The Definition of Insanity

You know how unnamed wise folk said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

Yeah…clearly I am closer to being certifiable than I thought.

Guess where I am? Ten points to Gryffindor if you guessed Orlando. 15 points of you guessed the Orlando airport.

We were supposed to board our flight around 4pm, take off at 4:40 and arrive in Raleigh at 7:15. It was a slim hope, but I hoped I would be home in time to tuck in Daniel.

As we arrived at our gate, the gate staff announced that our flight was delayed and would now leave at 6:20. if you don’t feel like doing the math, that’s almost a 2.5 hour delay. We will now land at 8 PM, and I’ll arrive home too late for tuck time. The staff keeps saying they will “try” to get us to Raleigh by 7:50. That “try” shouldn’t worry me should it?

And I checked my work email and discovered I have the pleasure of attending a 4-hour meeting tomorrow.

At least the Southwest terminal is nice, much nicer than the US Air terminal from last time. And it has a bar.

Orlando, I will quit you. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane yet.

You Oughta Know…About Me in High School

This time last year I was in the 9th circle of graduate school hell known as writing my Master’s Paper, so I couldn’t participate in Liz’s inaugural Senior Hottie photo extravaganza.  All that madness is over, thankfully, so I am thrilled to be able to participate this time!

Prepare yourself.

Actually, it’s not that bad.  The really fun pictures are tucked away in the garage, and I can’t get to them before the contest ends.

My apologies: our scanner is acting up too, so we had to take pictures of the pictures, so the quality isn’t great.  I think you’ll be able to capture the essence though.

Let’s return to 1995, shall we?  My soul belonged to grunge, but my wardrobe was The Limited.  I hoped someone would feel as much for me as Gavin Rossdale obviously felt for his lady in “Glycerine.”  I roared with Alanis Morrissette on “You Oughta Know.”  I attended a Hole concert and captured a doll part. Anything Pearl Jam or Nirvana was in rotation.  My hair was long, and I was tall and skinny.

I was a theater geek, and this was my costume as Golde in Fiddler on the Roof. Yeah, “Sunrise, Sunset” and all that jazz although now that I think about it, the costume screams “Little Shack on the Russian Prairie.” Small town, small budget.

Senior prom! I went with my friend Abby, and my mother made my dress. Look at how thin I was! Also?  Look at those eyebrows.  Yikes!

Before class, a group of us “smarties” would gather in the library to exchange insults and jokes. Behold me on the far right rocking my Limited slip dress and Mary Janes.

Graduation night family dinner w/ my parents, aunts, uncles and cousins. This is how we do it in NC, y’all. I don’t even remember what we ate, but the sunburn on my face is courtesy of an afternoon at the pool the previous day. Oops. That box?  Contains a kitten given to me as a “gift” by a friend.  My mom was not amused.

Now let’s return to present day.  I’m 17 years older.  I’m 30 pounds heavier. I have to admit I’m not thrilled with either of those.  When I look at pictures of myself now, my eye immediately notices the bags and wrinkles around my eyes.  Getting old sucks.

Instead of slip dresses from The Limited, I wear tweed from Talbots. Apparently I never outgrew the Mary Janes.

Though I didn’t have a boyfriend in high school or do much dating at all, I am humbled by how much love I receive from my little boy.

Instead of taut skin and long hair, I now have wrinkles and a newly-short ‘do

I think my contest category would be “Are you really the same person?“

So tell me, what do you think?  And what do you think when you look at high school pictures of yourself?

For more Senior Hottie fun, head over to Liz’s place.

Friday Foolishness: Going Out of Town (Again)

This week has been very “meh.”  I can’t find the motivation for much, including blogging because really, why am I so narcissistic to think it matters?  That’s when I see through the facade of condescendingly insisting that I blog for me and acknowledge that I like to be read (and when did that become a bad thing?). I know I post something like this every week, but the truth is that I’m in a funk.  I’m frustrated because it’s almost halfway through the year, and I haven’t accomplished much in any area.  My house is a mess.  I’m a mess. And when I think about trying to put words together that could possibly be worth anything, my harsh inner critic (she’s a real bitch) scoffs and brings me back down to earth: what could I possibly say about anything that matters?

I could get all soap-boxy because heaven knows, there is a lot of absurdity out there about which I could rant, but I don’t want to be “Oh there goes KeAnne getting all ranty again.”  That’s why I didn’t write anything about the Time breastfeeding/mom enough challenge cover.  I subscribe to Time (apparently one of the few since that seems to be the conclusion for why the magazine did the cover).  The dastardly issue is sitting in my magazine basket right now, and I’ll finally get to read it on the plane on Sunday.

I think that my lack of reaction to the cover (kudos to Time for having the balls to use such an asinine challenge on its cover) is that my particular route to motherhood already makes me concede that no, I’m not mom enough.  I can’t even participate in that conversation when I outsourced the carrying of my child.  Or, perhaps, I could conclude that yes, I AM mom enough because I wanted to be a mother so much that I outsourced it when my own equipment didn’t work.  But that’s stupid and not worth even asserting.

I think the likely reason I sort of shrugged was because the older I get, the more I feel that I am not <anything> enough. I’m comfortably mediocre.  There’s always going to be someone who does more, is better, is smarter, is prettier, is harder working, is funnier, is ballsier, is nicer, is more successful, is a better wife, is a better mother, is a better friend.  There can only be one superlative.  Everything else is just a fruitless comparison.  So I shrug although I do wonder how we let a style of parenting primarily advocated by a man dictate how we mother.

We’ve been dealing with our first daycare virus the last few days, and it is a doozy.  I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say that it is explosive…everything.  From everywhere.  Think HazMat suit or gas mask needed at least. And hours spent stripping beds and washing everything.  It’s so much fun, yet I feel like it’s a rite of passage and I now belong;  I am officially a daycare parent.

I’m flying to Orlando (again) on Sunday for another conference.  I’m getting the shakes just thinking about it after my last trip, so if  you could send up a little prayer to the travel deities, I’d appreciate it.  I’m excited to present at the conference because I feel like it’s my first real conference.  It’s not that the last conference didn’t count, but it was for a particular group.  Kind of like if  you sell Tupperware and attend a conference thrown by Tupperware.  This conference is for a professional society, and I submitted a session idea and was accepted.  It will be the first time I present on my Master’s Paper research, so it’s like my first big girl conference (And yes, I acknowledge that I spent the first three paragraphs of this post whining about how I haven’t accomplished anything this year. I own my hypocrisy.).  On the other hand, it’s a conference for engineers (blows a kiss at Mannlymama, who received her engineering degrees from my place of employment), so I feel a tad bit nervous about what to expect.  I’m also attending with three other coworkers and to be honest, they aren’t my favorites.  I’m hoping that I’ll be able to, um, not see them through the throng of attendees.

Lastly I leave you with the below picture taken by coworkers on their way to an event near Burlington.  I promise you it is not doctored in any way.  Before I offended JJ by insinuating she was old, she corroborated its existence by telling me she saw it many times during her college years.  Apparently in NC, we have no problem legislating hate, but we permit obscenity and poor spelling on our signage.  Oh well.  It gave me a good chuckle when I saw it, and I hope it gives you one too.

I love North Carolina

How has your week been?

Kismet

Mother’s Day bouquet

Daniel has been in daycare full time for 2 weeks as of today.  We think it’s going well.  We still have teary drop-offs in the morning, and Daniel wants me to carry him to his room.  The teachers have been great about distracting him, though, and I’m sure that a minute or two after I leave, he’s fine.  He still keeps asking to see “Ama” in the morning, but I respond by talking to him about all the fun things he will do at “school.”   He’s learning the names of his classmates and his teachers tell me that he’s starting to be a little free with his hands and bumping into his classmates intentionally (too much Thomas and “bashing” perhaps!), all signs that reassure me that he is starting to feel comfortable there.  He even asked to go to school on Saturday! Here are a few other things I like about daycare so far:

• Lunch.  Our daycare doesn’t provide lunch, so we have to send it.  At first I wasn’t sure if I liked that because did I really need another task in the evening?  I can barely make my own lunch every day.  However, I really like that we pack his lunch now.  I like having control over what he eats and y’all, he’s eating it too!  Veggie puffs!  Ham and cheese wraps!  Wheat crackers!  Yippee!
• Naps.  Daniel is starting to nap again in the afternoons.  I don’t know if they blow ether in the room at nap time, but it’s working.  He may not nap every day or for the entire time, but more often than not, he’s napping.  It’s a great development because now we aren’t as rushed and stressed in the evenings, and he’s less prone to meltdowns.
• Vocabulary.  It seems impossible, but I swear Daniel’s vocabulary and speech have improved over the last two weeks.  He is using more complex sentences, and his speech is clearer.
• Less time in the car.  Our previous commute was 1.5 hours every day, and Daniel spent all of that in the car with me.  It takes me 15 minutes to get from our house to daycare in the morning and then 15 minutes from daycare to our house in the afternoons, so he spends an hour less in the car each day.  The drive to and from daycare is also scenic, so it must be nicer to see houses and yards instead of asphalt and cars.  Plus, there’s less opportunity for mommy to swear at the other drivers.
• Me time in the car.  I now have almost an hour to myself in the car each day.  Before, I met my MIL in the parking lot at work for pick up and drop off and had to immediately segue way from mommy to employee or employee to mommy.  Now I have time to transition mentally.  While the time is nice in the morning, I really appreciate it in the afternoon when I desperately need to decompress before putting on my mommy hat.
• Starbucks.  Really.  There previously wasn’t a Starbucks easily accessible to me on my way to work.  Most of the time, that was ok, but sometimes I really want a decent latte.  There just so happens to be a Starbucks 2 minutes away from daycare.  I can hit the drive thru and be on my way to work in minutes!

So, yeah, the first two weeks have gone well.

Now for something spooky…Until recently, every time I asked Daniel who he played with at daycare, he said the same name.  I thought it was a little bizarre because I didn’t see a cubby with that child’s name on it in his classroom, but he was so consistent that I doubted he was making it up.  Then one afternoon at pick-up, I heard one of the teachers call a child that name.  He does exist!  It turns out that the child used to be in Daniel’s class but moved up the same time Daniel started.  Apparently he is in Daniel’s class at drop-off and pick-up.  I didn’t think anything more about it other than being glad he wasn’t imaginary until last weekend.

We took Daniel to the bounce house yesterday, and all of a sudden, it clicked.  That child at daycare, the first child whose name Daniel learned, is the child in foster care we met on our last visit to the bounce house.  The child whose phone number I wish I had gotten.  I couldn’t believe it, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was correct.

Wow.  What a small world.  Sometimes when you throw something out into the universe, the universe answers.

Gather ye daffodils while you may

We Are the 39 Percent

Amendment One passed on Tuesday.  Hate and discrimination have been voted into the NC Constitution. I know that this amendment will not have a long life and we have lost the battle but not the war, but I am so disappointed.  Yes, I admit that internally I am calling those who voted for it without fully educating themselves on what the amendment would do nasty names, but overall, I just feel disappointed.

It was naive, but based on what I saw on Twitter on Facebook, I thought the amendment had a decent chance of failing.  I hoped that my fellow citizens who have a innate cultural disdain for the government telling them what to do would vote accordingly.

I was wrong, and I am disappointed.

I’m disappointed that my state felt the need to waste time and money on amendment that outlaws something that was already illegal.

I’m disappointed that conservatives sneaked the amendment into the primary, knowing and counting on turnout to be low.  This amendment was not voted on by the state’s entire electorate but by a small percentage.

I’m disappointed that conservatives are making marriage an issue in the 2012 election, trying to ensure that voters will vote against Obama because of their feelings on it instead of on economic policies when our nation is in a genuine economic crisis.

I’m disappointed that politicians and voters continue to fail to consider unintended consequences of dangerous, poorly-worded legislation.

I’m disappointed that I have to defend my state and its citizens against comments such as “North Carolignorance” and “I thought all the Northern transplants would override the state’s ignorant natives.”  I’m a native North Carolinian and proud of it, and there are many of us who voted against the amendment for a variety of reasons and while I’m ashamed and angry at what the state has done, I also must defend it, myself and others like me.  It’s a weird position to be in.

We’ve told people that we don’t care if Daniel is gay, and the response is always a gasp followed by “You don’t mean that!”  We do.  We don’t go around hoping he is, but the point is that we don’t care.  It’s not an issue to us.  Truly.  Our hope for him is that he finds love and if that love is for a man, woman or hermaphrodite, we don’t care.  Those voting for Amendment One are correct in that marriage is sacred.  I believe it is sacred.  It is sacred because it is two people coming together and pledging their lives to a larger union.   What does gender or sexuality have to do with that?

Here are reactions from other North Carolinians to the passage of Amendment One:

• In Which Amendment 1 Pisses Me off
• Today is a Hard Day
• Heartbroken
• Another Letter to My Sons
• A Note to My Daughter: I Want You to Care
• North Carolina, I’m Not Mad, I’m Just Disappointed
• On Love and God and Being a North Carolinian
• Amendment One Hurts All North Carolinians
• And the Greatest of These is Love
• Amendment One and My Family, After the Vote
• Despite Amendment One’s Passing, NC is a Better State Today
• A Letter to My Sons on Politics and the Internet
• WTF, Week

If you come across more posts, please send them to me so I can add them.  I want to curate them.

Voyage of the Damned

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you probably know that I was in Orlando Sunday – Tuesday for a conference at which I was presenting on my organization’s social media practices.  I was returning to Raleigh Tuesday evening and left for the airport right after my presentation ended.

What Should Have Happened

After I rock my presentation, I dash to get my suitcase and meet the shuttle outside.  I arrive at the airport in time to check my bag, make it through security, and browse in a few shops before heading to the gate.  I’ve timed it perfectly so that I have to wait only about 15 minutes before we board the plane.  The flight is uneventful, and I have enough time in Charlotte before my next flight to get something to eat, which is a nice change from the usual sprint I do through the airport to make my connecting flight.  The Charlotte flight leaves and lands on time, and I’m back at my house by midnight.  It’s a late night, but it’s worth it to be home that night so that I can be the one to greet Daniel in the morning and go to work at my normal time since I am such a dutiful employee.

What Really Happened

Everyone I’ve talked to about my flight out of Orlando worries that I won’t make it if I leave the hotel at 5:30.  Panicking, I change the shuttle pick-up time to 5 and leave my presentation 10 minutes early (I’m part of a panel).  I had planned to change out of the shift dress and heels I was wearing into something more comfortable for the flight, but as a result of my concern about making my flight, I conclude I don’t have the time.  Surely I’ll be fine albeit a tad uncomfortable.

I check my bag and get through security quickly although I am selected by the TSA to have my hands tested for…chemicals? Gun powder? Bomb residue? Uranium?  Not sure. No one explains, and I don’t ask questions.  It turns out I have plenty of time.  Oh well.  I decide to head to my gate.  As I approach my gate, I recognize it as the “afterthought” part of the terminal.  It looks a little bit like someone cut a tin can in half.  Unlike other parts of the terminal, it has no shops other than a tiny convenience store.  I buy a bag of pretzels and Diet Pepsi and take a seat, people watching.  “Oh, wow, that guy looks like Peeta,” I think, momentarily daydreaming about it being him although I wonder how he got the injury that landed him in the wheelchair.

A few minutes later, the attendants announce that our plane is 15 minutes late, but it shouldn’t delay our overall flight time.  At 7:15, we board the plane.  I’m sandwiched between two huge guys and try to adjust my dress so that it doesn’t ride up my thighs.  As soon as we’re all seated and ready for take-off, the pilot announces that the Charlotte airport is closed due to bad weather and that we will taxi to the runway but not take off for 30 minutes.  30 minutes.  Ok, I can handle that.  At 8pm, the pilot announces the Charlotte airport is still closed and that we will wait another 45 minutes.  I pull out my book because my iPhone battery is getting low.  One of the guys next to me sleeps while the other watches a movie on his phone.  The flight attendants bring around cookies and drinks.  At 9:30, the pilot announces another 30-minute delay.  At 10pm, the pilot tells us that while the Charlotte airport is now open, the Jacksonville airport is in chaos as it tries to sort out all the planes in its airspace.  We have 10 minutes either to take off or return to the gate because we will have reached the maximum time allowed by the FAA for sitting on the plane.

At 10:05, the pilot tells us everything is hunky dory and we can take off.  We clap and cheer.  Yay!  You know who else is on a flight from Orlando?  Families.  Children.  Small children who get grumpy, hungry, whiney and the other seven dwarves when they miss dinner time and bedtime.  The noise level and parental aggravation have been steadily increasing over the last hour, so we are all very glad it’s almost over. The flight is very bumpy due to the weather, and the flight attendants aren’t able to bring out the beverage cart.  I shift constantly, trying to find a comfortable position because after sitting in oh-so-comfortable airplane seats for over three hours, my back and legs hurt.  In positive news, I started and finished one book and started another.

We land in Charlotte at 11:30 PM.  The customer service rep directs us where to go as we deplane.  No flight for me.   I’ve missed the connecting flight to Raleigh, so I’m directed to Special Services which now that I think about it kind of sounds like Special Forces, and if I recall correctly, Special Forces are known for their ruthlessness and efficiency, not sympathy.  Tempers are starting to flare between aggravated travelers and airline employees, which at least offers a distraction.  The ladies of Special Forces, I mean Special Services, inform me that the next flight is at 9:30 AM on Wednesday and hand me a coupon voucher for a local hotel.  Not being a resident of Charlotte and logically assuming they are if they are working at the airport, I ask them if they can recommend a hotel.  One of them looks at me blankly and says, “I don’t know any hotels.  Sorry. Call the number on the voucher.”

And with that response, I am dismissed.  Honey Badger doesn’t care what happens to me after that point.  I, however, do care and am slightly overwhelmed.  I don’t know Charlotte well, and I don’t like Charlotte (I don’t think Charlotte has a soul).  I also don’t like the Charlotte airport.  While this trip wasn’t my first business trip, I’m far from a seasoned traveler.  I’ve never been through a situation like this before.  I call the number on the voucher but surprise!  I can’t get through because they are experiencing a high volume of calls.  Uh, yeah, from looking around me, I can see we’re all on phones doing the same thing.  I pull out my iPad and go to the site listed on the voucher.  There are 4 hotels listed and all are miles away from the hotel.  I try looking up closer hotels, but there are no rooms (I find out later there is a huge convention in town at the same time, hence no rooms).  I finally get through to one of the hotels, and they have space, but they don’t have shuttle service.  I call Jimmy, who helpfully tells me to take a taxi.  Being that it’s 1AM at this point, that sounds like my best option.  There are two ladies around me also looking for rooms, so I give them the number to my hotel.  We agree to split a taxi and head downstairs to find…

Masses of people waiting for taxis.  The good news is that the line is moving fairly quickly.  The closer we get to a taxi, the more people stream through the doors and line up.  Jimmy calls and I bitch at him for not being as helpful as I thought he should have been. Yes, I was projecting and probably somewhat irrational as well as tired and a little scared.   When the three of us get in our taxi, the driver asks if our hotel is in South Carolina.  I channeled my inner diva and reply, “Is that a problem?”  I had had it.  All I wanted to do was take off my shoes, rub my aching legs and go to bed.  I’d pay whatever amount to get to the hotel.  Turns out that it was not a problem, and 20 minutes later we arrived at the hotel.  After a painfully slow check-in, I trudge to my room.  It’s 2am.  I eat the bag of pretzels bought hours ago for dinner and go to bed.

Wednesday morning, I’m out of bed at 6:30am and dressed in seconds.  After all, I have no makeup, toiletries or extra clothes.  I don’t exactly feel fresh as a daisy (I feel like crap honestly), but I look presentable although I’m starting to hate my dress and shoes.  At the airport, I limp into the terminal and am rewarded for my misfortune by being selected for a pat-down by the TSA.  I try to joke to the TSA staff about getting to experience all of their search methods, but they don’t laugh.  I wonder if they are radioing to ground crew to pick my bag to be searched after I’m cleared through.   Starbucks takes some of the edge off the fatigue although I want to throat punch the next attendant who tells me she loves my dress.  Instead, I reply sweetly, “Thank you! I’m glad to know it still looks nice since I’ve had to wear it for two days.”

I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!

Finally, I’m back in Raleigh.  I open my front door at noon, exactly 18 hours after I arrived at the Orlando airport.  I change out of the dress – grateful it isn’t permanently stuck to by body– inhale food and collapse into bed.

Lucky for me, I get to do it all over again in two weeks when I head to Orlando for another conference.

Epilogue

We had a vote on a little initiative known as Amendment One on Tuesday while I was in Orlando.  Unfortunately, Amendment One passed (more on that tomorrow).  Those of us who voted against it are pretty bummed, especially since those in favor of it are gleefully proclaiming God’s will has been done.  In the Elizabethan Age, there was a concept known as the Great Chain of Being, positing basically that there was a divine order.  A divine version of “a place for everything and everything in its place.”  Whenever this divine order was disrupted, God’s will was being thwarted, and disorder happened as a result.  Often, this disorder manifested in nature: earthquakes, storms, unnatural weather.  As I thought about my horrific night on Tuesday, caused by bad weather in North Carolina, the fanciful part of me couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe the storms were a manifestation of divine order being ignored.  Perhaps God’s will was not done on Tuesday night after all.

Amendment One: Don’t Embarrass Me, North Carolina

I have 99 things to do today and unfortunately, work is one of those things.

On Tuesday North Carolinians will have the opportunity to vote for or against Amendment One, an initiative that would amend the NC Constitution to define marriage as between one woman and one man as the only type that will be recognized by the state.  There are many reasons why this initiative is stupid and harmful, but the simplest one is because it already is defined that way legally in North Carolina.  God, I hate redundancy; don’t you?

You probably can guess which way I intend to vote.

Liberals aren’t the only ones concerned about the repercussions of this amendment passing, so instead of blathering about how I wish the government would stay out of my bedroom and uterus, I invite you to read posts from others, some of whom are conservative, on why they won’t vote for Amendment One:

• A Conservative AGAINST NC Amendment One
• Marriage – April 23, 2012
• VlogMom: Passion and Amendment One
• why i’ll vote against
• An Open Letter to North Carolina
• RANT RANT RANT
• Mawwiage
• The Reedster Speaks Out Against Hate
• Why You Should Vote Against Amendment One (Even if You Are a Christian Republican)
• A Conservative Christian Against Amendment One

And this one on how social media is being used by opponents of the initiative.

North Carolina, I am proud to be a citizen.  I love this state and its long history and usually progressive behavior.  You are better than this.  We are better than this.  Do the right thing on May 8 and vote against Amendment One.

Online and Offline Relationships

Maybe the blogosphere has spring fever and has the attention of a high school senior anticipating graduation because it seems that recently a lot of bloggers have noticed fewer comments and less interaction and have posted about it: here, here, here, and here (oh lookee there.  I just used the Oxford comma after I told Katie I didn’t any longer).  All the posts are interesting, so I urge you to read them.  The speculation ranges from whether there is a blog/social media malaise to whether blogging is dying and ultimately ponders why we blog.

I was interested in this cross-blog conversation because it reminded me of the accusations that flew during the PAIL brouhaha in the ALI community that some bloggers were blogging for the wrong reasons and interested in the quantity of their readers and comments instead of the quality of their writing or their interactions.  Months later, that sanctimonious, distorted interpretation of the PAIL situation is the one that still stings me.  Based on the comments in the above blogs, it appears that discussing stats and comment numbers – even innocently  – is taboo because many commenters expressed that they blog for themselves, stats be damned.

So I mention this conversation to collect a little data of my own:

In your neck of the woods, have you noticed decreased action in the blogosphere or in your other social media channels?  A feeling of ennui?

Some commenters attributed any drop-off in interaction to the season, and I think there is a little truth to that.  The days are longer and nicer; there are more opportunities to spend time outside.  I know I personally have been consumed with preparing for Daniel’s transition to daycare: analyzing his wardrobe, researching food ideas, agonizing over how to prepare him.  I’m also busy at work and prepping presentations for the two conferences I’m attending this month and attending more meetings than anyone would ever want to attend.

At the same time, I have so much I want to post that I almost feel paralyzed when I think about trying to organize my thoughts and spew something coherent.  I don’t aim for profundity, only coherence.  So often, an extra day will slip between the interval I had planned because the thought of sitting at my laptop exhausts me.  It’s almost as if I have too much to say, so I don’t say anything.  And then when that extra day slips in, I shrug and doubt anyone will notice anyway (and no, that’s not a cry for validation).  And that shrug puts everything into perspective about what I’m doing in this space and what it means in the larger scheme.   But I also hate that shrug because I’m one of those people who needs to purge her mind because otherwise it builds up on top of what thought came before and I can’t move on and it threatens to drown me.

I actually started this post on Friday, and I tried to move on when I didn’t have a chance to finish it, but I keep coming back to what I wanted to say here.

As I was thinking about blogging and social media and our online relationships, I read “In the Era of Online Networking, Offline Connections are More Powerful Than Ever.”  Nutter’s point is that while we are enraptured with connecting via social media, the relationships we make offline – that take time to nurture and grow – are the ones that matter and are even more important now.  That makes sense to me.  After all, in my friend project, I’ve made friends via Twitter and blogs, but when I want to build those relationships, I take them offline.  I have actual lunch or dinner with these ladies.  We meet face to face.  Hell, even exchanging email seems more personal these days.  And it’s been true for years.  The same thing happened in the message board I was a part of: local ladies met and connected online via journals but took it offline with dinners, wedding attendance, baby showers and cookie exchanges (shout out to Fight Club!).   There’s an element of condescension in Nutter’s piece (“oh these kids today and their new toys”) but hardly anything revolutionary.

About 5 minutes after I finished reading Nutter’s piece, I came across Zeynep Tufekci’s piece Social Media’s Small, Positive Role in Human Relationships in the Atlantic.  [Side note: I just realized two seconds ago that she is a professor in former graduate program.  I think she came to UNC while I was on maternity leave or working on my Master's Paper.  In other words, I am a moron for not realizing that earlier.]  Tufekcki argues that social media is in fact enabling more conversations between people and even deepening ties offline, something I found in my own research. I love that she has found that these online conversations save offline social lives and that online tools enable us to find kindred spirits by geography and interests in ways not available to us before.  I appreciate that Tufekci stands up for social media and the relationships we can build there. She says:

If anything, social media is a counterweight to the ongoing devaluation of human lives. Social media’s rapid rise is a loud, desperate, emerging attempt by people everywhere to connect with *each other* in the face of all the obstacles that modernity imposes on our lives: suburbanization that isolates us from each other, long working-hours and commutes that are required to make ends meet, the global migration that scatters families across the globe, the military-industrial-consumption machine that drives so many key decisions, and, last but not least, the television — the ultimate alienation machine — which remains the dominant form of media.

I certainly agree.  In addition to being able to connect to long-lost real-life friends, Twitter and the blogosphere has enabled me to connect with others suffering from infertility, coworkers, local bloggers, tech/social media thought leaders, bibliophiles and just overall cool people.  When I have insomnia, there is a conversation going in in which I can participate.  When bad weather threatens, I hear about it online before my weather radio squawks.  I am never alone and for someone who has felt alone most of her life, that feeling is priceless.

And it is powerful.  Check out her story.  Last Friday I reeled when I saw Diana’s tweet about her twin boys, and I was riveted by her story.  By riveted I don’t mean as if I were watching an accident or soap opera.  I was riveted because her story was happening to a real woman and as a mother and woman, I felt so sad and scared for her.  I don’t know Diana.  She is sort of a friend of several friends or acquaintances I know via Twitter and their blogs, but I’ve never interacted with her.  Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her all weekend.  I was worrying for her and aching over what seemed to be the inevitable outcome.  Then on Monday she tweeted a few tweets about how badly a few doctors were treating her in the hospital and her decision not to induce her twins, and her situation went viral.  Calls and emails poured into the hospital and suddenly, Diana started to receive appropriate care. [Update: She tweeted that her boys were born this morning.  My thoughts are with her, and I hope the outpouring of love and grief she receives can somehow make her pain a little easier to bear.]

This post is not about women’s rights or whether Diana should or should not prolong what may be inevitable.  It is about the fact that online behavior and relationships can have positive offline benefits.  These relationships can be as real as those in the offline world.  They should not be minimized as Nutter attempted to do.  Those of us who spend time online should not be ashamed; we are cultivating real relationships.

These reasons are why if  there is a malaise or ennui with blogging or social media, we should resist it and press on.  We can build real relationships there, and we can impact real lives.

How do you feel about the relationships you have cultivated online?  Are they as real and strong as  your offline ones?

First Day of Daycare

I am a very sentimental person.  That may surprise you.  Or it may not.  I think I tend to come across as reserved and chilly, so I suppose I feel like I must tell you I’m not.  The truth is, though, that underneath the reserve, I am a mess of emotion and feeling.  I cry at commercials.  I cry at books.  I cry when I think about animals in pet stores waiting to be adopted and how lonely they must feel. When I was a little girl, I cried on New Year’s Eve because I felt bad for the year that was ending and would never come again.  Jimmy and I celebrate the anniversary of the day we met in addition to our wedding anniversary.  I remember and honor certain dates for the tiniest of reasons if they are meaningful to me. The reserve acts as a stopper, a protective shell, from all those feelings because without it, I’d be a gooey puddle of KeAnne, unable to function.

Today was Daniel’s first full day of daycare, and I’ve sort of wanted to cry all day.  And I sort of feel silly for feeling that way because he’s almost 3 years old.  I didn’t cry the day I returned to work when he was 3 months old, so why do I feel so weepy now?   We did two trial runs last week in which I dropped him off for a couple of hours, planted myself outside at the Starbucks two minutes away, waited for a frantic call from the daycare to come get him and read actual books. And no frantic call came. In fact, he seemed to have a good time. Cue relief.

New lunchbox!

Today was different.  I packed his lunch and breakfast last night, agonizing over what to put in.  I was a little frantic this morning because suddenly our normal routine needed to become a more formal.  Since Daniel had been going to MIL’s during the day, I had gotten into the habit of packing his clothes and taking him to her in his pajamas, and she would give him breakfast.  Now he needed to be dressed.  I’m sure he picked up on the heightened stress.  As soon as I turned left out of our subdivision instead of right, it began.  “Ama,” he said.  “Want to see Ama.”  I grimaced and told him he wasn’t going to see her today and that he was going to school.  “No,” he replied firmly. But he didn’t cry.

At daycare, we walked down the hall to his classroom, and there was one other little boy sitting at the table.  I put Daniel’s bag on the hook in his cubby and handed his lunch box to his teacher. I put his breakfast on the table, and looked at him.  He had hung back, watching me, and I could tell he was processing what was going on: the new routine, the new route, no Ama.  I don’t think he quite understands it yet, but he has realized things are different.  He came to me and asked me to pick him up and clung tightly to my neck. But he didn’t cry.

Nutritious, carefully-packed lunch that he probably won't eat.

I rubbed his back, told him I loved him, that I would be back later and that he was going to have a good time.  The teacher picked him up and carried him to the big window so he could wave to me.  I walked out and blew him a kiss, and he blew me a kiss.  But he didn’t cry.

Daniel’s world is very small: me, Jimmy and his grandparents.  That’s part of the reason why we have put him in daycare, to expand his world, but I also think that is why it hurts so much.  In our little world, tiny changes feel huge. I worry he feels abandoned.  I worry that he’s hurting.  And I know my mother-in-law is hurting.

For almost 3 years she took care of him every day.  He knows her house as well as his own.  He was cuddled and kissed and loved, and knowing that he was in excellent hands gave me the ability and peace of mind to return to work.  Last week she made him a small pillow out of Thomas-themed fabric to take to daycare for nap time, and it has a small pocket in it to hold pictures of the family so they can bring him comfort.  He adores that pillow and takes out the pictures all the time to look at them.  Friday afternoon, she hugged him goodbye at our last routine drop-off, tearing up.  I watched her hugging him, and him hugging her, and knowing that Daniel doesn’t realize the significance of the day but we do, and I wanted to cry too.

Behold the Thomas pillow, taken with him everywhere

I love the daycare we picked.  It has very high standards and thorough procedures and processes.  Daniel’s classroom is bright and cheerful, and the teachers are loving.  The children appear happy too.  I have no qualms about the care he will receive, and I know he’ll adjust and likely come to love it.  Today is just…bittersweet.  In some ways I think it is more painful to transition a toddler to daycare than an infant.  Daniel knows things have changed even if he doesn’t quite understand what and why.

Today was marked on our calendar. I anticipated it with equal part fear and excitement. It signifies the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.  And there has been a lot of change already for my little family this year.

To my mother-in-law, thank you.  We are so grateful and appreciative of the care you gave Daniel.

And now I’m off to pick up my baby from his first day of daycare and smother him with hugs and kisses.

NIAW: What Not to Ignore

It’s National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW), the one week of the year in which it is socially acceptable to allow the infertiles to have their say and to celebrate the infertile in your life although as was pointed out earlier in the week, for infertiles, every week is infertility awareness week.

This year’s theme is “Don’t Ignore Infertility,” and I have a few suggestions:

If you are infertile

• Don’t ignore your intuition.  I suspected we were going to have difficulty after only a few months.  If I hadn’t listened to my intuition, I would have wasted more money and more importantly, time.  I pushed for Clomid after only 6 months of TTC.  I made our first RE appointment before the prescribed 12 month guideline.  If your RE tells you that “maybe pain is normal for you” when you tell him that you hurt so much that you are writhing in the fetal position, crying and fantasizing about ripping out your ovaries with your bare hands because hey, it couldn’t hurt much more, find a new doctor. Six months after starting with our first RE, we moved on to our second who diagnosed me within 5 minutes of our first meeting and told us our only options were IVF-related or adoption whereas the first RE would had had us pursue more useless (though we wouldn’t have known it) IUIs. I’m still a little bitter about that first RE; can you tell?
• Don’t ignore your feelings.  There is a lot of pressure on us to be happy and think positively even when life sucks huge donkey balls.  I call BS.  First of all, philosophically, if you never allow yourself to experience darker, less positive thoughts and emotions, how will you be able to know and fully experience the highs?  And guess what, infertility is mostly about the lows: the physical pain your diagnosis might cause you.  The toll on your self-worth, your body and your relationships.  The hit on your bank account or credit card because many infertiles don’t have insurance that covers treatment; treatment isn’t cheap.  We didn’t, and we had to pay a lot.  Wondering whether your infertility means that you have been deemed unworthy to procreate and that your DNA, the very essence of what you are, is not worth passing on.  Having friends muse that maybe your infertility balances out all the “luck” you’ve had in other aspects of your life such as marriage, school and career.  Dreading the infertility storyline in movies, tv shows and books because they always get it wrong and reinforce stereotypes.   A lot of lows.   So I’m giving you permission to revel in your grief and sorrow.  I’m a firm believer that if you don’t acknowledge feelings, they fester.  Revel in them.  Roll around in them and wrap them around you like a blanket.  Here’s the ugly truth: no one else is going to acknowledge your feelings, your reality.  And once you’ve indulged yourself, it is a lot easier to deal with the feelings, put them back in their box and even experience some happiness.
• Don’t ignore all the family-building options out there.  When we started TTC in 2005, I never in a million, trillion years thought that we would end up having our son through gestational surrogacy. Of course at that point, IVF seemed exotic.  However, by 2007 we had a much clearer picture of our situation and we began thinking more about what we were trying to accomplish (having a family) vs how it happened.  Let yourself explore adoption, surrogacy, donor egg/sperm/embryo, IVF.  What made me willing to consider surrogacy was wanting to make sure we had pursued as many options as possible so that at the end of our lives, we never regretted not taking a certain path.

If you are friends or family with an infertile

• Don’t ignore them.  I know it can be awkward figuring out how to handle the infertile.  I know that talking with us can be a little like approaching a sleeping lion: you never know what innocent, well-meaning comment will set us off, hissing and snarling or sobbing uncontrollably.  The problem is that sometimes, well-intentioned family and friends can decide not to talk about infertility with us and leave that conversational ball in our court.  That’s nice but what it often turns into is no contact or little meaningful contact.  Send us an email every once in a while.  Invite us out.  Ask how things are going.  If you don’t understand something, ask.  Pretend to be interested. Acknowledge our situation.  Because while you think you are doing the right thing by letting us have space, it feels like we are ignored.  Like we’ve become lepers.   Even if you don’t know what to say, a heart-felt, “wow, your situation sucks and I’m really sorry” would go a long way to helping the infertile feel like part of the human race again.  Because infertility does suck.

I hope these suggestions help. I’m infertile and always will be; this is the one week of the year I am allowed to be.  Here are a few other, better perspectives on NIAW:

• Don’t Ignore: The Secret Life of the American Infertile
• What to Expect When You’re Not Expecting
• What If? (this is post in support of NIAW by a supporter.  She gets it!)