Rox and Roll

Parents: let kids grow, part one

This is the first post in a series in follow-up to Parents: Let Harvard Go.

For quite some time now, I’ve pondered this follow-up piece to “Parents: Let Harvard Go.” As college admissions decisions roll in, now seems to be both the perfect time and a most imperfect time to offer a follow-up piece. For high school seniors who’ve applied to selective colleges and universities, what’s done is done. Application decisions will be admit, deny, or wait-list. Hopefully, kids will have some decisions to make from those results. And in the meanwhile, the cycle is starting again. A lot of high school juniors will spend their spring and summer breaks touring colleges and perhaps even interviewing. They may know their “lists” already and likely have given some thought to courses for their senior year. They, as much as the seniors, are waiting to hear this year’s admissions decisions, for this informs them of their peer context. They will take it all in, and they will respond. This series of blog posts is about supporting our kids as they prepare to embark on this next chapter in their young lives.

Though in some senses this blog is for a general audience, I direct it toward parents because that’s what I know best. Combining my significant experience as a higher and post-secondary education expert with my own parenting and leadership with youth in our community, I seek to offer some ideas that will further our conversations in home, at school, and in our communities. I don’t pretend to know everything. These are all my own opinions, cultivated from a combination of skills and experience – but most of all, I write from my heart. I care very deeply about how kids live in our community and in our world, especially teenagers – those kids from whom we seem to expect the worst while simultaneously expecting them to become the best adults once the last school bell rings. Teenagers just plain fascinate me, and I seek out opportunities to interact with them. In a perfect world, they would feel as though the world is their oyster. My own teen daughter announced last week, “I feel like I could do so many amazing things!” I hold that close to my heart and pray that she never ever loses that feeling.

Yet … I know she doesn’t always feel that way. She’s wrapping up her freshman year of high school, and there are times when her cheery nature is buried under a to-do list that I’m not sure she should even have. She sat down to plan her four years with her advisor recently, an exercise that, while necessary, troubled me a bit; there seems to be so little room for changing her mind or for pursuing passions organically. While kids need to meet requirements for graduation, they also now have to meet perceived expectations of a university system that has become so esoteric that a translator, in the form of a college counselor, is required for access. To me, this is like the work of a good poker coach: they can help you to increase your odds of a win, but they can’t predict the cards you’ll be dealt no matter how hard they try. Parents pay thousands of dollars for answers that no one can give. I mean, read this piece by an anonymous “tutor” in the New York Post for an example. In fairness, a good college counselor can help with a lot of things. But a parent cannot buy, or plan, or arrange a kid’s college admissions. It’s like I said in my last blog post on this subject: that’s all up to our kids.

So, let’s talk about this idea of our kids authoring their own life story. Let’s talk about how to grow kids who will transform from troublesome teens into responsible adults. Let’s talk about how to grow kids who actually enjoy high school. Who feel like they have options. Whose achievement of their dreams isn’t tied to a brand or a measurable outcome like a bank account but, rather, is tied everyday – including right here, right now, on this day – to how they feel about themselves and their place in this world that they are making.

I know – it’s a crazy idea, right? to expect teens to feel – gulp – good? But they’re so emo! and hormonal! and incomprehensible! I mean, being disaffected is what being a teen is!Well, for goodness sake, one would think many parents and community members were never kids at all. Teens are a whole lot of things, that’s true – they can be emotional, and difficult, and obstinate … just like their parents. And also just like their parents, they kinda just want to be happy. They actually don’t get off on their upset and stress. They crave the same things we all crave: stability. wellness. friendship. Starbucks. Let’s start by treating them like the people they are rather than like aberrations, and let’s focus on how they grow.

It’s intentional that I use term “growing” kids rather than “raising” them in part because it just feels like “growing” is a little more out of our control. After all, our kids grow in height with no intervention from us; so, too, do they grow inside with minimal intervention. We can “raise” all we want, but, at the end of the day, their growth is their own. When I was born, I came home to a large farm in rural West Virginia and spent my most formative years barefoot in that dirt, surrounded by cousins and family and a whole lot of growing things that needed the same stuff I did in order to thrive: Sunlight. Water. Good nutrition. Rest. Fruit trees are no different from vegetables or cattle -- and no different from children, really, not when it comes to the bare necessities. So let’s double-click on one of those things that all living things need, and one that is most amorphous in teenage years: rest.

How much sleep does your teen get? The Mayo Clinic suggests they need nine solid hours. Is your teen in bed by 9 pm to wake at 6 am? in bed by 10 pm to wake up at 7 am? No? Whose is?! Well .. this is a problem. Adam Strassberg, MD, a psychiatrist, recently wrote a guest piece for Palo Alto Online addressing, head-on, the question: “What can we do right now to decrease the risk of suicide in our children?” His #1 answer? Make your teen sleep.

The sad fact is that we have had far too many teen suicides in my community. And after each of these tragic, horrific, desperate acts, our community comes together in some form. We grieve. And we can’t pretend to know what happened, what factors contributed, why, why, why. So, we talk. We host forums. We propose later start-times, and block-schedules, and talk of homework reduction. We look to a whole lot of places to make change. But I don’t hear a lot of talk about tending our gardens at home – about growing our kids and our role in that as parents. I can write about “letting Harvard go” all I want to, but our kids have to be alive and well to have a shot at Harvard. Some irreplaceable children have been lost. Too many others remain unwell. The time for systemic change everywhere, perhaps especially in our homes (because that’s what we parents can, to some extent, control), is right now. We need to make our kids sleep. Beyond that, we need to help them get real rest.

What does that mean? Well, to continue the farm metaphor, sometimes fields have to go fallow in order to produce a good crop the next year. Our kids, they have no downtime – not even in summer. We have packed summer with internships, service missions, enrichment classes. In my community, I know very few kids who do paid work in the summer, but sometimes, that’s a factor, too. You know what I don’t see? Kids doing what I did during the summer: resting. Reading books. Swimming with my siblings and friends. Riding my bike to the library to get more books. Watching VHS tapes with friends during massive sleepovers. Maybe babysitting a little to earn money for more movie rentals or candy. And we were always available for these sleepovers because no one did anything. Summer meant doing nothing. But summer also meant everything to us. We all did the competitive library summer reading program because for every 5 or 10 books we read, we got a free ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. We didn’t let our brains rot. But we sure as hell weren’t inside all day every day in a lab working a 40-hour week so that we could convince a school that we’ll make great doctors. We weren’t doing math worksheets every day to keep our edge. There was a general assumption that summer was for downtime, for play. That was the stuff of our childhood, one that was not governed by what we may or may not do at age 18. In fact, we never talked about college much at all. We just … played.

So here’s the thing: at this point, a lot of parents are nodding along, maybe even fondly remembering their own childhood summers. But at some point, they’re going to shake their heads sadly, thinking “my own kids don’t have that luxury. They have to stay competitive.”

You know, when crops compete, they fail. Something chokes something out. There isn’t space for everything. Tell me: is that how we want our kid to grow? or would it feel better to make space in our gardens such that all of our living things can flourish? so that there isn’t pressure to be closest to the sun? so that the competition wanes as we encourage our kids to spend time on things they actually care about in the summer rather than on some mythical checklist for college admissions? Kids enjoy so many different things. If we give them time to choose and the space in which to do so by unscheduling them, what might happen? Why not ask your kid?

Perhaps I haven’t convinced you, and it’s true: the days of kids doing nothing are, indeed, probably gone. But we parents can force balance, and we can give our kids a vote. If we feel strongly that our kids need to “do something,” let’s counter that by giving them at least half of a summer, or half of a break, or half of a weekend. When they have no downtime – when they have no rest – they are destined to fail. And the chance of catastrophic failure from lack of rest and the potential for related depression is too damned high. I can’t promise that our kids are going to fare better or worse in college admissions if they work all summer or half or not at all because it’s one piece of a bigger puzzle. But I can share that the college applicants for whom I felt the saddest – the kids for whom making a decision greatly challenged me – were the kids who were never kids at all, who spent full summers interning even before reaching high school. Some of them enjoyed it, but, for most, the lack of passion – the idea of “I had to do this to get into your school” – shone through more than you might think. As a lowest-bar standard, there should be no kid whose vacation is less than what we can take from our own jobs. Kids need breaks in order to avoid breakdowns.

On that note, let’s circle back to sleep. Your kid has too much homework to go to sleep by 9 or 10 after sports practice and dinner. Let’s assume, say, an 8 am – 3 pm school day and sports or drama practice from 3:30 – 5:30, home by 6, dinner, homework started by 7. Yep – 2-3 hours doesn’t seem like enough time, does it? So what’s your strategy going to be? Shut off the internet router at 10 pm? (I’ve done it!) Just put up with it? This is where the conversation needs to head. Schools have implemented hosts of solutions. Later starts. Reduced homework. (Howard Gardner thinks it’s a good idea.) Packets given out before a weekend. (This, I think, is bullshit – kids shouldn’t have weekend homework, period, because they. need. to. rest.) And yes, I hear the hoardes of parents who wrote in last time and said “my kid doesn’t want to go to bed; she wants to finish her work, else there will be consequences. She feels her own pressure to keep up with her peers.” Well, this is where you parent, by doing a few important things: sending a message to your kid that her health matters more than her grade, teaching her how to stand up for what she needs, and partnering with the school to find a better way. Note: this does not mean battling teachers, but it does mean talking with them – even in high school. I haven’t found a teacher yet who would not welcome a conversation over a parent’s concern that a kid is sacrificing sleep for their homework.

And frankly, this is where you have to rewind the clock a little, too: if your kid feels like staying up all night to achieve an outcome (usually finished, A-grade work) because she thinks doing so assures her success, defined as admission to a great college – well, who set her up with that idea? what gets lost in that mess, especially given admissions statistics these days? She will compete with her peers no matter what you do, but if the tone in your home is one of “do your best” – not “be the best,” not “we only accept straight-As,” not “why’d you get that C” – then yours is the voice she will hear. Her friends will change many times in high school; you are her only parents. She knows you love her and are there to stay. She will hear your voice the loudest if it is one of unconditional support for her to become a healthy human being and if she knows that is tied to absolutely no expectations of academic performance at all.

Let me emphasize that last point the most: If you haven’t had that conversation with your kid, you really need to have it. I heard from an unbelievable number of our own local teenagers that the gift my “Parents: Let Harvard Go” post gave to their families was a vehicle for that very conversation. Dozens of children said to me “I’d never heard from my parents that I don’t need to be perfect” and “they said they just want me to be happy, and I’d never heard that before.” We can blame our schools and homework and peer pressure all we want to for the state of teen mental health, parents, but we need to look in the mirror, too. If we’re not telling our kids that we love them as they are, that we want the best for them but that “the best” isn’t defined by an outcome on a test, well, we’ve failed. We can do better. We must do better. This doesn’t mean that we give them a free-pass to blow off all of their schoolwork, but this does meant that we need to think about our approach to those moments when they will falter. That response can’t be “you screwed up.” It can be “let’s look at this together and see if we can make some corrections and learn from them.” It means that we need to be gentle with each other. Isn’t gentleness pretty much always the best path in life, anyway?

So if do all of this, if we reexamine our priorities and want our kids to grow healthfully, and we prioritize rest (some downtime, not expecting kids to work year-round) and sleep (not expecting kids to sacrifice it for grades or for anything else), and we tell our kids that they’re good enough … well, then, how do we get our kids into college?

That was a trick question. We still don’t get our kids into college, parents. They have to do that themselves. And some ideas for that will be forthcoming in the next post.

Double-Digit Dash

Note: There is a follow-up post to "Parents: Let Harvard Go" in the works. It will be published sometime this month. To the many people from around the world who commented, e-mailed, direct messaged, or reached out in some way, I want to say "thank you" for keeping the conversation about college admissions and teen well-being going. There is much more to say on this subject matter, so let's have another round of conversation soon. But first things first: my kids are my top priority, and I write birthday posts for them each year. Here's one for my second born, Dash, on this, his tenth birthday.

Dear Dash,

Today, you turn ten years old. As I looked in on you after you fell asleep last night, I marveled at your very existence in the very same way I did when you turned ten minutes old. You are such a force of nature that I cherish these stolen moments when I get to see you still. They remain rare, for you remain a two-speed machine: going and sleeping. In that way, not much has changed over the past ten years!

In searching for the words to pay tribute to you today, I thought about all of the things I wish for you as you approach adolescence (God help us all) and manhood. Here's what I came up with:

I wish for you to grow to be as strong, inside and out, as you can be, but I also want you to know that you don't always have to be strong. I already see you fighting back tears sometimes. Let them flow. It's okay for men to cry, and to be scared, and to show it. We are all vulnerable sometimes. Don't put up a front.

I hope that you're always brave, too, trying new things with zeal and taking (calculated) risks. Know, too, that when you're not feeling brave, that's okay. Always listen to yourself, and know your limits. We *all* have limits. Superheroes who don't have any are the stuff of fiction. You are brave enough however brave you are.

May your curious, encyclopedic mind always be filled with stuff about which you are passionate. This year, it's everything about every car ever. No matter how much schoolwork gets lumped on as you grow, I hope that you always have time to explore your interests through reading. Always, always, always learn what you want to learn in addition to what you have to learn.

I'd love to see you keep making things, too, whether it's our scientific experiments in baking, lego model "art cars," experimental shade structures, or anything else you dream up. It's a real skill to create and something for which too few of us make time. It'll be fun to see how you choose to feed this hobby as more things, like robotics clubs and coding classes, come available to you with age. Love what you do, Dash, now and forever.

Lastly, and most importantly, it is such a thrill to watch you love, most especially your big sister, but also me, and your dad, and our extended family, and the little bird we rescued last week, and so many living, breathing things that I lose count. You have this big, huge heart in this little-but-growing body, and it's always a worry of mine that the world will try to keep your emotion in check because you're male. Of all the emotions never to check, it's that one: love. Mama's very favorite quote is from Kurt Vonnegut, a great writer: "Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place." I hope that you always live and love like that, Dash: softly, and believing the world to be as beautiful as you do right now.

Your giggle is infectious. Your eyes, they always twinkle. I really could not have conjured up a sweeter, smarter, funnier son. You're just right. And now, you're ten. I can't wait to see what the next year brings. Just keep on being you, Dash. You're an amazing human being, and I love you to the moon and back.

xo Mama

 

Parents: let Harvard go

As a former admissions officer for two "elite" schools -- one Ivy and one West Coast Ivy-equivalent -- I am in a unique position to offer some insights for parents that may be of help in raising healthful teens. Exasperated as much by the reaction to a couple of recent teen suicides as I am to the acts themselves, I offer my views here not because I'm an expert in suicide-prevention: I'm not. I offer this post because we're all looking for some way to help our community's kids. My Facebook feed upsets me when people surmise that these suicides happened because of mental illness, or tiger parents, or school stress, or, or, or ... because we just. don't. know. I don't think any family from the last suicide cluster came forward with a definitive reason, and I doubt anyone did now. We don't know what drove these kids to take their lives -- but we do know what's hurting our kids now. In fact, this local teen, Martha Cabot, sums it up pretty well: "Parents, calm down."

 

I want to tell every parent reading this post that you need to assume, right now, that your child is not getting into Harvard no matter what he or she does. (And no, he's not getting into Stanford either, or Yale, or Dartmouth, or MIT. Probably not UC Berkeley either. No, I'm not kidding.) Your kid isn't getting into the college you think he is.

What? So-and-so's child is at Princeton right now? and got what on his SATs? and did those activities? Hmmm. Interesting. Sure, you can prove me wrong with some examples. And I can prove myself right with a hundred more. Stanford's rate of admission was below 5% last year. Do the math.

In the spirit of "I want to do something," I offer below some Q & A that I hope y'all read and take to heart. These are real questions asked by real parents of real kids I know within the past year. I didn't answer these questions at the time exactly like I did below, but I answer them here and now based on a combination of my expertise in admissions (noting that nothing I say here should be construed as official advice or information given on behalf of any school) as well as my experience as a community leader and parent.

And be forewarned: I'm going to be a bit of a wise-ass, 'cause we all need to calm down like Martha says, which also means "lighten up" in my book.

But also, I promise a reward at the end: questions that I wish people would ask me instead. And I think -- I hope -- it's some valuable stuff.

Q - freshman parent: "My child is taking honors math. Homework is three hours per night. If I ask for her to be pulled out of honors math, am I killing her chances of going to Stanford someday?

A - if your 9th grader has three hours of homework in one night for one subject, I call that a problem. This isn't a college admissions question; it's a question of time management. Your kid has, what, five, six academic subjects? Last I checked, there aren't 18 hours/night to do homework. Call the teacher. Call the school. Call me crazy, but don't put your kid in classes like that. Three hours of homework total in one night is a lot. WTH?

Q - sophomore parent: "My son is getting a B in English. What can I do to salvage the situation so that he still has a shot at the Ivies? Would it help to send him on something like an exotic summer service trip? Does that kind of stuff offset the grade?"

A - I note you asked how you can salvage the situation. You can't. Do you know why? You're not the student. Let me repeat that: You're. Not. The. Student. It's not your job. Your kid's grade is your kid's job, and, if it needs to be "salvaged," your kid has to do it. As for sending your kid to Timbuktu to milk one-eyed yaks for orphan food, Imma just roll my eyes at that and salvage myself from answering.

Q - junior parent - "So how much do grades matter? Do kids with Bs still get into the Ivies?"

A - grades matter. And kids with Bs still get into the Ivies. But your kid probably won't, because have you seen admissions statistics? They're dire. Let's keep it real.

Q - senior parent - "My kid is applying to 19 colleges."

A - okay, that wasn't even a question, but excuse me while I go scream into a pillow and maybe vomit.

Q - junior parent - "I had to sign a form to let my son take more than the recommended number of APs, but I had to do it because he needs to stay competitive."

A - that also wasn't a question, that was an excuse. Limits exist for a reason. And let's be honest here "he needs to stay competitive" is English for "I'm competing with every other parent because if my kid gets into Harvard I Win." If you're bragging about how hard your kid is working, preface it by saying "I'm making my child suffer on purpose." Let's all be honest here.

Q - freshman parent - "How many APs does a kid need to take to get into Yale? I mean, he could end up with 12 or 15 depending, but I'm hearing some kids have 22. What's a good target number?"

A - a good target number is zero, because your kid isn't getting into Yale. Seriously, did you not get this memo yet?

Q - I don't think I put pressure on my kid! Do you think I am?

A - Well, you do wear that Harvard sweatshirt around a lot, and your house is flying the Harvard flag (literally). You might want to think about toning it down so that you don't have to full-scale remodel when your child doesn't get in.

Okay, enough of the joking around; my point is made. (And I am not joking: those are questions that I am asked on a pretty routine basis.)

Here is what I wish parents would ask:

Q - how much sleep does my teen need each night?

A - at minimum, teens need nine hours per night of sleep for optimal health. (I'm not a sleep expert either, but I trust the Mayo Clinic.)

Q - so how much homework does that leave time for?

A - if school lets out at 3, and your kid needs to get up at 7 am, let's see ... that means he needs to go to bed at 10 pm, so that leaves 7 hours to do a sport or other after school activity, eat dinner, hopefully hang out a little, and do homework.

Q - my kid has more homework than 7 hours' worth, so what do I do?

A - act up. Call teachers. Bug the school. And if all of that fails, send your kid to bed anyway, and tell him you'll love him even when his teacher marks him down for unfinished work. You may be surprised what happens when you call a teacher and say "my son worked on this for two hours and still couldn't finish, so I sent him to bed." Oftentimes, it's a reality check the teacher needs and welcomes.

Q - my kid won't go to bed at 10 even if his homework is finished. That's too early.

A - take away all of his electronics at 9:55 p.m. and charge them in your bedroom. Disallow screen time; remember, you set the rules of your house. If you say to go to bed at 10, your kid had better go to bed at 10. You're the boss. This is no different from when they're 2 and you're forcing a nap; your child needs rest, and if they learn while still in high school how to take care of themselves with proper sleeping habits, they'll be more successful when they do go away to school.

Q - everyone is signing forms to allow their kids to take more APs than are allowed. What do I do?

A - don't sign the form. See above. You're the boss. And while I'd like to assure you that taking two fewer APs isn't going to make an admissions difference, I can't do that. With so many schools having wee little admissions rates, nobody can. It's kind of a crap shoot. But kids taking beyond the recommended amount of APs doesn't end well. They have too much work, get too little sleep, and usually still don't get into Ivies. So it's still not worth it.

Q - where should my kid go to college if he's interested in X?

A - this varies, but I do wish that people would approach me to engage in meaningful discussion over college selection. Once, I appalled a parent who said her daughter is interested in sports journalism by suggesting U Florida, which remains highly regarded in that field. "A state school?" the mom repeated in utter shock. Let's all be open-minded here. There are a lot of colleges. And some of the best schools in subjects in which your kid's interested may not be Ivies. Keep open minds and create a list with a range of possibilities and options -- all of which your kid would love to attend if admitted.

Q - how much do grades and scores matter?

A - they matter, of course they do. But they're not all that matter. Schools could fill with perfect SAT scores and perfect grades, but they don't. If you want to see how your child measures up to any school, schools often publish ranges of scores and grades accepted.

Q - how do I motivate my child to get straight A's? (I wish, actually, the question was: how do I set reasonable academic expectations for my child?)

A - you don't. Encourage your child to do his or her best work. Check in often to feel out how much and how well they're learning. Offer support if your child is struggling. And when your child gets a B, C, or D -- or even if he fails -- don't overreact. Review mistakes. Ask the child to fix them, even if it's not for credit. Ask how he feels about his performance and what he might do differently next time. Never express disappointment, but it's okay to encourage improvement. There's a line, and you know it. Expecting A's is pressure. Expecting learning is awesome.

Q - my kid has perfect grades and scores. Doesn't that guarantee admission?

A - nope. Unfortunately, perfection is not so rare these days, especially in competitive school districts where GPAs exceed 4.0 because of APs or IBs. In truth, I'm pretty sure Harvard could fill with students with perfect SATs and 4.0s. It doesn't. Your kid being academically strong certainly matters, but numbers aren't all that matters. Perfection isn't a worthy aim, and it doesn't guarantee anything.

Q - I attended an Ivy. Doesn't this mean my kid is more likely to get in? Why shouldn't I hope for the same as I had for my kid?

A - it's a different world. Admissions statistics when you attended were more favorable to admission, and it was easier to get in without being perfect and absent a resume of accomplishments. There are plenty of practically perfect in every way "legacy" kids getting rejected from every Ivy. I hold an Ivy League graduate degree (my undergraduate degree is not), and what I tell my kids is that if they really want to attend an Ivy, there's always graduate school.

But there's another problem with this question: "shouldn't I hope for the same as I had for my kid?" Nope. You shouldn't hope for your kid to live your life. You shouldn't assume that because you went to Harvard, your kid has to measure up to that standard. Some of the most successful people I know here in Silicon Valley didn't go to Harvard, didn't go to college "on-time" even, or even didn't finish or didn't go. If you are a success who attended Harvard, Harvard doesn't get credit for your success. You do. Making the point to your child that you're a success because you love what you do and are knowledgeable in your field is more valuable than a credential from your school. (And if you don't love what you do ... are you really setting a good example for your child? does that have anything to do with your alma mater?)

Q - so many schools aren't accessible, including the UCs, even for kids who seem to have a good profile. What do I do to make sure that my kid gets in somewhere?

A - you don't do anything. Your kid needs to work with her school's college counselors to compile a realistic list of colleges to which to apply -- as well as other options. Sure, they can reach for some unlikely goals (e.g., Harvard); but there should be some on the list that are more sure bets than not (non-UC/other state schools, for example). Don't call these "safety schools." Your kid should be happy to attend any college on the list and should have compiled the list with their interests in mind: large or small? urban or rural? specific programs? And encouraging exploration of gap years, national service programs, etc. is a good idea too. Telling them that they don't need to go to college immediately (that you are flexible in the timing) helps to offset college rejections better than anything. They need to know this isn't a one-shot deal.

Q - what should my kid to do have the best shot at admission to a good school?

A - he should engage with his learning, do some things outside of school that he enjoys, and write an application that reflects who he is as a person, honestly (what he wants to say -- not what he thinks admissions officers want to hear). There is no cheat-sheet checklist of things that, if your kid does them, will garner admission assuredly. There are kids at Harvard who've done it all and kids who've done a lot less but are just kinda awesome kids. There's no secret sauce other than what's already in your kid.

Q - I didn't take your advice, and my kid still got into Berkeley. Are you often proven wrong?

A - sometimes, and happily so. Congratulations! Of course some kids still get into great schools. I'd be congratulating your kid just as much if she was about to begin attending Foothill Community College, though, or taking a gap year. Still -- your child certainly worked hard for that or for any college admission, and that deserves a big "hurrah!"

Q - how do I take pressure off of my kid?

A - don't tell them from the day they're born that Harvard is the best school, because, when he doesn't get into Harvard, he'll think he failed. Tell them all along that the best plan for them is the one that feels good -- maybe a gap year, maybe even working for a few years before college, as it's widely known that the best age to attend college is 26. If they do plan to go straight through school, encourage a good fit: an environment in which they want to live and learn for four years (or more -- college doesn't have to be completed in four years). Tell them that there are lots of options. And don't pin your own hopes and dreams to them. It's not your life, it's your kid's life -- and make sure she knows that you're proud of her no matter what.

If you want your child to be successful -- we all do! -- define success without attaching it to an outcome. Success doesn't mean that your child gets certain grades, scores, or college admissions. There is no "result" that guarantees success, or even happiness for that matter. For me, success is my kids thriving in a learning environment, being challenged but not made miserable, and making choices that help them to achieve their goals. But most of all, success is their self-motivation and self-acccountability absent my pressure. That carries over to the work force more than any grades ever will.

We can't tell our kids enough that we love them just as they are, and that we don't expect perfection. In fact, we don't even expect anything close. We need to tell them that when they screw up, we're there without judgement and with nothing but loving guidance and acceptance. We need to tell them that our expectation is for them to live fulfilling lives and that there is no achievement objective correlated with that. We need to tell them that we care that they're learning, and that grades don't matter as much as their engagement with the subject matter and how they feel about their performance. We need to accept that sometimes them doing their best is, actually, getting a C. We need to stop overbooking them for afterschool activities. We need to lower our expectations for academic performance. We need to make them sleep. We need to let them be children. We need to stop competing through them.

We need to hold our kids tightly, tell them we accept them as-is, will love them whatever happens in their lives, and then, collectively...

we need to let Harvard go.

***

Post-publication note: This posts seems to have reached a lot of people who have a lot of strong reactions to it. I think the comment that reached me most on another person's Facebook page is one from a parent who thinks I am encouraging mediocrity. The snarky part of me wants to tell the dude he's right, that I tell my kids "aim low." But the truth is, this post is far from encouraging mediocrity or "settling" for anything less than a child can feel good about achieving. As a Palo Alto parent, I am tired of our culture of 'achievement' as defined by grades, scores, college admissions, and the like. And I am unapologetic about that. I have worked with our community's teens as a coach, as a youth minister, as a mentor, and as a parent, and I encourage every kid to be their best self. That means being proud of their work, whether in the classroom, on the playing field, and/or in the world. Do I think they need to engage in competition for one of those 15 slots at Stanford (there is no fixed number, and I wouldn't know it if there were) by trying to outwit, outplay, and outlast (to borrow "Survivor" lingo)? Nope. And beyond that, there are going to be times when our kids just don't want to work hard because they're kids and continue to push boundaries. They're going to blow off studying for a test. They're going to fail something. Good. That's right -- I said good. Their mistakes teach them that actions have consequences and that their effort ties to their outcomes. We can't give them that with carrots or with sticks. They'll figure it out. They want to do well -- as they define it. (They know what's up with college admissions without us even getting involved, parents.) And the more they figure out for themselves, with no message from us other than "we take you as you are and want you to be healthy and fulfilled," the healthier our kids are going to be. I want nothing but the best for our village's kids -- for any kids-- and I stuck my neck out there with the post because I refuse to define the "best" as it has been anymore. The best for our kids is no more of them self-harming in any way, and I feel like we can alleviate some of that by changing our tone.

Thanks for reading this and for your engagement over what really isn't about college admissions but, rather, about our kids' health.

14

The most important writing I do is that which commemorates my kids' birthdays. It gives me a chance as a mother to look back on their growth, to celebrate who they are becoming as people, and to record their personal history, and it reaches more deeply than what appears on the screen. This annual "write" of passage gives me a chance to reach into my heart, to feel the passing of another year, and to honor all of the feelings that those memories conjure up. It's meditative, wonderful, hard, and joyous all at once.

This year, all of those feelings are intensified as Petunia celebrates her 14th birthday out of my home and at her new boarding school on the opposite coast. I am writing this post on the eve of her birthday, so I'll wake up in the morning on which I'd normally have gotten up early, likely to make homemade chocolate croissants, and go into an empty room. I will do that, because I want to be with her for a bit in the morning, and some of her is still in that room -- the room in which she spent hours playing guitar, texting her friends, reading books, and doing all of the other stuff of childhood.

And, as I sit there, I'll smile and think of all of the new experiences she's having: living on her own, in a dorm with a roommate. Learning to sail. Accidentally falling into the ocean while wearing waders during marine biology class. Preparing for her first open mike night. Auditioning for an a cappella group. Making a gazillion new friends. And so, so much more -- more than I could know. 

And that's where I'll take a moment to let a few tears fall, too. There's a lot that I won't know, now. She has left my nest, and she'll be gone more than she'll ever be here. I miss her sweet face every day, especially her smile and her laugh. I even miss the difficult times, because at least I was here to put my arms around her and remind her that I love her and that everything will be okay. I have to hope that I gave her enough support and love, and continue to from afar, such that not a moment passes when she doesn't carry with her the knowledge that she is not alone, no matter how far she roams from home.

This is the moment, really, when we see the outcomes of our parenting: when we've sent them out into the world to use the toolkit we've helped them to build -- everything from saying "please," "thank you," and "excuse me" to how to be a good friend, from matters of personal hygiene to believing in the values of good nutrition and adequate sleep, and so much more.

Petunia still gives me her meal reports, noting that she's drinking milk and adding fruit and veggies to her meals. She shares that she's making good friends and learning to navigate sleep issues, including with a roommate-friend who prefers to wake up far earlier than she. She lets me know what she's doing for schoolwork and how she's faring with various quizzes and projects. And by all accounts, she is using her toolkit wisely.

But the best part is seeing what she is becoming beyond the bricks and mortar that we built together. For example, she recently posted a Facebook "rant" of sorts about a speech heard during her school meeting, one in which teachers suggested that students who dance inappropriately (...whatever that means...) are lacking in self-respect. Petunia disagreed, politely (on Facebook, not mid-meeting). In her words, "Dancing is dancing is dancing, and it's not right to put anyone down and say that they don't have self respect if they're shaking their booty." Her friends didn't agree with her, but she didn't back down. She is learning to have conversations with those with differing opinions and to stand her ground. She is learning that it is okay to have her own opinion and to stand by it -- and the beauty of it is that she has the self-confidence not to follow groupthink blindly. Not everyone has that at 14; I know I didn't. Petunia always has known who she is and what she stands for, and she doesn't let the crowd sway her. Noting that the dancing thing (and inherent judgement therein) might be a NorCal-New England difference, she might be able to encourage some mind-opening on the Right Coast by her thought leadership on what may be incorrect assumptions about what dancing a certain way means.

And that's where I leave Petunia's 13th year: in awe of her leadership. She never has followed the crowd. She never has been afraid to stand alone. And when she does so, oftentimes, others listen. She has it in her to lead and to teach by example. No one had to tell this child to Lean In; she's already leaning -- at present, on a sailboat that she captains, to get it to turn somewhere in Buzzards Bay, both literally and figuratively.

She'll rock 14 just like she rocked 13, 12, and so on. Her path hasn't been smooth, and yet, her strength grows with each step. Leaving home has turned her into more of an amazingly strong young woman than she was before she left. And when I see her in a few weeks, she'll undoubtedly stand yet taller (also literally -- she passed me in height a few months ago -- and figuratively). I can't wait to see what he becomes when she grows up -- but, also, I am in no rush. I'll savor these moments of her becoming who she is: a beautiful woman full of love, thirst for adventure, friendship, more empathy than anyone I've ever met, and laughter that warms the heart of any who hear it.

All-A-Taut-O, Petunia, as you enter your 14th year. Your ship is fully rigged, and everything is in place. It's been another thrilling year of watching you navigate, and I can't wait to see where you go from here.

Love, Mama xo

Nine Words

On Good Friday, I started writing a very dark blog post. How fitting that on the day we Christians mark crucifixion, I felt that I’d hit rock bottom and wanted to cry to the world “Eli Eli, lama sabacthani” – “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Those nine words resonated so strongly with me as Holy Week unfolded. Nothing has been going right. Instability has become my middle name. Uncertainty lingers around each corner. Among an expiring lease, the very nature of my limited work by contract, “temporary” divorce support orders that pay bills but don’t give a sense for long-term financial planning, a tax bill bigger than any income I’ve ever made for reasons that I can’t even begin to understand, an unfulfilling job search after 13 years “at home,” and hoards of other matters, well, suffice it to say, I feel like I did while driving a Vermont backroad during “mud season” last week: everything is slipping, and so little is in my control – and one wrong turn, and I’m sunk. I started contemplating what utter defeat looks like and why, oh why, I can’t find a lifeline. So about this “forsaken” business that Christ yelled from the cross? Well, yeah, I totally get it, maybe for the first time ever at such a visceral level. What good, I wondered, is living a positive life when you can end up in a negative space anyway, mired in mud with no clear way back onto steady ground?

An answer came to me today in the message that is Easter. Even for those who do not share my faith, the story of death and rebirth – of renewal and of the hope borne from that – transcends faith. There’s something magical about the idea that one day, one can be out of options and completely screwed, as forsaken as can be – and then, mere days later, realize that there is, actually, more to the story. Perhaps what matters is not our suffering, but, rather, what we do with it. It’s choosing to stay on that hard, muddy path to reach our destination. It’s in the confidence that salvation is not a myth but is tangible. It's knowing that the path to get there involves those things that a good partnership involves: love and trust and acceptance, most especially of imperfections. In my case, I have always viewed those things as so very important when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Until today, I had thought little about applying them to me.

It's true that I’m not at all where I want to be -- yet. I could have made a host of different choices than might have yielded different results. I allowed my self-esteem to erode a bit too much when I didn’t get an interview for the 300^th job to which I applied (and, unfortunately, that is no exaggeration). I don’t trust my plan B (or C, or D, or the many I always have after that), because I haven’t trusted myself much at all.  At some point, I stopped believing that I was able to make good choices – and, on some level, I actually stopped making them. I’ve been upset with myself on so many levels that, of course, I’ve felt forsaken -- because I forsook myself.

I’m still nowhere near out of the mud, and I still have no answer for how to navigate the road ahead. It’s going to be messy, and it’s going to be hard, and the choices and compromises that I have to make are going to be less than ideal. That said, I feel better equipped to do it today when I admit that I don’t know what I’m doing – that I’m flawed, and that I’m going to make more mistakes, though I’m as committed to learning from them as ever. Trusting my ability to do my very best by my living, working, mothering, and moving-on circumstances has to be good enough for now. That, perhaps, is the very essence of faith. I have it in something bigger than me, but it's misplaced if I don't have it in me, too.

After this holiday season, my “nine words” are no longer “my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” They are, instead, “Move forward with love, trust, acceptance, courage, and hope.” It's a Resurrection indeed, not only of the God in whom I believe, but also of a strength of spirit that I'd lost for a bit. There is so much to celebrate in that. Happy Easter, everyone.

For the love of the farmers' market

Food has been on my mind a lot lately for hosts of reasons. As most moms do, I'm constantly seeking novel, healthy ways to feed my brood. As well, I'm entering a "training" phase of my life; while I've always been a fan of mountain biking, I'm starting to swim laps again, and I've started learning how to run as well. Fueling my body well and healthfully for this level of exercise is important to me. And while I'm comfortable with my weight, give or take that ubiquitous ten pounds, I'd like to tone up while swimsuit season approaches. Recently, I've watched some friends employ various tactics to their own weight and health management: low carb, veggies-only 5 days/week, walking 10K steps/day, setting goals of races and climbs, boot camps, yoga retreats, and more. At the end of the day, every person has to find out what works for him/her or for their family, and I know that three things work for me: committing to at least an hour of exercise/day no matter what, preparing healthy ingredients before the week starts to facilitate to healthy eating all week, and employing an "everything in moderation" approach. Since this works well for my family, I thought I'd share what this looks like for ours.

Today's farmers' market haul, pictured clockwise from the carrots: kale blossoms, cauliflower, Italian flatleaf parsley, spaghetti squash, zucchini, celery, assorted sweet peppers, squash blossoms, padron peppers.

My week starts at the Sunday farmers' market, which, glory be, just greatly expanded in size. We can buy absolutely everything we need at this huge market, not just produce-wise but meat, dairy, and much more. As many do, I have my favorite suppliers, and they often remember me enough to know that I take cooking seriously and welcome their novel recipe ideas. Today's trip was no exception, as I ended up with kale blossoms in my basket. The farmer knows that I love dinosaur kale and am not a big fan of broccoli rabe; kale blossoms are in between. I'll be sauteing the top halves of this tonight with a tiny bit of olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice and zest to accompany our main course: sweet Italian chicken sausage, grilled, served with sweet peppers and sweet onions sauteed simply (in a Pam-sprayed pan -- I find no need for extra oil in this case, as the onions sweat so much). For the kids, the meat will be halved, sliced, and tossed with pasta; for me, it'll be over spaghetti squash, which is already roasting.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. When I get home from the market, I first devour what I've brought home for lunch -- today, it was Roli Roti roasted chicken, which I'll often buy whole and shred for the week's quesadilla filling -- and then stay on my feet to chop and chop and chop. This effort yields snacks and useful ingredients all week. A portion of my efforts is pictured below.
Petunia will munch on the fresh carrots (which taste SO much better than the bagged baby ones from the store!), and I'm a celery fiend (straight up -- I don't even need the peanut butter or cream cheese, as the crunch is so satisfying). Packing celery with a bit of water, which I change every day or two, is key to keeping it fresh and crispy all week. The zucchini and peppers will become stir fry and omelette ingredients after tonight's use of some of the peppers for our sausage dish -- and/or are just good raw snacks. (I always have mushrooms, tomatoes, prediced onion, and egg whites on hand, too, for omelettes, one of my lunch staples since that's often my restorative post-workout meal.) I used to keep the roughage from all of this chopping on-hand for our recently-deceased guinea pig (rest in peace, sweet Oreo). Now, I keep celery leaves, kale stalks, and the like on hand for soup base, especially if I have a chicken carcass on hand. (My kids are not soup fans, but I know that if I'm trying to manage weight and eat healthfully, chicken broth or especially bone broth is filling and good for me.)

As for the rest of my market basket, some special treats are in store, including early-season padron peppers; how I squealed when the farm told me they were on-hand, as they remembered my love of these from last year, and they're usually not ready for another few weeks! Padrons are among my favorite snack; 1:10 is hot (slightly), but they're usually sweet, and I kinda love the surprise of not knowing which you'll get as you pop one into your mouth. I blister them in a wee bit of oil (usually canola, but I think I'll try coconut this time for a change) and sprinkle them with saffron salt and lemon zest. I also picked up some unusually-inexpensive squash blossoms, which I'm hoping will last until the weekend (I'll be keeping a careful eye!), as I plan to stuff them with ricotta, delicately batter them (pancake batter is my secret ingredient) and fry them (a decadent indulgence, but an oh-so-yummy annual treat for me and for whomever is my lucky guest).

Of all of the annoyances of living in California -- high rent, high taxes, drought (which scares me for these farmers, actually) -- the farmers' markets are one of the main reasons I'm pretty sure I'll always live here. Don't even get me started on the cheese stalls, or my very favorite Oaxacan food stand, or the honey or olive oils or jams or yogurt or ... yeah, I've got to stop listing and start cooking dinner. Bon appetit!

 

An epiphany on lovability and brokenness

I'm not sure on which date I clicked Facebook's "like" button for Word Porn, but I can assure you that it was a happy day. Just as Earth Porn stimulates my eyes with tantalizing physical imagery from our magical world, so, too, does Word Porn arouse my brain from time to time with evocative turns of phrase. They're not all gems, but the good ones stick hard -- and today's stopped me in my tracks.  It's a brief, unattributed quote that I googled and found credited to Marc Hack, whomever that is. And it goes a little something like this:

"Let someone love you just the way you are – as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. To believe that you must hide all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that someone else is incapable of loving what is less than perfect, is to believe that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room."

My two honorary brothers and I have an ongoing debate on relating to others post-divorce, especially in a dating sense. Brother One's theory is that post-divorce, you're "broken" for a couple of years -- incapable of real connection while necessarily engaged in a process of self-rediscovery that has no room for an Other. Brother Two is a bit more partner-bent, like I am, yet the notions of healing and emotional unavailability restricting partnership also resonate with him. We're going through our life changes together, and I wouldn't trade their kinship with me for the world. Their counsel is invaluable, and I tend to heed it, even as I would get angry every time one would refer himself as "damaged" or "broken," and even as I wondered why this purgatory was necessary. I tried living "their" way. It's possible to date -- "date" -- among those conditions. And after a significant amount of time spent entirely alone, and then yet more time testing the dating waters, I wondered if they might be right. Connection didn't seem possible. Maybe I required more healing time. Maybe I needed to love myself more. Maybe I needed just to be alone.

And all of those maybes? They're right, to some extent, just as my friend is right to call himself "damaged" or even "broken." It's not an ideal place from which to attain partnership, on the face of it. There are so many questions, and there is so much instability, and don't even get me started on the fear factor: fear of the unknown, fear of missing out, fear of heartbreak, fear of being alone, fear of being with someone, fear of the "define the relationship" conversations, fear, fear, fear. I know it, because I've felt it all.

And that's where that Word Porn quote today and my life collided head-on.

I know that I have a giant heart, and I know that I can give a lot of love from it. But that's been where my "knowns" have stopped, really. Am I lovable? Can I receive love? Am I broken? Does it matter? Am I afraid (yes) and of what (kind of everything) and so ... then what ... ? Do I need to heal (yes, always, unending), and do I need to turn inside myself to do that (sometimes), and do I even know who I am (pretty much) and what I want from myself, let alone others?

I started answering those questions in my head, and they begat more questions, and they brought me to the realization of something I've been fighting for quite a long time now, perhaps for longer than I'd even like to admit: the ultimate rhetorical question, "so what?"

So what? So what if I am broken, and so what if I'm scared to death to be starting part of my life over again, and so what if I don't know everything?

That's huge, let me repeat that: so what if I don't know everything.

I'm too smart for my own good, sometimes. I like predictability and order. I like knowns -- tangibles -- and, frankly, carefree as I can be at times, I crave stability, sometimes badly. And the instant that an Other entered that equation, well, the world became less predictable. The waiting game began for who's feeling what when and what that all means ... and then I wonder why I'm afraid. That fear of "what next" -- waiting for the other shoe to drop -- has been significant for me. And I guess that's to be expected after how my life unfolded these past few years. I doubt that ever will go away fully.

What this period of internal conflict and self-questioning did for me is something Really Good and something Really Bad.

On the Really Good side, it made me look at myself, hard. (Note that I'm not talking about looking at someone else here -- just at myself.) What do I value in me? What do I need someone else to value in me? How do I want to live, internally and externally? What do I want to accomplish, personally, professionally, in a relationship, etc.? Am I healing okay? What sets me back, and what makes me feel better? I didn't have to answer all of those questions, but I had to ask them. I had to think about them. And, like my one brother surmised, that took about two years. When I realized that today, I'm not sure whether my smile or my tears were bigger -- this brother, he knows some things about Life.

On the Really Bad side, I realized something, just as I'm emerging from my purgatory in some ways more confident while at once more fragile than ever: I had stopped looking at people -- I mean, really looking at people. I have no doubt that averting my eyes, literally and metaphorically, was a two-fold self-protective measure: one, I had long ago stopped trusting what my eyes saw, for they truly had deceived me; and two, I didn't want to look because I didn't want to plug back into the world. I didn't want to connect, because God forbid someone love me again. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to receive it or even that I'd know what that feeling was. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what that feeling was. I wasn't sure that I was ready for it, much less deserved it with all of my jagged broken pieces sticking out. I was, in short, afraid.

And when we're afraid, what do we do? We close our eyes.

But over the past couple of weeks, I think I finally got tired of being afraid.

The fact of the matter is that we're all flawed, somehow. And when we go through big life changes, like divorce, it is pretty easy to see ourselves as broken in some way, perhaps even irreparably so, whether for two years or forever. But if we spend so much time wondering "what if" and "what next" and "what now" -- and if we hide from all of those big questions -- well, then we'll never be unafraid. We'll never pick up the lovable pieces from whatever broke. I don't care so much about the broken parts any more as much as I care about the mending. And that's not something that can be done without looking at the life in front of me and wondering what I want to make of it -- looking, really looking, with eyes wide open, most especially at the people who are there on the other side of that journey back to my self that was there all along.

Sitting on my deck the other night and looking out at nature, I had some big questions on my mind and no answers at hand when I had this epiphany: perhaps distilling things to their simplest form really is the way to live. Watching a doe nuzzle her mama, it struck me that loving connection really is simpler than we often make it out to be amid all of our excuses about why it may not work. In reality, if we're not here to love and be loved, even amid our brokenness, I don't know why we're here at all.

With that awakening, I feel like I just emerged into the world again, perhaps a bit weak in the knees and uncertain, but, without question, mending, loving, lovable, and determined to be unafraid, welcoming that light back into eyes that I'd like to think retained their mischievous sparkle even behind their (un)closed lids.

Nine is Just Fine

Oh, my heart. This boy. I cannot believe that this is the last year in which I'll have a single-digit child but, since it is, I plan to savor every minute of it.

Check out that little hand on mine, the last of the baby-fat knuckles soon to disappear, the scratch of a play-hard life unfolding just as it should, the ever-present mystery dirt under the fingernails that I've given up all hope of ever abolishing ... my baby's hand, my last baby's hand, my little boy, my growing boy, my son. On this, his ninth birthday, I offer him this humble tribute.

Dear Son,

You are into all things scientific right now, so let me explain to you how you funkytowned your way into this world. You were upside-down and backward -- breech -- and doctors had to do something called an external cephalic version to flip you into the correct position. You were due March 20; they performed this procedure today, March 3, your birthday. It took two doctors' four hands plus one doc's elbows to flip you over, and I'm pretty sure I sprained your dad's thumb in the process, because, Sweet Jesus, that hurt! These docs swore that they had never had an ECV fail such that a baby had to be delivered immediately -- and, to some extent, they were right. The ECV didn't fail, but your umbilical cord was wrapped around your head in such a way that they decided you had to be made to come that day, two and a half weeks early. Since your sister was two weeks overdue, I wasn't quite ready for you to be, by that calendar, like a month early. Instead of my carefully-planned routine of a packed bag and a boombox with carefully-chosen classical music -- your sister, for example, came into the world to Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique -- I put on my iPod headphones and listened to "Southern Cross" two-hundred times on repeat. Thank God for David Crosby singing you into this world, and darned if the differences in tunes don't in some way explain the differences between you and your sister!

While the docs may have successfully flipped you, and while I may have delivered you naturally at the end of a long and somewhat-scary day, attempts to keep you from coming into the world upside-down and backward did not thwart your natural tendencies to go your own way. Thank God for that. You are always up a tree or on something with wheels or moving moving moving somehow, for you have only two speeds: go, and sleep. I wouldn't have it any other way. You keep me on my toes, sometimes literally, as I reach to lift you down from atop something-or-other, knowing that part of the reason you climb so hard is that a) you have my climbing genes, and b) you know I'll be there to help you out if you're stuck. Please always keep exploring; Mama will always be there when you need a hand.

I wondered what it'd be like to have a son after having such a girlie-girl daughter. I feared it a bit; whatever would I do with a BOY? Your sister showed me. Aside from your parents, *nobody* will ever love you as much as your sister, and I'm pretty sure that nobody -- parents included -- will ever have as much patience with you, either. She not only plays with you (ok, when she feels like it, sure, she is a teenager!), but she also listens to your hundred thousand questions and engages you intellectually. Seek that from everyone around you. You are fast reaching the point where you will no longer suffer fools gladly because you are so. darned. smart. And those conversations with your sister that you've been having about stuff like nuclear energy are a prime example of what you should seek from people who will be at the heart of your life. Never stop talking with each other about the stuff about which you're passionate, and your sibling bond will be tight as duct tape.

Our bond will be that tight, too, son, especially after this year in which your larger-than-average brain has been exceeded only by your larger-than-life heart. You touch me in so many ways each day, like last week, when I was bemoaning the healthcare changes I had to make because of a doctor's office snafu, delaying a non-urgent visit and kinda souring my day. You said, "Mama, I have $57, and you can use it to go and see the doctor now if you want, and I don't even need it back." That's the kid you are -- that kid, the kid who tries to make easier the life of those around you, the kid who builds his mom Lego creations to keep on her computer desk so that you're with her while she works, the kid who keeps us all in stitches laughing because no kid ever in the history of man has ever been as funny as you, even when it's last night at dinner when you have a bag over your head in a restaurant and are bumping into everything in sight and totally out of control because of too much sugar. I rarely can correct such questionable behavior because I'm too busy laughing.

In the past year, you've made a new BFF who seems to share your raging intellect and fascination with all things scientific. You've written a book on velociraptors and have begun one on explaining chaose theory to kids, summed up by you as "life always finds a way." You still love baseball, but you've also fallen in love with sailing. Someday, Son, I'll sail with you to see the Southern Cross. That'll seem full circle.

'Til then, and long after, may you always be near good climbing trees, good libraries, and good friends and family to keep that fabulous mind of your stimulated. Enjoy this last year of single-digitdom; I'm quite sure I will.

You (and your sister) are my heart - xoxo Mama

 

Sometimes, it's the little things

Recently, I've been writing a brochure for our local public garden's spring tour. I joked with them from the very beginning that I may know a little bit about farming, but plants and flowers? Well, I could learn. And learn, I have. Each garden of the five featured homes is distinct, of course, and somewhat complicated; that's part of the reason why they're featured on a tour! And what I've found most amazing about these places is how very much I've enjoyed taking time to stop and smell the roses as part of this job.

I don't slow down. I can't slow down. It feels like if I look away for a moment, one of the 17 balls which I juggle daily will drop. My work is contract-based, requiring that I always hustle for the next gig as I continue to seek full-time, in-house writing work. Parenting time is nearly 3/4 mine. I'm trying to learn how to run (literally) with an eye on adding some serious swimming and biking in the coming year, too. And I have a social life, and a community life, and blah blah blah... we're all busy. The difference between this year and past years has been that I'm busy alone, without that extra pair of adult hands to catch a dropping ball. Maybe this is why I'm so motivated to run: I have to move faster to keep up with myself!

Yet sometimes, life hands us different plans. I took my kids on a mini-vacation two weeks ago, and simply being present together without a set schedule was so refreshing. I feel like I drank them in a bit extra, for they are growing up so very fast. Then, we came home, and they were off to to the races -- and, soon after, to their dad's house for the weekend as I spent a few days fighting a cold. To make sure that it didn't go to my lungs, I hit the brakes -- hard. I spent three straight days not getting out of bed much, just rest rest resting. A friend bearing DVDs came over for takeout, and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I let myself just be cared for, which felt amazing. I gave myself permission to go nowhere and do little for an entire weekend. I slept when I wanted, and I snuggled my dog, and what do you know: I got well pretty darned fast.

Coming out of that, I realized something: I've been going too fast. I'm only 40. There is no race to the finish. Whatever I want to get done, well, there's plenty of time to do it. Think about it: if I live until I'm 90 or beyond, which is likely given my family history, I have over half of my life left. That's a lot of time to finish writing my books, or to plant my own garden and watch it grow -- even if that's a metaphorical one, with another partner and life we build together. But none of it has to happen tomorrow, or next week, or even next year.

What does have to happen now, though, is that I have to be mindful about stopping to smell the roses every so often, literally and figuratively, even after this garden tour ends, because it is so very restorative. Appreciating the beauty that surrounds us, whether it's the first buds of spring's wisteria or the gorgeous full rainbow I spotted yesterday, isn't something to miss because we're busy. Being sick made me have some flashbacks to the time when I didn't think I had a long and full life left, when my lungs were are their worst and when the future looked not just bleak, but absent. I am well aware that each day is a gift. It makes me sad that, sometimes, I'm so busy that I forget to stop and acknowledge that there is grace in the everyday -- in fact, there's grace in just being alive everyday.

Today, a stranger, now a friend, drove home that grace as I toured her garden to prepare for writing about it. My eyes nearly teared up as I smelled daphne, my very favorite fragrant plant; it smells kind of like Froot Loops, actually. I chose daphne to plant near the front door of my last home, and that smell, well, it made me so happy; and yet, I spent so much time on my front stoop smelling that smell as life crumbled all around me that it now reminds me of what is no longer there in ways both good and bad. She noticed me pausing to drink in the smell, and she broke off a sprig and tucked it into my hand. "At least for today," she said, "it'll stay fragrant for you to enjoy." I carried it for the rest of our tour before placing it in my car, and every time I opened the door today, that old familiar smell hit me. The nostalgia got to me a little bit, but what settled in my heart a little more was the kindness of this new friend to give me a gift that means more to me than she'll ever know, because today, I took the time to drink it all in. I picked up that daphne and smelled it probably twenty more times, and, with each breath, I remembered something important: sometimes, it's the little things that matter, like being kind to each other and opening our eyes to beauty that we don't really see as we hurry by. It's noticing the colors, textures, light, shadows, and fragrances of a garden, but also the very same about the people who create them. Part of the beauty of participating in this project has been interacting with the creators of these spaces. Oh, how their eyes dance and how their hands become animated as they describe their labors of love! They thrive in their element, just as their flowers do.

And that is what brings me to where I'm going with this: the garden within. Roses are beautiful, and so are the hands that tend them, even when they require so much work. So, too, is true of our lives. We all work so hard to create this thing called "life," and sometimes, it gets away from us, far too out of control. If I can pause on vacation and marvel at my kids a little extra, maybe I need to take a few minutes of vacation every day to do the very same thing while not urging them to hurryupandgettothenextthing. If I can stop and rest when I'm sick, because I know my very life may depend on it, well, maybe I can just stop and rest sometimes because I'm tired -- or, better yet, maybe I can stop and rest with a friend and DVDs and takeout because I want to, and not just because I'm sick and forced into downtime. Maybe I can structure my life a little better so that instead of running on my treadmill at 10 pm after the day's long list of work and chores is done, I am running with a friend, perhaps even through a garden, placing care of myself as a higher priority on the to-do list. It feels like there is always too much work and too little time, but, really, isn't the opposite the case? All we have is time, and some of that time needs to be spent tending our gardens so that they grow. Beautiful things require maintenance, and so do beautiful lives.

A Celebration of that which Matters

Love, at Burning Man 2013

This year, I planned to lay-low on Valentine's Day. It remains my favorite holiday (of 34 years and counting!), but this year, life caught up with me and nixed any plans of a big celebration. I'm overwhelmed with a million little details, also known as death by a thousand papercuts: loads of work, loads of kid stuff, loads of life-moving-on matters. It's not a complaint; I'm just my least favorite word ever: busy.

Of course, that's when life shows up to show me that "busy" isn't what matters.

What matters is my mom visiting town and spending quality time with grandkids that has enabled me to plow through work at unprecedented efficiency while also having time for a quality social life that is too-often on the back burner. What matters is my brother and his wife bringing mom from her weekend at their new place for a hand-off in church, and our sitting through church as a family before dining together afterward -- and knowing that I get to see my brother and sister-in-law again sooner than usual since they live nearby now. What matters is my son climbing on my lap today at lunchtime even though he barely fits anymore -- and how he rested his head on my shoulder for just long enough for me to soak it up. What matters is my don't-touch-me-teen giving me a hug every night before bed in much the same manner, unsolicited and on her own time but never missing. What matters is bumping into a girlfriend randomly yesterday and taking ten minutes on a park bench to sit with her and catch up -- long enough time to share some important feelings with her and for her to hug me because I'm in such a good place inside myself right now, and she sensed that. (It's been so long in coming.) What matters is connecting with old friends over Facebook and cheering each other on as we celebrate singlehood and all of its mixed blessings, including highly bizarre dating stories that I imagine we'd have been giggling about in our college dorm rooms over late-night spiked-coffee in much the same manner. What matters is feeling just as good -- no, better -- at 40 as I did at 20, because I know who I am, and I know what I want from life, and darned if I don't actually like myself as-is, at long last. What matters is sharing my as-is self with someone who actually not only accepts me but also celebrates me that way. What matters is suspending cynicism and fear and diving into that good feeling head-first without a life vest. What matters is knowing that there are hoards of people who will toss me a line if I come to need one. What matters is being pretty sure that I won't need one this time around.

What matters is sitting here right this moment, taking a deep breath, and realizing that I am where I am supposed to be. I am who I want to be. I am surrounded by people about whom I care and who care about me. I am loved. And my heart is beating again. I thought that, perhaps, I had walled it off successfully. I have never been so happy to be wrong.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, dear readers. May you find love at unexpected times and in unexpected places and among the smallest details, not only on this day, but every day. xo

When love is no longer a dream

Every year, I have my kids write their own "I Have a Dream" speeches.  (My favorite of Petunia's is right here.)  We read books about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and discuss weighty matters like race, equality, oppression, social justice, nonviolent protest, and more.  It is a pretty serious day in our home, a day full of digging deep, learning, questioning, exploring, and, most of all, feeling.  Some of my deepest conversations with my kids have been inspired by Dr. King's legacy.  It is a day that I like to mark in honor of a great man and teacher.

And this year, like everything else, we're a little bit late with it.  I'd like to think that Dr. King would understand a single mom's struggle to keep the proverbial trains running on time.  One kid was gone from last night until 6 pm today, coming home too exhausted to do anything other than eat and sleep; the other is studying for a standardized test that helps to determine her future and is mentally drained.  I don't plan to give them a pass for these important conversations, but I do plan to take them up again in early February.  It is what it is.  And rather than beating myself up for it, I am just going to be patient.

But I will not let this day pass unheralded by our family in some small way.  This year, I have my own dreams to share, and they are all about love.

This is something that has been on my mind a lot lately: love, in all of its forms.  I used to think I knew what love is, and I did, to some extent.  Love is the way my daughter's cheeks turn pink when she's happy, and it is in the velvet touch of my son's cheek as he sleeps.  It is in the way my dog will not leave my side when I am sad, and it is in the way my parents keep showing up just when I need them most.  Love is often found in my life where I most expect it: in my family.  But it also is found increasingly in the next layer of my life: in my friends, those people who have been the absolute bedrock of my life for the past couple of years.

In the big empty void left by a heart broken into a million pieces, my friends -- they know who they are -- came in, and they hugged me hard enough and accepted me graciously enough that those broken pieces started sticking back together.  The final, permanent cement came at Thanksgiving, when I was with some of the friends most dear to me in the Pacific Northwest.  The friend who has had my back most closely for the past year -- who was spending the holiday with me -- called my phone.  Since I share a name with another of his friends, I asked, "Dude, we're in the same place; did you mean to call the other one?"  He said, "No.  I call the people who are most important to me on Thanksgiving, and you're on that list."  He said a few nice words, and a few minutes later, he was in the house singing along to "I Just Called to Say I Love You." 

Now, this is not someone whom I'm dating; this is a soul-brother, someone whom I can trust with my life above and beyond most people, and one of few people with whom I know my heart is safe.  And that moment when he rang my phone and said the kind words he had to say was kind of like the moment at the end of the Grinch story in which the Grinch declares that his heart grew a thousand times bigger on the day when he stopped grinching.  A realization came to me in that moment that love is not only where I expected to find it, in my family and potentially in a romantic "other": sometimes, it comes from the most unexpected of places, and, right then, it came at me two different and valuable ways: One, it came from a friend who accepts me completely as I am, even at my very broken-est, without any judgment or expectation at all.  He wants nothing of me, and he loves me anyway.  That is what love looks like.  And in that love, I found Two: a love for myself that I did not know I could have.  There are a million ways in which I had been beating myself up, and suddenly, I just kind of stopped.  Sure, there are flare-ups every now and then; I remain imperfect.  But I now accept that imperfection.  For the first time in my life, I feel confident in who and how I am, and I feel worthy of love, actually -- and I can define now what kind of love I can accept.  That love does not look like a need.  It does not look like an obligation.  It does not look like making other people happy without taking my own happiness into account.  It does not look like a fairy tale, or like all of the things that I thought that went with one. 

No, love does not look like a dream at all.  It looks like my real life.  It looks like what is around me every day.  It is flawed as I am, with tired kids and tests to be taken and, God, the bills to pay ... It is in not knowing if and when I'll ever partner again but, most of all, in being okay with that, because more than anything, it is in not accepting anybody who cannot accept me as-is.  It is in looking myself in the eye in the mirror and knowing that I am doing my best with this life -- that I am seizing the moment, loving the world as naively and recklessly as I do, with all of its magnificent flaws, as I engage in this Herculean task of living a life that looks little like I thought it would. 

Love looks like a friend, standing in a gentle rain, calling to tell me that I matter because I make him feel that way, too.  Love looks like accepting love, and love looks like giving love, including to myself.

My heart hardened a bit over the past couple of years, and it is now softer than it ever was, and happily.  As Dr. King said, "Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."  Please enjoy the picture below, from Petunia's autumn trip to Washington, DC, in which she took a picture with that quote for me, because she has been raised to believe that acting with love, first and foremost, really matters.  I think I had forgotten that, most especially when it came to loving myself.  I continue to work on that.  For now, I am especially grateful for the friends -- and the above is but one example of many, many I could give -- that have hugged me back together.  I love you all more than I could ever say.  xo

2014 FTW!

I have been writing for days: writing for work, writing to audition for more work, writing some belated holiday greetings, writing this blog post -- for days.  I had some serious meat in a post reflecting on 2013.  Deep, chewy, reflective, raw meat.  And ... I just scrapped it. 

If there is one feeling I have on this first day of 2014, it is that I do not want to look backward.  Or, as one of my favorite movie characters of all time, Edna Mode of The Incredibles, said, "I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now."

The Now.

Oh, how long I have waited for The Now!  The feeling I had as this day began is in some ways comparable to the feeling I had the first time I held my firstborn: that feeling that I have waited all of my life for this moment, and I did not even know it until it arrived. 

This is the first year I begin as a truly single person since the New Year of 1990.  Wrap your head around that with me for a moment: this is the first year in over half of my life that I start as Me.  Wow.

But I do not declare this another Year of Me.  Instead, I welcome 2014 as the Year of Now.

What does that mean?  It means that this year, I invite you to join me in grabbing life by the balls.  In saying "why not?" more often.  In taking risks, and in welcoming adventures, and in chartering new waters, even if a bit scary.  In making mistakes, and more mistakes, and in learning from them.  In not beating yourself up about that but, instead, in embracing the imperfection (or, as my son would say, wabi-sabi) that is a fact of any life being well-lived.  In being unafraid to redefine one's paradigms -- or, in saying "screw paradigms" altogether. 

I will be doing some housekeeping this year, throwing out (as in, getting rid of) a lot of things: Expectations. Aiming for perfection.  Trying to be somebody I'm not.  Faking it.  Judgement, most especially of myself.  Excuses. 

I will be making room for some new things: Self-acceptance.  More adventures.  Rich experiences.  Deeper connection with good friends.  Dating.  Travel.  Meaningful work that I enjoy.  Increased commitment to my health and fitness, not because I am not fine how I am, but, rather, because I want to be in top form for these my second twenties. I need energy for all of these plans!

And I have to make more dedicated time for the things I have always loved: Beyond the obvious (my kids), this list includes the beach, at which I do not spend nearly enough time, reading great novels, finishing the writing of my own novels, making art, cooking great food to share with friends, and fireside snuggles. 

Whatever you are making time for in 2014, please do me the favor of remembering this long-held mantra of mine: nothing is worth more than this day.  Nothing is worth more than this day.

And in this Year of Now, I plan to embrace every loving minute of it.  Life is too good, and too fleeting, to do otherwise.

Happy New Year! xo Rox

On being faith-full

Over the past year, Petunia has been exploring her faith through confirmation classes, called "Confirm not Conform," at our Episcopal church.  Next weekend, she will complete the process and become a full member of the church.  When I shared with a friend at a Halloween party that our weekend would involve Petunia's confirmation, his reply was: "F*ck religion.  Why are you doing that to your kid, teaching her to be a sheep?  Seriously, f*ck that.  Don't do it.  How could you?"  And I looked him in the eye and replied, "I don't think I can engage in this subject matter with you," and I left it at that -- and walked away.  I learned long ago that when a person feels *that* strongly about religion, there is no point to engaging in debate. 

Mine is a quiet faith, and, frankly, it is not always there; at times, I feel more agnostic than Christian, and. for a while, I felt certain that my correct label was "secular humanist" while I also felt a draw to Buddhism.  Where I ended up is here: does it matter?  I am not a member of the "religious right" who inflicts her faith on others through the political process.  In all likelihood, I am a member of the "Christian Left" who believes but one thing: that a God of love and acceptance, a source of hope and strength, is a good thing to have in my life.  Someone else once mocked that angle on faith, calling it "Santa Claus faith" -- all good things, no damnation.  Well, it is what it is.  I do not purport to having the answers, but I do know that in the very darkest moments of my life, I have felt like I am not alone.  And that counts, very much, for something.  I cannot dismiss that feeling as mere "coping." 

As well, just as I identify as part-Welsh, part-Italian, etc., Christianity is part of my family's identity, and the path that I have chosen to walk through my own life very much incorporates lessons of faith from generations of my ancestors.  We have incorporated Christ's very real community service into our own natures; it feels like our family's faith roots me to a history of community action and to a way of living.  Sure, those without faith can do that, too; we just consider it part of a calling -- perhaps, even, an obligation -- even as we do not shout from the rooftops that we "walk in love, just as Christ loved us" (Ephesians 5:2).

I also feel that I parent differently because of my faith.  For example, when my children argue, it is my refrain to tell them "be loving."  That message has been handed down from my family, but it also comes from my faith's focus on loving-kindness.  The two are so intertwined that I am not sure I can tell one from the other.  And at the end of the day, I feel fortunate to come from a family who took me to church to spend time among those with, for the most part, a shared value system.  (It may be important to note, here, that we subscribe to a more "liberal" type of Christianity.)  Some friends from my upbringing in the church remain friends for life.  So, when my own daughter started placing importance on the church community to which I introduced her, I felt very warm-hearted.  These people, they will be part of her community of support for as long as she needs it; and she knows, now, that if, at any point in her life, she needs to broaden her community -- whether because she needs something or because she has something to offer to others -- church is a solid place to find that space.  In these confirmation classes, she had mentors with listening ears and open hearts.  I am not convinced that teenagers seek that out, but I do know -- from my own experience as one of their teachers -- that when given the opportunity, they seize it.  Perhaps faith is not a requirement for such community connection, but church is one community in which such connection can be found and fostered.  And if kids take away from that what I did years ago and what my own daughter does now -- that our church community is an extension of family -- all the better.

With Petunia's permission, I share with you what she offered at the first phase of her confirmation, a presentation to our church on something she learned.  I had never attended such an event at our church and ended up being caught quite offguard by our priest summoning her (first among the confirmands) to the lectern with the words "Come and Teach." 

Nine children taught that day.  We can learn so much from them; I find myself now wanting to say "teach me something" to teens and think this will be the subject/challenge of their next lesson with me.  The confirmand's faith-based lessons last Sunday all tied to being good people.  I am so proud to be among their teachers, and my heart burst when Petunia shared the following, my favorite prayer, followed by her message:

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument

of Thy peace.

Where there is hatred,

Let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

Grant that I may seek

Not so much to be consoled

As to console.

To be understood

As to understand.

To be loved

As to love.

For it is in giving

That we receive;

It is in pardoning

That we are pardoned;

It is in dying

That we are born to eternal life.

 

Petunia then offered: "The prayer of St. Francisc really moves me because St. Francis cared for not only himself, but he cared for everything around him too.  He used to be rich but then gave all of his money to the poor.  He not only gave up everything, but he gave it to a good cause.  St. Francis also cared about the animals.  He believed that animals were our brothers and sisters.

My mom and I were in San Francisco a couple weeks ago to see the Wizard of Oz.  We were putting coins into the meter when someone asked us "how are you?"  My mom replied, "good, and you?"  Then the man told us that he had talked to twenty people that day, and we were the first to reply to him.  My mom and I couldn't believe that no one else had responded to him.  This relates to the prayer because where there is hatred and judgement, we should all sow love. 

St. Francis should be a role model to us.  He was extremely charitable, and we should all follow in his footsteps to make better communities."

***

From her mouth to God's ears. 

Regardless of what you believe, this seems, to us, like a good way to live.  And living this way does not make us sheep.  It may make us servants in the best possible sense, though -- and in our house, that's a laudable aim.  We hope to give more than we receive, drawing our example from that of Christ, the original community organizer.  I am glad that Petunia's village has expanded to include a large church family and look forward to seeing her blessing and welcoming by our bishop this weekend. 

Go off to see the Wizard at the Orpheum!

On Wednesday, Petunia and I had the privilege of being guests of SHN* for the opening night of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s new stage adaptation of The Wizard of Oz. I have long been on record as a huge fan of seeing productions at the Orpheum, San Francisco’s gorgeous, intimate gem of a theater. Our seats for the night were in the orchestra section, rather toward the middle, so we enjoyed a pretty spectacular view of this marvelous production.

What made it special? For starters, it felt very San Franciscan, especially because of the colossal neon rainbow (pictured above) evident for much of the production. It looks like something straight out of a 70s disco and is just fabulous, overshadowed only by Glinda’s (played by Robin Evan Willis) spectacular entrance in a dress that also looked very disco – sparkling, glittery, and silvery. Her magnificent character stole the half of the show that the loveable scarecrow did not steal. He, the Tin Man, and the Lion are a rather funny trio. And the real, live Toto –- a rescued Cairn terrier –- garnered the biggest applause upon entrance and end.

This performance stood out because of some new songs and dance numbers; the ensemble works well together throughout them. I am so used to seeing munchkins as small, so their full-size was a bit of a surprise, as was the witches’ hair, collectively shaped into some sort of funnel-updo that neither Petunia nor I cared for – just too sci-fi, really. We also tended to think that Dorothy, played by Danielle Wade, was kinda “meh” – but in some ways, that’s good. It did not feel like the whole production was staged only around her. It felt more balanced than, say, the movie. And plus, since every Dorothy ever is going to be held up against Judy Garland, well, them’s big shoes to fill. But this one has a non-traditional path to the Broadway stage: the Canadian public chose her as she competed on a reality show called “Over the Rainbow” on CBC-TV.

While it’s not Wicked, this round of The Wizard of Oz still delivers a great production of a classic tale. I would see it again and recommend it to friends, even those with small children. The flying monkeys are markedly less scary than in Wicked. And the way the play also uses some movie theater-type projections of images adds some depth and interest. I would see it again with a friend, so it gets a thumbs-up from me. Enjoy the show!

The Wizard of Oz will play at the SHN Orpheum Theatre from October 16-27. Tickets are available at www.shnsf.com or 888-746-1799.

*Note: I received complementary tickets to the show courtesy of SHN and committed to writing a review; however, I did not commit to writing a favorable one. These opinions are entirely my own, and I actually did enjoy the show and encourage you to see it for yourself, especially if you can do so at the Orpheum.

To the Men in Charge

Today's shitstorm over Twitter filing to IPO without a woman on the board, and the related articles about whether or not Silicon Valley is a sexist, racist place, and the accompanying Twitter frenzy, has me going /headdesk, /headdesk, /headdesk.  You see, most of the folks involved in this bruhaha have it totally wrong because they cannot admit that they are totally wrong.  I've heard their arguments: women have not yet come "of age" in the Valley yet.  "There aren't enough qualified women."  "Filling a board is hard."  "It's nobody's business how Twitter puts together its board."  "It's more than checking a box."  Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.  And the defenders come to Dick Costolo's side ("really, he's not a sexist asshat!" they cry), and soon, everybody wrings their hands, and who knows who's right anymore -- but here is what should have happened:

Dick Costolo should have immediately issued this statement:

After reflecting on the criticism that Twitter has failed to include women on its advisory board, we have decided to cop to what is actually a very serious oversight -- no, actually, a very serious mistake, and a disservice to furthering the advancement of women in technology.  While we did pursue female candidates for our board [God, let's hope that's true!], we did not prioritize highly enough the importance of having women at the table.  We could have tried harder.  We should have tried harder.  We have daughters, and we realize that it is important for our girls to see role models at the table if they are to one day aim for that seat.  We realize that Twitter could have been a game-changer here.  And just like our product has been used for revolution in Egypt, so, too, could our company, be revolutionary when it comes to promotion of women in positions of leadership in high-tech.  Companies have a social responsibility to do good, and "good" is not being done when so few women are advancing to positions of power.  There are historic, cultural, sociologic, economic, and many other factors related to this imbalance of power in corporate America.  We know that there are "binders full" of capable women whom we could have tasked with a Twitter role.  Maye they didn't raise their hands, but maybe we should have asked them to.  Maybe we should have cultivated that talent from within since day one.  But when a company is heads-down on developing a product that will change the world, sometimes it is too easy to have blinders on.  Today, those blinders came off. 

We can choose what to make of this moment, though, and we choose to use it to effect a significant change in our corporate culture.  As of right now, I commit to you that within the next two years, Twitter's advisory board will include an equal number of men and women.  We will challenge other companies in this space (hello, Facebook!) to do the same.  We will continue to focus on existing initiatives within our company to recruit and to retain women, especially those working in traditionally male-dominated fields like software engineering.  We know that we can do better.  We want you to know that we will do better.  We offer no excuses, just a sincere apology to the women who should already be seated at the table and to our daughters who should never question their ability to get there just because they don't see themselves reflected in our white, male faces.  It is unquestionably time for a revolution, and Twitter has always been up for that. 

For news on this initiative, follow us @ ...

***

Really, I could go on and on, but you get my drift.  Research supports that gender parity improves the bottom line and much more.  (I could find the citations, but others will as this shitstorm continues to unfold.) 

It is time for a revolution here.  There is no reason why Twitter could not have a board that is 50% women.  Check out some of these contenders.  I know some of these women and many more who are not on this list but who'd be great.  Doesn't Dick Costolo? 

C'mon, Twitter, be the change you wish to see in the world.  I have always been a *huge* fan of Jack Dorsey in part because he once said that his product was about systemic change over generations, not about when it is going to IPO.  I believed him when he said that.  Now, let's see him make good on his word.  Nah, let's demand it, for if women stopped using Twitter tomorrow, it wouldn't even be a thing. 

Now *that* is something that should worry Twitter's backers very, very much.

 ***UPDATE: Looking for hard data on this subject matter?  Read this.

On Sinead and Miley, on Sex and Power, and on Owning Womanhood

Sinead O'Connor's letter to Miley Cyrus about Miley's "Wrecking Ball" video, widely publicized yesterday, pushed me over the edge.  I have been biting my tongue over the "Blurred Lines" song and especially video, its "feminist" parody, and the controversy surrounding it regarding whether or not it's a "rape song."  I have held my breath about Miley's twerking, a popular parody of twerking,and over what it's like to be raising a teenaged daughter, as well as a man-child, among all of this madness.  But as a radically liberal, sex-positive feminist, I cannot sit on my hands anymore.  This post is writing itself.

And I'm going to start way, way back.

In college, I authored a thesis titled "Stronger and Thus Saner: The Athleticization of Women in Late-Nineteenth Century America."  Too long to sum up in a blog post, the thesis examined the premise of women's physical education's and sports' rise due to male doctors' desires to control women's reproductive systems and, in part, the related affliction of "hysteria" -- an afflication that infallibly beset anyone with a uterus. Doctors like Dudley Sargent suggested that if women lazed around a little less and exercised a little more, they would become better mothers to the future race (yes, it just smacks of eugenics, doesn't it...), stronger, and less hysterical -- or more sane. 

Well, if that's the case, the way Miley twerks, she must be the sanest woman on the planet, right?  I mean, that is *work.* Have you twerked?  I have.  I actually took a twerking *lesson,* and no, I am not kidding.  It's kind of like bellydancing: constant, exhausting motion.  That Miley is one. fit. chic. to twerk like that.  My hat is off.

(Yes, I did just move from the scholarly into the sarcastic, and that is kind of purposeful to set the tone of this whole piece.  Bear with me.  Like a Louis C.K. routine, this piece will give you a takeaway that'll make you say "hmm" -- I hope.)

Say what?  Miley is nude and licking a sledgehammer and gyrating wildly -- and Sinead thinks that this is because record company execs are "prostituting" her? This is not Miley's natural way?  She doesn't move like that to get fit and sane?  She does it for -- gulp -- men's attention? or to make men money?  Sound the alarm!  Feminists, take up your placards and March on Washington!  A twenty year-old is naked and trying to get some attention from men!  Except ... that has happened since, oh, the beginning of time ... and most of the most negative attention is coming from ... women.

I have so many problems with this on so many levels.  I mean, in her time, Marilyn Monroe was too sexy, too, and she wasn't naked and licking and twerking and twenty.  But beyond that, I had an experience lately that made me think twice about this male-exploitation model.  (You knew this was coming.)  I spent a week at Burning Man, where "sex positive" culture rules the nights and days.  Women twerked with other women at Slutgarden.  Men twerked with other men at Glamcocks.  Gay, straight, whatever, there were a whole lot of naked and nearly-naked people twerking and writhing and bumping and grinding, and there were no record company execs present.  Nothing was to be gained from being half-naked in the desert; there were no dollars to be made.  No one was worried for the future of our daughters.  People weren't worried about "Blurred Lines" (more on that in a sec).  We danced until the sun came up, and we owned our bodies and what we did with them.  We were confident and, yes, sexual, beings who drew the attention we sought and rejected what we didn't want.  It was a fantastic place to learn where to draw one's lines.  I fear more for a world in we try to censor that which teaches us boundaries -- one in which there is no twerking and worse, no conversation about it.  So really, I welcomed Sinead's letter.  It's a conversation I've already had with my own daughter time and time again.  Maybe more parents will have it now. 

But I'm of the ilk that the twerking shouldn't stop, nor should videos like "Wrecking Ball."  Why?  Well, what is our end-game here?  What is our goal?  Is it to stop the hypersexualizing of teenagers?  Or is it to realize the freedom that comes from acceptance that we're all sexual human beings who will act accordingly -- and that liberation comes from owning that sexuality, being empowered by it, and dancing however the hell we want to dance?  Other cultures have figured this out.  Being naked on TV in France is no thing.  And last I checked, their kids aren't having sex earlier than ours, or having more unwanted pregnancies.  What do we really fear, here? 

That leads me to the concept of liberation as part of the controversy around Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines," the chorus of which repeats "I know you want it, I know you want it."  It's a man singing to a woman and the song invokes the concept of liberation: "OK now he was close, try to domesticate you, but you're an animal, baby it's in your nature, just let me liberate you..."  And there are many more lines in the song that are as double-entendre-rich as those.  What is Thicke *really* singing?  Is he being pushy?  Is he suggesting that he doesn't take "no" for an answer, or that he knows what the woman he's singing to wants?  The fact of the matter is that *she* isn't represented in the song.  He's singing it.  And it's called, get this: "Blurred Lines."  We're not supposed to know.  It's walking *that line.*  It's making *that point.*  It's friggin' ingenious.  And I play it in my car, and I sing along, and God, I love to dance to it -- and I am not offended by it.  I do not think that hearing it will make my son think that women "want it" or my daughter think that a man knows what she wants.  For it is a song, and it is art.  We are not supposed to take it literally.

I know: whoa.  The hate mail, it's going to come flying.  Friends will disagree on Facebook, and I'll get some PMs and some VMs and some tsk-tsks.  And Imma make it worse right now.

I look around me, and I am surrounded by a whole lot of very rich, very beautiful women, because I live in Silicon Valley where we have enough in the bank for Botox and new breasts when ours get saggy.  We wear Lululemon and drive Cayennes, and we go Paleo and dye our hair.  This is not Portland.  This might as well be LA. 

I am far more worried about what our daughters see us eat -- or, more importantly, NOT eat -- every day, about how they see us diet, about how they hear of our botox and surgeons and attire and Miracle bras -- than I am about Miley Cyrus twerking.  I am far more concerned about how we mothers are fighting the aging process, dying our hair and still dressing like teenagers.  And don't even get me started on their fathers and what example *they* set in their interactions with women, from their wives to their waitresses to the people they seat that the table in their boardrooms (for it is mostly men staffing those still).  And no, I'm not being funny.  There's nothing funny about this scene. 

And yes, we can say that Miley is no role model, but hey -- are we? are our friends?  And plus, who says that celebrities are supposed to be role models anyway?  And how many of us freaking out about Miley Cyrus on Facebook have posted about the Kardashians or the Real Housewives in the past week? or have a People magazine lying around? or watched Madonna's "Like a Virgin" video the very moment it debuted on MTV and didn't end up going right out and getting sexually "ruined" - ?  We can't have it both ways, moms-of-the-world.  If we're going to preach, change starts with us, and with the media that our daughters see us consuming, and with keeping it real -- and/or, we need to teach them to see it all as entertainment, use these things as a way to start good conversations, and aim to get to a point where a video like "Wrecking Ball" just isn't a thing.

So here's the role I choose to play for my kids: self-confidence.  Self-acceptance.  Comfort in my own skin.  I make a point of making healthy eating choices, and of exercising for health -- things I try to role model for my kids.  So how do I model for them, when they're old enough (and/or as they're growing old enough) that I think it's okay to be a sexual being -- that sex isn't dirty or bad or wrong, and that women can want it just as much as men? that women can feel sexy and powerful while clothed in a boardroom or while naked and riding a wrecking ball? that men can play a role in women's sexual liberation by calling out those "blurred lines" and playing with the notions of dominance and submission, roles that really shouldn't be just in Fifty Shades books but, rather, are part of any healthy, adult sexual exploration? Is there any discourse over this to be had with kids?  I think there is, when they hit whatever the 'right' age is in your home, for I sure don't want them learning only from other teens or from MTV -- and, as far as I can tell, these conversations just aren't happening.

I think it's time that we rip this band-aid off, and that maybe Miley has actually done it.  I am ready for women to own our sexuality, for us to say: it's actually not just about pleasing men.  Maybe we get naked and ride wrecking balls because we like it.  Maybe we twerk because we want to.  Maybe it's high time that we stop freaking out because someday, our daughters are going to have sex.  Maybe instead, we try to set a tone such that when they do get there, it is as much about their own pleasure as it is about the traditional role of man-pleasing -- a role that, I fear, Sinead O'Connor folded right into with her letter.  I don't think Miley's video is about men at all.  I think it is about women becoming fearless with our sexuality, wrecking a dated notion of sex and power. 

And I kind of feel that if we started looking at it that way, then we can stop freaking out about sex and start focusing on things that really matter, like the fact that women are still making 77 cents to the dollar.  There sure is *nothing* sexy about that.

***

P.S. Amanda Palmer wrote a letter to Sinead today in response to Sinead's letter to Miley.  Sure, we can all roll our eyes that Amanda has thrown herself into the discussion -- but her letter is a bit more aligned with mine than much of the current debate, so I encourage you to read it.

Thirteen Years of Petunia

Oh my wow.

I had grand plans for this post.  There is such a tribute to be made for the most magnificent daughter ever.  You know, that girl-child who steals my flat iron and hair products, who outgrew my shoe size (by several!) last year, and who suddenly looks me straight in the eye ... yes, that one, my Petunia, my -- gasp! -- teenager ... the one who keeps reminding me that she intends for this to be her last. year. at. home. ...

You know, I had no problem turning forty, but this being a mom to a teenager thing is not for the faint of heart.  I feel like a deer-in-headlights right now, and I have so much to say but am so very stuck.  I have a teenager.  How did that happen???

And oh, how she disarms me!  She knows just how to make me laugh when I am mad.  She knows that tears will work, but at least she uses them sparingly.  What gets me most is the very most disarming characteristic she has: she likes me.  She does not like when other girls disrespect their mothers, in part out of respect for me.  And she does seem to respect me.  We get along.  And I wonder: what did I do right?  How do I write a book about this to make millions?

The truth is, sure, I can take some credit, but the real credit is due to her nature.  Petunia loves the whole world, with all of its magnificent flaws -- and she shines her light on those, and she tries to heal them.  Her empathy is her greatest virtue and also her Achilles heel.  She will change the world for the better.  And in the meanwhile, she is outstanding to her family -- the best big sister that any little brother could ask for, so patient and so kind.

She just gets it *right.*  She loves life, she loves people, she cares for her family and friends deeply, and she lives so very well with this confidence and grace at which I marvel.  And her joy -- wow!  It overflows, and it is infectious, and I hope that she never goes a moment without it.

She knows who she is, and she comports herself as such.  And she is only thirteen. My God, imagine when *she* is forty.  World, just get on your knees, right now, and be grateful that she's on her way.

I could go on and on, but everything I have to say can be summed up pretty easily as "I am so lucky."  I get to be her mother, and there is no greater honor.

In celebration this year, I offer a song.  Though she came into the world to Berlioz's "Symphony Fantastique" and its magnificent French horns -- in distinct contrast to her brother's entry to "Southern Cross," by the way -- ever since I first laid eyes on her, this has been my song for my sweet Petunia:

 

"And everywhere she goes, a million dreams of love surround her, everywhere."

Happy 13th Birthday, Sweet Petunia, one of only two people who know what my beating heart sounds like from the inside.  Wherever you are a year from now, you will be surrounded by this mother's love, still and forever.  xo Mama

Two Twenties

Today, I am two twenties.  I have racked my brain for weeks trying to come up with the perfect blog post for this momentous occasion.  After all, I am a writer; I have big words, and I know how to use 'em!  And I want them to be funny, because I am pretty darned excited to be forty -- there, I said it! -- but the thoughts that come to me now are deep, so I am going to take a moment to be reflective here.  Stick with me 'til the end, and there's a chance that I'll crack a joke -- but first, let's be serious:

Just a few years ago, a pulmonologist voiced the opinion that I might not live to see forty without a new lung.  I can still picture his eyes when he said it, as if he were forecasting the weather next Sunday, not predicting the end of somebody's life.  He was a horrible, arrogant, and, I daresay, incompetent doctor who offered a diagnosis based on inadequate information -- and he practically scared me to death, forget the lung situation!  So cheers to second -- and third -- opinions, and to doctors who stand up to others and say "you are wrong."  Here I am, aged forty, with my same old lungs -- still not perfect, but pretty close, and in shape to see me through my years with decent management and medicine.  Huzzah!

Yet as I reflected on this "hooray! I made it!" moment in my life, something truly horrible happened in my family.  At only twenty-seven years old, my cousin's beautiful wife passed away just a few days ago in a tragic car accident.  He donated her organs, and so parts of her -- perhaps, even, her lungs -- live on in others.  But the one who was the "baby" of my generation is now a widower in his twenties.  And I'll be damned if anyone can make any sense of this tragedy.  I just pray that this beautiful angel rests in eternal peace and that her family, especially my beloved cousin, be comforted in this time of loss. 

Life is so precious, and so fleeting, and we are never guaranteed another day.  If there is ever a year in which I have been ever-so-keenly aware of that, it is this year.  That is why I went to Burning Man, because every so often, we just have to scream to the world, "I am going to live."  There will come a time when we cannot, or when we do not. 

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
 I was a bride married to amazement.
 I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

 When it's over, I don't want to wonder
 if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
 I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
 or full of argument.

 I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

That passage is from Mary Oliver's poem "When Death Comes," and a lot of her work and the personal reflection it has inspired has been key to my personal healing during this year of transition from married to unmarried, from thirties to forties.  That passage speaks to me because it is a reminder that I must take an active role in the experience I have on this earth.  Life does not just happen to us; we make it happen, and I plan to do so in amazement, taking as much of the world into my arms as I can, indeed.

Birthdays are happy occasions, and indeed, I am happy for a few simple reasons: I am here.  I am loved.  And I am able to love and to serve others.  I do not really need more out of life than that ability to wrap my arms around people and say "I love you" and to accept their love in return -- and to be there when they need it, as they have been there for me. 

Maybe when I turn fifty, I will actually be fifty instead of two twenty-fives.  But this year, I say, bring on the twenties that I never had -- twice-over.  Bring on the ever-growing circle of friends, and their parties, and so much dancing and music and fun and oh! the art ... bring it on, all of it, and I am going to soak it all up because I am here.

And I plan to spend it diving in to as many new experiences as possible, just like this:

And yes, I am, finally, forty years old.  WHATEVER.  xo Rox

Twelve Years

I am not sure how twelve years have passed since September 11, 2001. 

I am sure, however, that I will spend this day doing what I have done every September 11 since (and including) that fateful day: I will get in my car, and I will drive to the beach, to the place where I feel most spiritually at home. 

There is a lot more that I want to say about the feelings this day engenders, but, alas, I took down last year's very raw post about it; that is a place I just cannot go anymore.  We all feel and process grief and loss differently, and, on this day, I will keep mine private, allowing the salt of my tears to enmesh with that of the Pacific's cold, salty waters. 

In memory of those lost that day, including especially my friend Todd, and all who have been lost subsequently in senseless acts of war, I offer a poem in tribute, and a whispered prayer that peace may be with them, their survivors and, soon, the world.  Amen.

In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

***

I took the picture above during the summer of 1990, on my first-ever trip to New York City.  My then-boyfriend took the picture of me, below, on the South Tower's observation deck.  I remember feeling like I was on top of the world.  

***

Please click on the year to find my posts on 9-11 from 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, and 2007.

Burning Man 2013: A Few Words and More Pictures

I returned from Black Rock City, Nevada in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, my virgin year at Burning Man now ensconced in my personal history book. Many have asked me to describe the experience, but the truth is that I cannot do it justice.  Though I am a verbose writer, I, oddly, lack words to share the depth of peace, personal transformation, interconnectedness, humanity, love, and so very much more that came from those eight-plus days on playa.  I have always been big on connecting to and with places and spaces -- feelings engendered when, say, I walk down a familiar street that evokes memories of a different time in my life.  The days I spent at Burning Man blew away every other place, every other experience, by miles.  For example, I compare my first moments in the Temple of Whollyness to the moments when I first held my children.  There is something so primal, so deep about the feelings one has in that space that are simply timeless, indescribable, and more beautiful than you can ever imagine -- unless you, too, have been there, in which case you understand.

"Welcome home," the greeters say as one passes through the City's gates.  Given the blessing of a ticket from a friend who has also experienced divorce and turning 40 within the past year, I had no idea what "home" on the playa would feel like, completely unplugged and disconnected from life as I knew it.  And it turns out, it felt more like home than any place I have lived because that intentional community is one that requires an ideal balance of independence and interdependence, self-reliance and radical participation (some of the tenets of Burning Man, which I encourage you to read here).  It is a space of pure, unadulterated freedom, the likes of which I had never known.  It is a place of pushing boundaries, testing limits, refocusing, setting intentions, seeking peace, making friends who become like family pretty darned fast ... And it is also fun beyond one's wildest dreams.  It is not for everyone, but it is for me.  I am a permanent resident of Black Rock City now, and I cannot wait until the next burn.

Share my joy by looking through some of my favorite shots from my time on playa.

The Temple of Whollyness:

The Altar:

Reminder in the Temple:

"Happily Ever After Anyway" -- Another reminder:

The Man, at Night:

The Man, Burning:

Our camp's art car, the Zeppelin:

My favorite sculpture, Truth is Beauty:

Message inscribed on the base of Truth is Beauty:

And at night:

Oh, the irony of someone dressed as Santa in this one:

And yes, there were costumes.  This was, perhaps, my most ridiculous one, for the Unicorn Stampede -- because if I have to turn 40, I'm going to have some fun with it. 

There are many more pictures, but I will sign off with my favorite one -- not something I made, but something I found as I biked in the deep playa, a sign, if you will, that sums up my Burning Man experience: if I had to put it in words, it would read "my heart is so full."