It’s a Cold Moon

“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to”

Carl Sandburg

Tonight or rather yesterday is the final full moon of 2022, but one of the things that makes this moon so special is that it will still appear to be full Thursday. And it’s appropriate that in a month that celebrates juxtapositions and extremes such as beginnings and endings, longests and shortests, birth and death, loneliness and love, this moon will be visible longer than it might otherwise be due to the sun setting earlier.

It has been fascinating this year to learn about how each monthly full moon has a name and was given a meaning. And I admit to taking joy in seeing the moon in various places and significance this year: over the ocean at the beach, in an eclipse at 5:30 AM, the end of my driveway just now. There was something about the finality of 2022’s full moon that I needed to witness.

This moon is called the “Cold Moon” and the Mohicans called it the “Long Night Moon”. I like that. It wasn’t exactly cold or even cool when I went outside, but it was quiet. It was breezy. I could imagine early humans looking up at the sky in wonder and marveling at what magic this was that made the moon increase in fullness over the course of a month and then appear to disappear. It doesn’t take much of a mental leap to see how they concluded offerings needed to made to bring back the moon and from there, religion takes shape.

Astrologically there is a meaning to this moon too. It takes place in Gemini (ruled by Mercury) and symbolizes receiving information – could be a simple answer or resource that comes at the right time or a perspective you had not considered. Full moons are culminations, completions and endings and letting go, which all sounds quite appropriate for this time of year. And sometimes like holidays themselves, there is a feeling of bittersweetness about so much sturm and drang, preparation, giddiness, excitement, and then…it’s over. At the same time, Mars retrograde is here and since it takes place in Gemini, it could be unexpectedly easy to feel tense, anxious and say harsh words. Try to fight the urge to do too much. I know I myself have experienced these feelings this week and owe a few apologies and have a need for more rest.

Maybe I’m feeling overly introspective and possibly maudlin (probably just tired and worn out myself), but I feel the year creeping towards its end. There is a darkness about the holidays that we choose to overlook. There’s a huge amount of forced levity and merriment and almost a threat to be happy or else and by god, you better be happy for your blessings. And the other side of that is fatigue and exhaustion. It’s hard being the sole Magic Maker. It’s hard trying to keep all the plates spinning. And it’s hard trying to have nice things for yourself when the tree is half decorated and the cat keeps climbing it and everyone at work is just as surly and tired as you are and what the fuck is for dinner.

It’s hard when the holidays come on the heels of Deathiversary and all you really want to do is stay in bed with the covers pulled over your head (but don’t forget to wash the sheets and comforter!). I’m feeling some endings acutely and some beginnings coming faster than I might like or prefer.

I am grateful for all of my blessings. I’ll have my pity party here and make magic and sing carols through the neighborhood. And I’ll enjoy it.

And hopefully I’ll find a little magic of my own and return refreshed like the new moon.

…But even when the moon looks like it’s waning, it’s never actually changing shape. Don’t ever forget that.

Ai Yazawa

Rough-Tober

I tried so hard and got so far,

But in the end it didn’t even matter

Linkin Park

It’s Deathiversary month (technically 11/1). I…have given myself permission to feel and do what I need. If I don’t cook? Fine. If clothes are left in an unfolded pile: fine. As long as D and the cats are taken care of and bills paid, that’s what matters.

OK I am terrible about folding and putting away laundry normally, so I shouldn’t use this month as an excuse.

But emotions and experiences are funny things. I can feel them pulling on me. And in my last post I referenced the one decoration I pulled out.

I feel so depressed. And it’s OK! I am OK (and quite medicated). It’s like a weight on top of me. It truly isn’t as bad as last year, which caught me off guard. D is 13 now and being, well, 13. It’s normal life stress, but it feels bigger? Maybe because I am the only one?

And I am trying so hard to be a good employee and leader at work. I have a team depending on me and frankly, work is my respite. Even when I wish I could spend all day in bed.

A friend texted yesterday and extolled how pretty the day was and asked if I would get out at all.

I probably misinterpreted it, but my first thought was, “wow…is that the impression I have given? That I refuse to go outdoors? Do I come off as that slothful?”

I replied something about vampires and sun, but it smarted. D and I went to get pumpkins and then I sat on the front porch for a bit. And I received a mosquito bite for my effort.

Believe me. I know I have lots of things to work on. No one knows that better than I do. Painfully self aware. My therapist and I discuss it on Mondays.

I’m just trying to get through this month and the other whammys life has decided to gift me recently.

And I never expected Hole and Linkin Park to be the soundtrack to my widowhood, but here we are. I have a Spotify playlist entitled “Ire and Rage.” Oh well. One foot in front of the other. I will get by.

Thought Experiment

Last week a friend mentioned a scenario during driving at night that made him think of his 16-year-old self and how the feelings from then are very different from the feelings of now. I thought that was interesting, and being me, I ran with it. So I have two questions for you to ponder:

1. What do you think your 16-year-old self would think of the life you have?
2. How do you think you would feel if you lived the life your 16-year-old self envisioned?

When I think of my 16-year-old self, I acknowledge that I was both mature for my age and quite naive and sheltered. My younger self would be proud that I left my hometown. That I went to college and graduate school. I have a much better job and have achieved more things than my younger self could have imagined.. My 16-year-old self wasn’t sure what she was going to major in, but what I’m doing now would seem like a foreign language she didn’t want to take. But I love it.

My younger self would be surprised and maybe a bit disappointed (I am, too, sometimes) that I had only one child. I don’t think she knew much about infertility other than what she read in her great-grandmother’s magazines when she was a child. Another way in which I was both precocious and naive. But my own precocious only is loved. Very much loved.

My younger self would not have imagined a pandemic, quarantine and subsequently, the death of a spouse at an early age. Hell, I’m not sure my current self can encompass all of that yet.

But I hope my younger self would be proud of how resilient I am. I’ve been through infertility, pandemics, death of a spouse, diagnoses…and I’m still standing (and I just knocked on wood and threw salt. Please do the same). Sometimes people think that these adversities are bad things. I don’t see them that way. Yes, they suck. Don’t get me wrong. But, I feel like they have molded and shaped me into a better, stronger person. When you know darkness, you appreciate the light that much more. When you feel at your lowest, you appreciate the highs exquisitely. I’m not saying I would have asked for those experiences, but I accept and value them. They are formative experiences. And I hope they have made me into a better, richer person.

Conversely, I don’t think I would have liked the life my 16-year-old self envisioned. It was free from adversity. It was spoiled. It was charmed. And life isn’t like that as I have learned over and over again. Her life was wish fulfillment. And I’m not saying there is anything wrong with that. It’s just…well…unrealistic. And my 16-year-old self didn’t know that.

Would I change anything? No. I believe strongly that life lessons are taught for a reason or at the very least, you can learn from what you experience. It’s a journey.

Some churches and very rich private homes have spaces dedicated to a labyrinth. You can walk the space and pray or whatever. I like that idea. I’d walk the labyrinth because it symbolizes a purposeful, yet possibly meandering journey and an overall depiction of wholeness. I get that. I really get that. I know where I want to go, and I know where I’ve been, but it may take me a while to get there. And that’s OK.

Shake it Out

Well, here we are. The last week of October. I thought I’d be OK. In control. But I’m not as much as I’d like to be. I thought it was Mercury Retrograde weighing on me because I really felt it. Uncomfortable in my own skin. Pulled, contorted, strained, weighed down. But here we are. My own personal D-Day. I can feel my anxiety rising daily. I’m struggling just to keep it together when what I really want to do is burrow under the covers and stay there. House a mess? Check. No cooking? Check. Clothes unfolded? Check. Child late to school? Check. Oversleeping? Check. Irritation? Check. Sensitive? Check. Crying? Check.

And my thoughts are so jumbled and muddled. My therapist told me a few weeks ago that I intellectualize emotions and feelings instead of letting myself experience them. I try to explain what I am feeling instead of letting myself indulge in them. But I do feel them; I find it difficult let myself to be an emotional person. To be seen as someone who has feelings.

You know who I envy? People who don’t give a fuck what other people think. I’ve always cared too much. It has improved, but I still care too much. I had a conversation on Friday night about my feelings, and I’m not completely certain it went well (not the fault of the conversation, but talking about feelings can be difficult). But I know that I cried – like ugly cried – afterwards. The kind of crying that left my eyes extra puffy Saturday and experiencing an emotional hangover.

We all have history and formative experiences and god knows I have thought a lot about mine. Probably too much. Analysis is my forte. Feeling is not. I’m not going to subject any of you to my TED Talk on why I am this way. I guess I should get to the point. I think my thoughts are jumbled around vulnerability and shame (yes, yes, off to read Brene Brown). After that conversation on Friday – or frankly, any conversation in which I let loose like that – my first reaction is embarrassment. I’ve revealed too much of myself. All the ugly parts. The parts that indicate that no, I very much do not have my shit together. You know, the parts that reveal me as a flesh and blood human who is not perfect. And the fear about whether people will still like me or respect me if I reveal that I do have feelings. But I AM human! I DO have feelings! Why is vulnerability such a difficult state for us to occupy? How did we get here?

I think of this verse Rizzo sings in “There are Worse Things I Could Do” from Grease:

I could hurt someone like me
Out of spite or jealousy
I don’t steal and I don’t lie
But I can feel and I can cry
A fact I’ll bet you never knew
But to cry in front of you
That’s the worst thing I could do

And to finally, finally get to the point. I have a lot of thoughts about this week. Can I express those emotions? Should I express those emotions? Can I be that vulnerable? Is it allowed? And yes, I know it is technically. But am I allowed to feel and express these things truly? Or should I keep a stiff upper lip? What is the statute of limitations on grieving in our society these days?

It is funny to be writing this after last week’s somewhat “rah rah” “Entropy” post. Well. I feel what I feel when I feel it. THAT I have definitely learned in the last year. And I grapple with that dichotomy. I have good days and bad days. Last week was not a great week, and I have a feeling that this week may not be either. And I have to be OK with that. I have to accept that and understand that. More importantly, I have to give myself permission to feel. To let those emotions flow through.

This week is worthy of my feelings. If I feel dread, uneasiness, and anxiety every day, it’s OK. If I need to take a day and just be, that’s OK. From what I have seen, there is no manual for any of this (but if there is other than Kubler-Ross, message me?).

I’ll do what I need to get through it. Cry when I need to. And then “Shake it out” as Florence + the Machine recommend and prepare for Halloween. I have three pumpkins to gut (ugh) and carve (good luck?) and a child to make happy.

One step backwards. One step forwards. Every day.

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

Entropy

I’m not going to deny that the last few years were…not ideal. I feel like everything around me is falling apart both literally and metaphorically. I no sooner fix one issue with my house than another arises. Fucking whack-a-mole. Mondays suck because three jobs. Behavior…yeah. Mercury Retrograde. And I feel bad talking about it because it feels like all I do is talk about the bad stuff. Each week I say, “I’m tired of my own shit. I won’t inflict it on others.”

Entropy describes the last few years well. Things not getting done around the house. Easier to give into feelings and situations instead of trying to fix them. Entropy is fucking powerful, and it is easy to be dragged down by it.

I am usually a driven person. I do things. Sometimes I do too much. I was the definition of “work before play” and therefore, “play” typically never happened. And somewhere in the last few years, I lost that. It became easier to succumb and wallow. When you feel out of control, sometimes it is easier to give in and say, “why bother? No one else is.”

Well, now, I’m the only adult. I want to be better. To do better. My list is long. I want to reject entropy. I want to fortify myself against it. I CAN be better. And I know: I’ve been through a lot in the last year and should cut myself some slack or give myself some grace. But at some point, you have to stop making excuses and step up (woman up?). I need to be an example. I need to feel good.

“You’re turning into something you are not” – Radiohead “High and Dry”

Today we went to buy pumpkins. We bought a lot, and it was great. I also bought flowers to put in planters. I hadn’t done that in years. I love flowers. I don’t in any way claim to have a green thumb, but I love flowers. So I decided I would pot these flowers today. I did it. It felt SO good. It’s a small thing, but I felt like it was a tiny shield being erected against entropy.

One step at a time. One flower at a time.

44

I turn 44 tomorrow. Technically, I turn 44 at 11:13 PM tomorrow, meaning my birthday was almost Sept. 10 instead of September. 9. But at this point, that and what they may or may not have done to my mother to get my oh-so-large 5 pound self out doesn’t really matter. However, I’ll never live down the broken tailbone they gave her to get me out. Believe me, it’s like the nightmarish bedtime story I cannot escape. Do you ever feel guilty about your own birth? I do.

But. Tomorrow. Thursday. September 9. It’s my birthday. Broken tailbones or not. I’m definitely starting to reach that point at which I shrug off birthdays. Just another day! Except I want it to be more than another day. Just a little bit. Maybe not worth a whole to-do, but maybe a bit of one. Guess I better get to work on that.

It’s been quite a year. And I’m trying to figure out my place and settle within it. To find my mooring. And a lot of times I feel like that involves quite a bit of dissembling: “of course everything is fine!” And it is. Truly. But sometimes I feel like I am collapsing in on myself like a dying star.

Oh and I’m a bit more dramatic. Sorry about that. Or not. Maybe I should stop apologizing for having feelings – some rather fucking complex ones.

So 44. A few fun facts about 44: Obama was the 44th President. 44 is a tribonacci number. 44 is the country code for the UK. It’s also the number of candles in a Hanukkah box of candles. The .44 magnum. And according to Wikipedia, 44 is both a palindromic number and a happy number. I have no idea what that means, but it makes me smile.

Inhale. Exhale. I’ve told a few people that I feel like a raw, exposed nerve lately. And I do. And it is weird when things hit and make me cry. Like tonight. Why am I crying? It’s just a birthday and not even a milestone one. I think, that as Virginia Woolf put it in To a Lighthouse, it comes back to “time passes.” 44. No spring chicken. I could see the thestrals at Hogwarts very likely. And…44. It sounds old-ish. Several hundred years ago, I’d have been preparing to retire to a nunnery, because what other use could a woman of that advanced age have?? Though I suspect I’d raise some hell in a nunnery.

As Prufrock says:

“I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

But. But. Though I toy with melancholia, I have good spirits. It’s just another year around the sun. I am very fortunate to have Daniel, the kitties, friends old and new, and a job I love. I have a lot going for me (looks around frantically for something on which to knock on wood).

It will be OK. My birthday will be a good day regardless of what may come.

It’s just a day. But it is my day. Happy Birthday to me.

Bittersweet: More Sweet than Bitter, Bitter than Sweet

It’s a cliche that every author of a semi-abandoned blog returns, apologizes for the absence and expresses a desire to dust it off and resume writing. Well, I am nothing if not a cliche.

I thought about blogging in March 2020 when we started quarantine. I thought about blogging a few months later about how much I hated wiping off the items from the grocery store and how my nails would never be the same thanks to Clorox. I thought about blogging the first time I left my house (July 2020) since March. I thought about blogging about how small my house felt with Daniel home and “attending” (read: not) virtual school, my husband on medical leave, the arguments and the three cats that draped themselves in front of me and on chairs while I worked. I know I had a few interesting Zoom meetings when one of them did something gravity-defying in front of me and my expression was one of panic or shock. I thought about blogging about the quest to make my dining room chair as ergonomically comfortable as possible since I spent all day, every day hunched over my laptop (still do!).

I worked my ass off, literally (we’ll get to that). I know some employers complained about a loss of productivity, but I have never worked so much (and still doing so) ever. But it was good work. Meaningful work. Taking my org’s mission and trying to identify manufacturers that could make PPE and match them to state and federal opportunities. I never thought I would find myself discussing Everclear in a work call, but it happened because the alcohol proof to be effective against COVID needed to be at least Everclear levels and we had to advise the local distilleries seeking to make hand sanitizer. Bizarre. But this sort of thing is why I love my job. You never know what you will need to research.

And I had anger. Lots of anger. And resentment. My house often felt like a prison. Trapped between a surly, increasingly anxious tweenager and an anxious spouse who often butted heads because frankly, they were so much alike. They both would come vent to me, and I would offer counsel, but I also screamed, “I am working here! I am the ONLY one in this house working. Figure it out for yourselves!” I fantasized about just walking out the door and leaving. Even 43-year-olds can run away from home, right? Sartre said that hell is other people, and I raise a glass to him because at that point, truer words had never been spoken.

And then came Halloween 2020 and November 1, 2020. I was in a foul mood. Everyone had been extra…needy that week. And it takes a lot out of you when you finally shut your laptop at 5 or 6 or whatever and have to shift to your second job of “keeping the fucking household going: cooking, cleaning, feeding the cats, laundry, etc.” Bitterness, resentment and anger? I had them. Old friends by that point. Best friends. I was feeling resentful and angry because I had to get everything ready for Halloween, including the pumpkins, dinner, candy, the costume, etc. And also guilty and sympathetic because Jimmy wasn’t feeling well. My goal was to give Daniel a decent Halloween because so much of 2020 had been a shit show: couldn’t go anywhere, beach trips canceled, nothing fun. The least I could do is take him to a few houses to trick-or-treat.

We went to bed and…the next day I woke up a widow. I’m not going to go into details because they are incredibly personal and awful. Just know that I saw things I cannot unsee. Ever. It was a terrible, terrible day. And Daniel was home, so I had to shield him as much as I could.

That was almost 10 months ago. I cannot believe it has been that long already. I’ve talked to more people on the phone than I have in years. I’ve written the first checks I’ve written in decades. I’ve filled out so much paperwork. I’ve dealt with tax issues and estate planning. I found yard people! I am dealing with a plumbing issue. I’ve carved a turkey (not necessarily well but that fucker was carved). I’ve dealt with the anxiety of being the “only” parent. Daniel and I have fought and made up so many times. I know he trusts me because he feels free to be a right asshole to me. I’ve upped my meds. I’ve cried many, many times. I found a therapist of my own. I work. In fact, my team has doubled. I try really, really hard to keep it all together, but I have also learned to let myself be vulnerable and to be seen as vulnerable.

And I’ve let people in. I have zoom calls with friends from high school. I have a monthly “happy hour” zoom with a former coworker. I have Zooms and a FB group with fellow IF friends and I now consider them among my closest friends. I’ve made new, special friends. I used to have few people I texted, but now I have so many that I forget to whom I have told what. I talk and talk and talk. Jimmy used to joke that he could tell when I hadn’t talked to anyone at work because I would come home and talk nonstop. I lost a lot, but I feel like I found a lot. I have been doing a lot of thinking and reflecting. Some days are unbearably lonely. Other days, I want Daniel and the cats to leave me alone after a day full of Zoom meetings. But these connections mean a lot to me. I’ve always felt chronically lonely and that was probably of my own making, but being able to talk to these people – realizing that they care – that they find me worthy & interesting is humbling and wonderful.

We have had a good summer. Several trips to the beach. Lots of freckles (me); whatever his heart desires (Daniel). I’m probably spoiling him a bit, but I’m OK with that. And I lost 40+ pounds since January 2020 (see “literally working my ass off”). Was not intentional. It turns out I am not a stress eater, and anxiety renders me incapable of eating. It’s a weird place to be. I’ve cooked less than I anticipated, but that’s OK. “Getting By” is the goal. Is Daniel fed? Are the cats fed? Have I eaten something? Then it’s all good.

So why tonight? Why resurrect the ol’ blog tonight? Well, I’m a sucker for milestones, and Daniel starts school – in person – on Monday. We are both looking forward to it. I’m not sure I can adequately explain it, but the last 18 months seem so surreal. Almost dream-like (or nightmare-like – pick your poison). Nothing seemed real. I’ve been working in a tank top and lounge pants. My beauty ritual has been whittled to 5 minutes. I joke I’m feral but it’s not really a joke. No, really. So resuming in-person school seems like a nice coda. Maybe now we can start to re-establish routines. Better bedtimes. I don’t want to put too much pressure on us, but I have some optimism about this. The world is still on fire (literally in several cases) and the Delta variant is causing trouble. Also, the first day and week of school have threats of protests by local groups who believe a piece of cloth is the worst affront to their rights they have ever seen 🙄 Overall, though, it feels like a whisper, a hint of normalcy.

I hope to revisit this space more. I NEED an outlet. And every day is not perfect nor do I expect it to be. But I am learning and growing as painful and wonderful as that can be. I leave with this quote from Keats:

Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Infertility Never Goes Away

When I read infertility articles, I goggle a bit because these are current POVs & experiences whereas mine are both technically current (endo & congenital issues don’t disappear) and in the past because we know our issues and with an almost 10-year-old, we have made peace with our family.

But yeah. Infertility never goes away- at least to me.  This article came to my attention this week and while the particulars are different, everything else is sooooo familiar.

I’m 41- almost 42 – years old and I suspect I will always find articles like this to be familiar. It’s a sisterhood, a club, without formal admission requirements or meetings (or even desire to join). Just pain. It isn’t omnipresent like is was before D was born but it is still there, lingering. I almost wrote “hiding”, but that isn’t true. I don’t want to hide this pain. That does a disservice to the experience.

I have a child, yet I still hurt. I will always hurt even if it is compartmentalized.

Is there a flag for “Infertility is Forever!”? Ha.

So, i’m trying to publish this from my phone, so things aren’t working 100%. This is the article I referenced: Infertility article

NYE 2018

It’s cliche at my age to talk about how fast time goes by and how it seems to go by faster and faster each year.  But damn it, it’s true. Here we are – somehow – on the final day of the year again.

Not a superb year, but not a terrible year either. Probably a normal year with normal ups and downs: car died; new car! Dryer died; new dryer.  Days off of school for hurricanes in the Fall (while we got off lightly, the eastern part of the state was devastated) and then a day off for an unusual snowstorm in December.  Two trips to the beach. A trip to Asheville and the Biltmore House for the second time, fast becoming an annual tradition for our family (along with a heated indoor pool and a continental breakfast). A good end to 3rd grade and a good start to 4th grade for Daniel.  The unexpected death of an aunt. Increasingly creaky bones and quickly greying hair.  My first salon highlights.  Work frustrations (always) but trips to DC to participate in Hill Day and to Kansas City to present at a conference as well as representing us at other meetings showed me I was becoming a trusted member of the team.  Extended family health issues and controversies. Family relationships and friendships renewed.

A normal year.

I’m not sorry to see 2018 go, though.  This year has felt taut and out of control as the news raged around us, and we cringed at each “Breaking News” alert (“the center will not hold” and all that). But I’ve also never been more in tune with the world around us.

I read the fewest books this year that I’ve ever read: only 16. I read a LOT of fan fiction (another whole post could be devoted to that) because it was a much-needed antidote to the world around us. I also read (and recommended) tons of articles. Surely that mitigates somewhat the lack of reading actual books? Despite the stack of unread books on my nightstand?

We’ve watched some good movies and good series. Things that make us laugh and provide escapism (although Avengers: Infinity Wars left us devastated even though we know it is only part 1).  Some dramas seem too real these days, and I found myself turning away from even my go-to Law & Order: SVU reruns in favor of something else.

We sent no Christmas cards this year. I had every intention of doing so, but we just couldn’t make it happen. We didn’t have the large in-law family Christmas on the 27th this year for the first time in…decades? But we all breathed a sigh of relief, and our small lunch on Christmas was just right. I didn’t even bake cookies for the holidays, instead buying scrumptious cookies from a neighbor.

Sometimes I wonder if we have given up and are letting go too much, but sometimes it’s also nice to have quiet holidays. You have to recharge your batteries, right?

Daniel was happy, and that was what mattered.  Also, 9-year-olds are moody beasts.

I don’t think I’ll make any resolutions.  I have a list of things I “need” to do. What I need to do is to be more forgiving of myself and others and be more generous. More open. I think many of us could say the same thing.

Goodbye, 2018.  Welcome, 2019.  May it be good to us all.

My favorite picture of us in 2018.

 

PS: I really hope to write more here in 2019. I’ve missed it.

Parenting in a Time of Existential Dread

We held the fifth and final Listen to Your Mother:Raleigh-Durham on Friday. It was a magical evening. Great, responsive audience. Amazing pieces. Lots of emotion and laughs. It was very bittersweet. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about the final show and this final season, but I need a few more days to unpack it all.  The biggest change for this year’s shows is that there was no requirement to video them. Each city could hire a videographer if they wished, but there would be no possibility of sharing or distributing the videos. As a result, we chose not to video our show.

So here is my piece.  I know that my few posts on my blog this year have been political or a response to the situation in which the USA is in, but I can’t help it.  It took over my LTYM piece this year, and the show overall had a decidedly political tone as readers shared going to their first protest, parenting children of a different race and keeping them safe, helping children cope, etc. I was a little nervous to read the piece and was afraid I would be heckled, even in fairly blue Raleigh.

I guess this is our reality now.  So, here is my final LTYM piece: “Parenting in a Time of Existential Dread.”

***

I’m sitting at my laptop, trying to write my piece for the show. I had planned to write about being a working mom. Well, a working-outside-the-house mom, because as mothers, we all work and work damn hard.

The problem is that I can’t focus on writing about the difficulties of registering for summer camp, and my experience of being a working mom seems trivial.

Because the world is fucked up right now. Do you feel it?  I do. It is the anxiety that gnaws at my gut every day. It is the existential dread when I wake up in the morning and wonder what has happened over night, what tweets have been sent. What new revelations have come to light.

And it bleeds into everything. My job is in jeopardy. My organization is funded by the government to help manufacturers stay competitive, profitable and most importantly, in business. And POTUS wants to cut us.

We are in crisis mode, and I’m also trying to hire for my team. Imagine how fun it is to tell candidates, “oh, by the way, the grant you will be supporting has been targeted to be obliterated. Don’t you want to come work with us?”

Yeah, that goes over well.

And then we come home and listen to the news, dumbfounded at the amount of corruption and the horror story unfolding that is even more horrible than the horror story we thought we had already.

And my son hears all this.  He’s 7. He’s very black and white in his view of the world. You either like or hate someone. So simple. He asks us, “Do you wish someone would hurt the president?” and exclaims, “I hate him!” We have to answer those questions, address his feelings to make sure he knows that we don’t wish harm on anyone. We have to explain that it is one thing not to like a person and another to want them to come to some sort of harm.

He’s only 7, and he is already more involved in politics than I was at his age.  Before the election, a classmate told him that if Trump didn’t win, Mexicans were going to take our house from us. This is also the same classmate that terrified him by telling him that those damn clowns were all around, so yeah, I’m a big fan of hers.

On Election Day, he sighed, “I think Trump is going to win.” When he woke up the next day, I had to tell him he was right. He replied, resigned, “I knew it.” We had to have the same conversation about the Atlanta Falcons and the Super Bowl. I’m beginning to worry that he believes he can’t trust the positions his family holds because they never come true.

We listen to the news in the car, and he asked exasperatedly, “Russia! Why is it always about Russia?”

Why indeed.

These are difficult conversations to have. I can’t even have these conversations with family members who are several times his age.  How can I explain it to him?

On quiet news days, I want to exhale and think that it will all be OK.  Maybe we’re just hyper aware of everything in 2017 thanks to social media and the Internet.  On other days, I feel like that poor guy in Munch’s painting, screaming into the void.

On those days, I want to lock all the doors, grab my son and never leave.  Maybe those preppers have the right idea.

And I want to apologize to him.  What kind of world are we making for him? What is he growing up in? Will there be a world for him to grow up in?

I always dismissed the Cold War-era fatalism as quaint and something that could never happen again. We know better.  Instead, here we are again.

My son is still rather innocent. We’ve sheltered him more than we should probably. In his world, the Lego cops always catch the Lego bad guys. He has been watching Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter recently, and to him, the president, Voldemort and Sauron are the same things.

The difference is that Voldemort and Sauron are fictional characters. The good guys win.

I don’t know how to explain to him that in the real world, that doesn’t always happen.