeable.   You are welcome anytime. :).  I am still available by private message and text.   And I would really, truly love to hear how you are doing.    You can even call me, even though only about five people know my number.   Truly.   I'm sure it's the same for you.   Don't even get me started about my landline.  I think only my mother and my next door neighbor know that number.

3.  Anxiety.   This one is a doozy.   I don't think I know a single person for whom social media does not raise their anxiety from time to time.   We talk about the hazards of social media for kids but adults are not immune.   Everyone's lives seem better on social media, more fulfilling.    They have better vacations, smarter, better looking kids (not really :)), and a career they are successful and passionate about.  You find yourself trying to measure up all the time.   It's exhausting.   I found myself wondering why someone would post something that made ME feel bad.  Didn't they know?   Was it with malicious intent?  The answer is a resounding "no" to both of those things.   No one (myself included) is thinking of anyone but themselves when they post on social media.   C'mon.  We all know it's true.   Truth is, my anxiety was crippling and I felt bad every time I browsed "the book".   Finally it dawned on me.   People had the right to post whatever the f#@k they wanted.   And, I had the right to not look.   No one can hurt my feelings if I don't look.   So I stopped.  It was an easy fix.

So, there are my reasons and they are really pretty simple.   It's only been a few weeks and so I don't think any real conclusions can be drawn from my time away.    I will say that my anxiety about not having a perfect family/life has gone way down and now I can embrace the imperfect in my life without the fear of judgement.    In terms of time, I have taught myself Arabic, knit a afghan from wool that I myself harvested and dyed,  and started a self-sufficiency farm raising goats, sheep (for wool) chickens and cows.   Just kidding.   I'm still not doing anything productive with my time.  Unless writing this blog counts.

My social circle has pretty much not changed.   Teddy remains my mostly companion (see Eloise) and everyone else is gravy.

I will probably post this blog on social media which I realize is a bit hypocritical.   But, if you don't want to read it you don't have to.    It's that easy.  (and I realize that you've already read it if you got this far and now you are doing a face/palm and saying "Oh Man!  I didn't have to read that!")

Hope you are all doing well!

Shattered Dishes and One Girl's Wishes

Thanksgiving 2018

The year is 1993 and I am a 26 year old, newly engaged young woman.   My fiancé and I have gone to Bloomingdale's to register.  We may or may not have had a mother or future mother-in-law in tow, that part is fuzzy.   Registering seemed so exciting and so full of hope and promise.    At the time my fiance was a graduate student and I was working at a non-profit.   I probably don't need to say that we didn't have two nickels to rub together.   But, we could register ourselves for a life that didn't exist yet.   We must have registered for three dozen wine glasses, 12 for red, 12 for white, and 12 for I'm not sure what.   I wasn't a big wine drinker then, and I'm still not, but I certainly envisioned dinner parties with a long, then non-existant dining table, with a white linen table cloth (don't forget to register for that) that someone would spill red wine on that I would quickly pour salt on just like my mother did.    I was starry eyed as we selected napkins, blenders, pots, pans, forks, spoons and knives.   It was just so much fun.   Then it came time to choose the every day china.   My mother-in-law's friend had generously offered to buy us an entire set that she had picked out from a well known household goods store.    We went to look at the set and I immediately knew it wasn't for us.   "That's not our china" I remember thinking.   It was lovely, and I'm pretty sure I've seen it in other people's homes where it seemed quite at home, but it wasn't ours.   As a young, soon-to-be bride I wasn't as used to asserting my opinion as I am now but I knew that it didn't belong on the non-existant dining table that I envisioned.   I think there was some disappointment on the part of my mother-in-law that I wasn't overly exuberant about this potential, extremely generous gift but that's a blog for another day.   So, on the day we were at Bloomingdales, I turned a corner and saw "our" everyday china.   It came in multiple colors, was slightly Asian looking (just like our slightly Asian family). You could register for just one color or pick and choose several.   We were all in for the blue, green, and of course, purple.   We registered for 12 place settings.   I couldn't imagine ever needing more than that.   As I looked at the china, so many dreams filled my head.   I imagined two place settings for a romantic dinner for two with a candle in between, but also all the plates filling the aforementioned, nonexistent table set for a holiday meal with all our current family members and also members who were yet to be born.   I could see a single plate being used to hold a first birthday cake, or a bunch of cookies for Santa, or a seder plate with matzoh, hard boiled eggs, and horseradish.   I saw a plate full of a boring weekday meal but also full of a decadent dinner for the most special of occasions.   So many dreams for one set of dishes.

The year is 2018.   It is some 25 years later.   I am loading the dishwasher.  It is a mundane, every day job and I'm not thinking much about it.  Then suddenly the bottom rack of the dishwasher lurches forward and crashes to the ground.   Several dishes go flying and break.   My dear, beloved dishes that have lasted 25 years are now in fragments and dust on the kitchen floor.    I am stunned for a moment (as is the dog) and don't do anything.   I know that the dishes were discontinued years ago and my heart kind of breaks alongside them.

These dishes have held so many meals.   They have held Wednesday night macaroni and cheese as well as prime rib on Christmas Day.   They have done their job holding birthday cakes that resembled a bunch of bananas, a strawberry and a sandy beach (amongst other things).   They have held Santa's cookies many times, and acted as Seder plates.   They have held meals for people who are no longer with us, as well as for people who now live far away.    They have travelled from our tiny first apartment where the two of us dined on an inherited coffee table, to another apartment where we became a family of three and ate on a dining table that had been had been well used, and passed its prime, by multiple generations of my family, and finally the set had moved to our current house where we had become a family of four and in due time it landed on the now existent dining table that had been so clear in my mind 25 years ago.    At some point one of the dinner plates must have broken unceremoniously because for the past few years we have just had 11.   In fact, just this past Thanksgiving we had had exactly 12 people at our Thanksgiving dinner.  I gave myself a plate that didn't belong to the set.    It was a lovely Thanksgiving.   There were candles, and there was both red and white wine in our wine glasses.    In many ways, it was exactly what that 26 year old was dreaming about all those years ago.

But all of that was broken now.

If it was possible for dreams and memories to shatter all at once, they just had.   And I was paralyzed in the debris.  

After the initial shock wore off I realized that I needed to deal with the mess so the dog or I didn't end up with a piece of shattered memory in our feet.   With great sadness I took the broom and dustpan out of the closet and cleaned up the mess.    I eventually became more concerned with the potential danger of the shards of the glass, than anything that the pieces meant.   I emptied the dustpan into the garbage can and as I peered into the contents all I saw was dusty ceramic debris.  Nothing more.

There were no dreams and memories in there.
Somehow those had remained intact.
It turns out that those are shatter-proof(and dishwasher-safe)