December always seems to bring perspective

So, life. It rolls on.

This is such an interesting time of year. On the one hand, it's so busy. Just constant nonstop everything. For us, it's the last soccer game of the year, the end-of-season soccer party, meetings (so many meetings are happening this month, for church and school, plus an extra four-hour training I signed up for; it's not something I strictly have to do but it is something I feel strongly about doing, so...I'm doing it), and the kids' Christmas program (and the rehearsals leading up to it). Also, my son decided to be born in the middle of December, so we always have that. I was so sure he'd be early like his sister, but they run on different timetables and always have. I remember strong contractions during Thanksgiving weekend seven years ago and feeling like that would have been a perfect time for his arrival; my mom was still here and she'd cleaned my house and we had a refrigerator full of Thanksgiving leftovers and I'd hit the point at which I could safely deliver at the birth center instead of in the hospital. But the contractions subsided. Probably he had intentions of making his way earthside but got distracted, much like the way I can ask him to do one simple thing and he will say, "Okay!" and then I will find him playing with his Legos instead of putting his dirty clothes in the washing machine and he will say, "Oh, sorry, I forgot!" He is his father's son. But then when he decided he was ready to be born, we went from nodding off peacefully in bed to I AM ACTUALLY PUSHING OUT A BABY RIGHT NOW in less than four hours.

That's what December feels like to me. The urge to nestle into the darkness of Advent, to slow down, to stay in wrestles with the frenetic bustle of meetings and parties and celebrations and shopping and checking things off lists. The deep desire for quiet contemplation against the surging pressure of nonstop activity.

And this year, this month, just for fun, throw in a tiny little car accident on the way to school on a frosty winter morning...

Only not so tiny. I'd just dropped off the kids at school, and I had plenty of time to swing through my favorite coffee stand for Barista Bonus Day. It's the one day a year where the baristas keep all cash from sales, and I am fiercely loyal to them -- one of them has been working there since I moved to Washington, and we're living parallel lives. We were married at the same time, our kids were born at the same time, and...they know what I drink and always have it ready for me and are just generally a really lovely part of my day. Their black-and-white mochas sustained me through my first year of teaching; now I favor their Americanos. When I'm doing Whole30, they cheerfully serve up black coffee and commiserate (and the last time I cut out dairy for a month one of them was doing it too). I love them. So I handed them a twenty, told them to keep the change, and drove off my with my steaming coffee.

And then one minute later, a young international student rushing off to take a final at the local community college plowed into the passenger side of my car. I had a surreal split-second thought: "Why is that car there?" That was followed by a sickening crunch of metal, and then I was spinning, spinning in the middle of the road. I think I heard the sound of tires squealing. I pressed my foot slowly to the brake and slowed to a stop, facing the wrong way.

Miraculously, no other cars hit me.

My first coherent thought after I came to a stop was, "I didn't even get to have one sip of my coffee." It had gone flying. It was all over the seat, the floor, my lap. My next thought was, "Huh. So that's what the side airbags look like."

The kid who hit me climbed out of his car and ran towards me.

"Are you okay? Are you okay? I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! My windows are covered with frost!"

I looked at his car; he'd managed to pull over to the side of the road. His windows were, indeed, solidly covered in frost. I climbed out of my car.

"I think so," I said. "Are you okay?" He nodded, then clutched his head, tears spilling over his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. What should I do?"

I wanted to tell him what to do, but in that moment, I couldn't even figure that out myself.

"It's okay," I said. "Look, we're both okay. It's just cars. Right? It's just things. We're okay." He nodded and wept.

I climbed back into my car and called my husband and reassured him that I was okay but that I'd just been in a car accident. No, he didn't need to come home, because I was pretty sure that wouldn't help in that moment. Yes, it would be great if he'd call our insurance. I had more pressing matters, like figuring out what to do about the crunched car facing the wrong way with the deployed airbags and the bent frame. I thought I should probably try to get it out of the middle of the street, so I started the car again and tried to steer it. The car didn't move; instead, it made this horrible groaning sound. I turned off the ignition and stepped back outside. Walked around the side of the car. Oh, look: the rear wheel is nearly torn off. I'm not going anywhere.

The police showed up before I could call them. How does that work, exactly? They pulled up behind us. The officer who approached me first was calm and kind. He took my elbow and steered me away from oncoming traffic (which was exactly where I started to walk), and after he took my information, he helped me back into my car.

"Stay in here. Stay warm," he said. I asked him to please go check on the kid.

"Oh, he's okay," he said. "About like you are." I burst into tears.

I called one of my colleagues and best friends, who happens to share my planning period. "Um, I was just in a car accident," I said.

"Where are you? I'm coming." (She said this before she knew I was only two blocks away. She's good people.) I hung up and wondered why, exactly, I was crying. I was okay. I wasn't even that upset about the car, because I was okay and my kids weren't with me and, as I said to the student who hit me, it's just a car. And most importantly: My kids weren't with me. Thank God. The other car would have hit directly where my daughter sits. I started to shake. (I shook for the rest of the day.)

My friend huddled with me in the cold until my car was towed away, and she even said a few kind words to the shaken, crying driver of the other car. An elderly woman came out of her house dressed in only pants and a t-shirt and invited us all inside to warm up, which restored a bit of my badly-shaken faith in humanity. My principal told me I needed to go home and gave me a ride to our other car at the transit center where Matt had left it. (She wanted to just take me straight to my house, but I said, "I've got to drive again at some point today, so I might as well just do that now.")

I made it home. Within minutes, our insurance had called. I spent some time on the phone, giving a statement. Turns out the man who called me had graduated from a school in my district, so he knew exactly where the accident occurred. This was actually helpful, because when he asked what direction I was driving, I said, "Oh, hell if I know. I don't do directions," he could say, "So if you were driving TO work from that coffee stand, you were heading east. I know the area!"

My principal said, "Relax. Take a hot bath. Read a good book." Instead, I headed to Starbucks up the street and bought another Americano, plus lunch. I couldn't even tell you what I did for the next few hours until I had to go pick up my kids. I didn't read anything. I didn't do anything productive. I watched a couple of episodes of Friends and that's about all I remember.

But it wasn't a bad day. It was so cold, but the sun was shining. My car was a total loss, but I was okay, and my kids were okay, and it's just a car. On the one hand, I do love that car; we bought it when our daughter was only five weeks old. I nursed her awkwardly in the corner of the dealership while Matt took care of very important paperwork. We hauled diaper bags and strollers and pack 'n plays in that car. I've nursed both babies in that car, played audiobooks and children's music for them on endless road trips. I've changed I don't even know how many poopy diapers in that car. My son projectile-vomited all over the back seat, and is it strange that I think of that with some amount of fond nostalgia? That car has held soccer cleats and camp chairs and suitcases for every family weekend getaway. That car has taken us from here to Montana to Minnesota, through all the landscapes we've loved for our whole lives. I loved that car. But even as I write that, I'm also instantly correcting myself: what I love is the family it holds, and another car can hold the same kind of space for the family within. Really, the family is what I love, and the family is okay, and that is really all that matters.

What stayed with me on the day I said goodbye to the car was the kindness of the people around me: my colleagues, the woman who wanted us to stay warm, my friends. Nothing about my life is fundamentally unchanged. We have to get a new car now, and I don't know when in the world we're going to find time to do that (see above: meetings, parties, birthdays, etc.), but that is a tremendously privileged problem to have. I lost a car, but I felt wrapped in the love of so many good people, and love -- as always -- more than balances the scales. I lost a car, but in the grand scheme of things, when we can lose each other in so many ways, on so many ordinary days, it's a small loss indeed.

All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child

I'm curled up on the love seat in the family room. My children are tucked into bed; both of them desperately needed baths tonight, but by the time we got home, it was long past bedtime. All through dinner I said, "I don't care what time it is when we get home. You two stink. You are showering." Suzannah rolled her eyes and said, "Okay, Mom." Isaac just grinned.

We left for Seattle straight from Suzannah's soccer game; she changed in the back seat, peeling off her cleats and sweaty socks and shimmying into jeans and a fresh shirt on the way to the Elliott Bay Book Company. (For the record, soccer cleats at the end of a season do not smell wonderful, especially in the confined space of a car.) I had a half-hour alone in the cafe to write while Matt read with Isaac and ran around the corner for a bag of coffee beans; I picked up a few very necessary books; we went to dinner. No one was grumpy. No one threw a tantrum. I made a few bitter comments about the fact that my children reek to high heaven after Matt said, "It's going to be late when we get home...how about they shower tomorrow?" because I washed and changed all the sheets in this house this morning, and now they all want to slide their stankin' little unwashed bodies over those sheets. But by the time we actually made it home, full of our favorite dinners and pie at our new favorite pie place, I didn't really want to deal with bathing tired children, either. We tucked our tired, grubby, stinking children into bed, and they went to sleep immediately.

My children are no longer babies, but every single night I tip-toe into their rooms after they fall asleep to kiss their soft cheeks and, yes, reassure myself that they're still breathing. Something about watching them sleep shatters me a bit. (In Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels wrote, "All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child.")

And now I'm watching Pieces of April. It's one of my absolute favorite movies. I watched it years ago when it first came out and loved it, and then about five years ago I found it at Easy Street Records for about four dollars. I watch it every year around Thanksgiving at least twice. Usually, we watch it the night before Thanksgiving while Matt bakes pies; this year I'm enjoying my first viewing a little early while Matt cleans his desk in the next room (a significant undertaking). I imagine we'll watch it again together next week. Matt isn't a big fan of watching movies again and again, the way I am, but every year we watch Pieces of April and Love Actually together.

The plot is simple: April is an estranged daughter living in an tenement apartment in New York City who decides to host Thanksgiving dinner for her family, possibly the last one, as her mother has advanced breast cancer. The entire movie focuses on the process of her preparing for them (April needs to rely on the help of her neighbors to finish the dinner on time), alternating with scenes of her family traveling from suburbia. We learn about the family from both perspectives, bit by bit, and it is fierce and funny and heartbreaking. The ending leaves me in tears every single time.

But the real theme of the movie, stated by April herself as she tries to explain Thanksgiving to her immigrant neighbors, is this: Once, there was this day...this one day when...everyone realized they needed each other.

My children slumber on, and I can't stop crying.

This world.

A Necessary Discomfort

It's been one week. One week ago, I spent the entire day in a state of horror, pasting on a smile when I had to interact with kids and their parents, dissolving in tears in the bathroom (where I encountered other teachers doing the same) or in my car. Since then, I've been despondent, and I've been angry, and I've tried to take care of myself and my family and ground myself in the beautiful present. And then I wake up and say, "Nope, I'm still angry." Last night I could not fall asleep, which is becoming my new normal, unless I take Tylenol PM. I swung between fury and terror. I've had horrible dreams about keeping my children safe. And my children will be among the "safe"; they are white, raised by two white, straight, "Christian" parents. (Is it any wonder that I put "Christian" in quotes? I'm really struggling with that one.) No one has threatened to come after them, although I absolutely worry about raising a daughter in a world in which our Commander-in-Chief objectifies women ("Not a 10!") and normalizes tearing them down and assaulting them. Again, this isn't new, and women know this, but when a man can scream about a woman's pussy as she's out for a jog or taking her kids through a drive-thru and happens to have an "I'm With Her" bumper sticker on her car, he's not just being vulgar; he's quoting our elected leader.

We're not worried about our family being torn apart or sent away, but so many people have real, legitimate fears about keeping their own children safe. So many children are facing cruelty and bullying, and yes, yes, that has always been true, but now it is normalized by the highest elected office. That is the difference. Do not dare dismiss these fears and this outrage. And do not speak to me about how people weren't protesting like this when Obama was elected, as if those who didn't vote for him somehow displayed more decorum. Most of the things people were afraid of a.) didn't happen and b.) weren't things he ever said he'd do anyway. (My favorite, favorite Facebook post from the fall of 2008, which I noted for all of posterity because this is just amazing, y'all: "Enjoy hunting season, guys. It's likely going to be the last one before Obama comes for our guns." Incidentally, I believe that was from the same person who called me a "libtard." Anyway, I blocked him years ago, because there is just no point in trying to engage in conversation with some people. I can only imagine what his Facebook looks like now. And I'd put money on him having more guns now than he did in 2008.) Right now, I am afraid of the things our president-elect has actually said he would do. And it looks like he's lining up the right people for it.

And I'm embarrassed for feeling shocked. I shouldn't be. This is the reality that human beings in our country face every single day, and they're not shocked, because it is reality. I am a privileged white woman in a blue state. My Facebook feed is full of like-minded folks; I have never been in the practice of unfriending or blocking those who disagree with me, but when people make me clutch my head and roll my eyes too much, I do unfollow them, because I need my eyes for reading stacks of student papers. So my "reality" was a privileged one. I really believed we were better than this.

So I've been reading things that make me uncomfortable and yes, sometimes defensive (because I have good intentions and a good heart, right?), because we don't have time for White Fragility.

I've been following Marlon James on Facebook since reading A Brief History of Seven Killings in June, which is a work of brilliance and literary genius. His Facebook does not tell me everything will be all right and I'm precious for fighting for the light and we need to stay positive. He says things like this:

Also this. Honestly, I couldn’t give two shakes of a rat’s ass about empathizing with the struggle of the white working class. This privileging of white mainstream pain over everybody else’s, is tired bullshit (and not new either), the implication being that only white America has a working class, or more accurately, only white people work. This is nothing new— after all it’s where the attack on welfare and the bootstrapping of black folk come from. Everybody else’s struggle is their fault but for the white working class, shit is rigged. What about the black working class? Remember how entire communities were decimated by the 2008 mortgage crisis? How about the Latino/Hispanic working class that's supposedly stealing that sugar cane plantation job, but not working, at the same time? And while you think every Asian has three degrees and a silicon valley job, maybe next time take a look at who’s cleaning up your hotel room. Now if you’re saying we’re not pandering to the white working class vote, then you have a point. But call it what it is.

This is the kind of thing I need to read, and it is up to me to seek it out if I really want to be better and do better. And I do.

So I'm a work in progress. I guess I start with my own students. I posted this tonight:

Stories are how we SEE each other; if we don't value stories, we do not value our humanity. At the heart of everything we teach, we need to show kids that their lives matter. Many of my students receive the message, loud and clear, that their lives don't matter and their voices won't be heard. This week, they've articulated that. And this week, they're going to work on telling their own stories. It's scary for a lot of them, and it's hard work, but I believe it's important work that we're doing together -- speaking our truth, and learning to see each other. And to see the "other." Writing IS an act of social justice.

So here's to listening, and learning, and outrage. I will not normalize racism, sexism, misogyny, and xenophobia, and I will not stay quiet in the name of "unity." It's not enough, but it's a place to start.

Anger, and trying to figure out how to use it

I'm angry and restless and trying to channel it somewhere.

I should not be shocked about what is happening across the country. I don't think I am. I love my country; don't you dare accuse me of not loving my country because I am angry. But this country is not a safe place for many of its people and it never has been. When a woman is out for a jog and a man hollers out the window that he wants to grab her by the pussy, it's not that it's a frightening, invasive thing to say, although it is: it's that he's quoting our president-elect. When hate speech is scrawled across our children's school bathrooms, across our citizens' cars, when reports of these incidents are pouring in by the thousands, when many of us know someone who personally encountered this in the last couple of days, when our friends are afraid, we need to do a better job of believing them and listening and acting. It's not that these things didn't happen before; of course they did, and many of us didn't have to think about it. Now we hear, "I can finally say that in public!"

The first time I heard Nadia Bolz-Weber speak, she said we need our conservative brothers and sisters, and I agree with her. I don't believe every conservative is a racist, a sexist, or a homophobe. However, I am completely out of patience with conservatives who spend more time announcing that they're not racist and complaining that it's not fair to label them as such than actively speaking out against it.

I'm trying to learn how to be better at this myself. I want to do more than fasten a safety pin to my shirt. I love the intention and the symbolism, but it has to carry more than that, or it's just another way for white people to feel good about themselves. I want to have thick enough skin to learn from people who call me out on my white privilege and obvious blind spots. It's not easy but it is important work that I have to do. Because, like, we don't have time to nurse white people's hurt feelings when lives and safety are literally on the line.

*

Facebook friending and unfriending is an interesting thing. I remember a conversation I had with a conservative friend four years ago; she was dismayed that she had been unfriended by someone because of "politics." It never would have occurred to me to unfriend her, as we disagreed on many things but were still good friends. She thought the unfriending was "immature." I didn't know the circumstances or the other person, but I told her I was sorry that had happened. I see the issue a little differently now. I read an article today that summed it up pretty well: I don't unfriend people over politics, because that's ridiculous. I believe in trying to understand each other; we don't learn or practice empathy if we never experience perspectives other than our own. This is one of my core beliefs, and it is why I am not automatically unfriending anyone who disagrees with me or doesn't share my perspective.

However, I cannot agree to disagree about discriminating against women, LGBTQ folks, people of color, Muslims, immigrants, and refugees, especially if you're not someone I will likely ever engage in real dialogue, meet for coffee, or see ever again. If we politely disagree and engage in respectful dialogue but one of your friends jumps in and calls me a "libtard," and you don't say anything, I don't need to be your friend on Facebook. If you deny the real and pervasive existence of racism, xenophobia, misogyny, and sexism or dismiss it as a "liberal exaggeration," you deny my humanity, you deny my daughter's humanity, you deny my students' humanity, you deny my friends' humanity, and just because we have some mutual high school friends is not reason enough to want to stay "friends." And that is not about my maturity. If your entire Facebook is photoshopped memes and "Share if you agree!" then I probably unfollowed/unfriended/blocked you a long time ago. (My personal favorite: "You voted for Obama twice and now you're going to vote for Hillary? Well, you're an asshole! Share if you agree!" That, by the way, was posted by a staunch Christian. I'm sure I'll miss our respectful dialogue, but I'll cope.)

Day Three: Doing Things

For the past three days I've felt lower than I have in a very long time, as many of us have. After my frenzied early-morning cleaning on Wednesday, I've found it tough to care about basics like eating. I haven't cooked anything since Monday. My family is subsisting on pizza and whatever we can pull out of the freezer. Yesterday afternoon I came home from conferences, takeout in hand. I was short with the kids, who were fighting with each other and probably picking up on my own feelings. I banished them to different parts of the house before sinking into the couch. I slept numbly for a couple of hours. Isaac played quietly in the family room, and Suzannah curled up in the chair next to me. She read until I got up.

Today was better. Last night I went to bed around midnight, but I slept for seven hours. It's a start.

The kids were cheerful this morning. Suzannah curled up in her usual spot to read after breakfast (she does this every morning, including weekends) and Isaac busied himself with toys. I poured a giant mug of coffee and graded the papers I couldn't concentrate on in my free moments during conferences. Grading papers is not the favorite chore of any teacher, obviously, but something about it soothed me today. Just seeing my kids' names, and the way some of them draw little smiley faces at the top of the rubric. Reading their earnest, sometimes awkward, often thoughtful writing. I think about all the conversations I've had with them and with their parents over the past few days. My kids are working hard in a really tough class, and some of the kids that would have had a fit over not getting an A last year are recognizing that sometimes, B's happen. One boy, completely unprompted, spoke about having a growth mindset, about how if his GPA was the only thing he cared about he wouldn't have done full IB but the payoff in learning and college preparation is worth so much more. This same student goes out of his way to introduce himself to new students in class. Like, he walks over and shakes their hands, and somehow it just works. He approaches kids who makes other kids uncomfortable. He approaches the kids who seem unapproachable. He approaches the kid who comes back after a suspension from fighting and draws him into a group.

I could not be more proud of these kids, and I could not be more proud to work where I do. Yes, this is the community in which I want to raise my children, absolutely. These are the kids I want them to learn from. To those of you who have all of your opinions about public schools and think you need to share them with me: you probably need to do a better job of reading your audience. And know that this week, more than ever, I am so grateful to be exactly where I'm at, so proud of the people I work with, and absolutely determined to show up and work my hardest for these kids. And I am proud to raise my children among them.

A night of okayish sleep, combined with a renewed commitment to show up for these students, makes grading their papers a little less painful. Today, I am seeing it as one more way to connect with them. Yes, babies, I'm gonna ask you to develop this idea a little more, or rework this frightful sentence that doesn't make any sense, or suggest that you proofread or read the assignment a little more carefully, but you can also be sure that I won't pass up an opportunity to draw my own smiley face somewhere on your paper or write a jubilant "yes!" in the margin.

It wasn't a bad way to start the day.

"What are we doing today, Mommy?" Isaac asked eventually.

"Everything," I replied.

We went to get his hair cut. I've been meaning to get that done for about two weeks.

We went looking for rain boots for Suzannah and me. We were unsuccessful at the first store, but I bought a completely unnecessary pair of shoes for myself. I never buy unnecessary shoes; I hate shoes. I think other people look really cute in all kinds of them but I just do not give a damn about them for myself. I would go barefoot all the time if I could. But I bought myself a new pair of shoes. Is this what retail therapy is like?

We went to Bath & Body Works and I bought a candle that was not strictly necessary except that I love and adore candles in the fall and winter and this was half-price. I bought a bunch of festive hand soap. I bought body wash that promises to make me smell like a snowflake.

Suzannah knocked over an entire display of lotion. It cascaded to the floor with spectacular sound and fury and I wanted to die.

"Oops," she said.

But then three teenage girls nearby rushed over to help her pick it all up. This is my community, friends. There are good people here.

We went to Target and I bought Ninja Turtle bubble bath for Isaac, a winter coat for Suzannah, and cleaning supplies for me.

We drove to Tacoma and met Kyanne for lunch at the Rosewood Cafe. I ordered clam chowder (their soup is always perfect on Fridays) and a turkey sandwich, even though I rarely eat grains and not very long ago I was a vegetarian. Most of the time I still want to be, especially when I eat out, but this week is ridiculous so whatever. I also ordered a glass of pinot grigio, because. Because. It was all delicious. Afterwards, we walked a few blocks to a store where we bought a few whimsical Christmas presents for my nephews. The afternoon was so beautiful -- cloudy, but so warm, warm enough not to need a jacket. More and more leaves have fallen over the sidewalks, but the trees lining the streets still burst with orange and red branches. Puget Sound shimmered down the hill, beyond the trees.

On the way home, we stopped by Fred Meyer and found our rain boots. Suzannah's are a lovely shade of mauve, because those are the ones that fit her. She can't wear kids' boots anymore, but there aren't many women's boots in her size, either. I had more choices, and I let the kids vote, so mine have ducks all over them. Her soccer coach says I'm going to need good boots for tomorrow's away game, because we're playing at a field that is apparently the muddiest field in the state of Washington.

Back at the house, I changed into running clothes and the kids donned their bike helmets and we headed for the school playground. We stopped by their friends' house on the way, so I collected a couple of extra boys. The kids played and I ran on the little gravel track until it started to get dark. The last few days have felt so heavy; I just needed to move and breathe and listen to my children laugh. I ran for fifteen minutes longer than I planned, and I felt better than I have all week.

This evening, my son asked, "What will Hillary do now?"

And I said, "Well, she has spent her whole life working to help people, so she will keep doing that, even if she's not the president. Just like President Obama and Michelle Obama. They've spent their whole lives helping people, so they'll find ways to keep doing that."

My kids nodded thoughtfully, and we talked about how very important it is for us to work hard and to be kind. I've been reading all kinds of things about "How to talk to your kids after the election" (because my own frame of mind has been pretty rough this week and I'm not sure I trust myself to do this well) and the things that stand out are these: Make sure they feel safe and protected. Tell them that while we honor the outcome of the election, we will not support bigotry. My kids and I talk a lot about this: we stand with our Muslim, black, Latinx, gay, transgender, immigrant, and disabled friends and their families. (When Isaac asks a question about what gay means, Suzannah steps in, reminds him of the time we went to a friend's wedding when he married his partner, and doesn't he remember that? And he says, "Oh! Yeah!") We talk about being good friends, and about making sure people feel safe. We talk about being good friends to people who might seem lonely or afraid. We talk about why they might feel that way.

And I have to say that right now, I am deeply grateful to live where we do. My children attend school in a diverse district, and we don't see a lot of Trump signs in our neighborhood. My daughter and her classmates feel safe expressing themselves. (She's apparently less safe at church, where an older man felt he had the right to tell her that "Hillary will be in prison by November 8." I wasn't present. And it's not okay to say that to someone else's child. That, I promise you, will not happen again.)

A few weeks ago, a well-meaning friend thought that maybe I should consider living somewhere "safer." He comes at this from a perspective vastly different from my own, and I try to remember this and appreciate that he seems to be speaking out of love and concern. But the places he suggested as "safe" are are basically entirely white, and I have come to distrust those places. Yes, my children would be perfectly fine and, I suppose, "safe"; they are white, and raised by white, Christian ("Christian"?), straight parents. But the red places on the maps terrify me. One friend had her car vandalized because of her bumper sticker; others report having men shout lewd things at them about baby-killing and N***** loving. But that's to be expected at this point; Salon tweeted a reminder that our first black president must hand over the office to a man openly celebrated by the fucking KKK. (Every once in awhile I get a little side-eye about the language on my blog, usually from a "Christian." Getting a little side-eye from a "Christian" who defends a man who talks openly about grabbing a woman's pussy is...interesting.) My point is that for all of the issues in my own community, I certainly feel no draw to leave it.

I'm still so afraid, and given to despair. The number of incidents in which kids are targeted at school across the country is skyrocketing in the days following the election BECAUSE WE FUCKING ELECTED A PRESIDENT WHO NORMALIZES THIS, and if this doesn't shake you to the core of your soul, then please, please unfollow and unfriend me right. now.

But I'm surrounded by so much goodness, and that's worth showing up for. We roll up our sleeves and we keep working. I'm still not ready to cook dinner, but I'm not going to stay on the couch.

Pray for my godless, progressive soul

Franklin Graham - great guy, that one - wrote, "Christians went to the polls, and God showed up."

This Christian went to the polls too, so, I mean, I'm not really sure how to take that. There's a lot to unpack there. Of course, I am absolutely sure that Franklin Graham doesn't think I count as a Christian. I am one of the "godless progressives."

(I wonder if I should have a T-shirt made. I'd also obviously need to add "Nasty Woman." What else? What other warning labels should I carry?)

I really wanted to ask my pastor if I was still allowed to come to church, or if I just need way more church, or what. Probably I go to the wrong kind of church. I definitely understand the meaning of Christian quite differently. Tsk. Such gaps in my faith education.

Stages of grief, or...something.

My eyes are scratchy from crying hard last night and intermittently all day long today. From sleeping for only a few fitful hours before I gave up at three o'clock this morning. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I'm so tired, and I should have been in bed a long time ago because tomorrow I need to be back at school an hour earlier than usual, but I can't sleep. I've never been a good sleeper when I'm upset, ever.

I spent the day at school for conferences, and my children had to come with me because they don't have school. Teachers' kids are used to this sort of thing, and actually, I kind of love looking up from my table in the library, parents and teenagers milling around, and seeing my own kids sprawled in the back reading or coloring or watching a DVD on their little portable player. They're so comfortable there, and I took comfort in having them close today. I also just ached. My children. My God. What kind of world are we giving them? My colleague rightly pointed out that our daughters are likely to have fewer freedoms than their mothers and grandmothers. Teaching The Handmaid's Tale seems appropriate right now, but while it's a book I love by one of my favorite writers, I just feel so exhausted and sad when I think about the conversations we're going to have. So many kids talked about it today when they stopped by my table. They get it. They get it. I'm so proud of them.

And speaking of students, listening to some of them talk about what they have to do just to get to school every day just humbles me. They're so matter-of-fact; they do what they need to do. They have to be grown in ways I never did as a teenager. Some of them are probably more grown than I am now.

Knowing that many of them are afraid breaks my heart. Breaks. my. fucking. heart.

And I will respect the privacy and the hearts and souls of my former students who bare those beautiful hearts and souls on Facebook even though I want to share all of their posts here, but please know that their worries and fears are real. They're not exaggerations. And I am afraid for them, too. And I'm more proud of them than I can express for speaking their truth, because they are what is right about this country. They are why I continue to serve public education with passion in a country that shows nothing but contempt for its teachers. And America's hatred of teachers will get worse before it gets better, that much has already been made clear. But my wise and wonderful friend Becca said this morning, "We get up. We go to school. We teach the children. It's what we do."

Today, the parents of a girl I taught last year stopped by my table. I don't teach their daughter anymore, but they wanted to say hello. Before they left, her father touched my arm and said, "You're where you belong. You make a difference you don't even realize." I tried not to tear up, but I couldn't help it: I cried. Of course, today, I cried. I believe they said this to many deserving teachers today, and I am so profoundly grateful. There are good people in the world, in my world. I'm afraid of a lot of people right now, but I have to believe there is more than this, or I couldn't go on.

So I took a lot of bathroom breaks today, just to get myself together. I ran into lots of other teachers doing the very same thing. We stood outside together to breathe. We found each other for hugs, for quick bursts of tears before we went back to our kids and their parents. I work with the very best of the best, and I am clinging to that solidarity. I work with people who love fiercely and tirelessly and who will not stop working for what is good and right even when it feels hopeless, because we teachers have a fierce and unkillable hope burning in our souls. It is the only way we press on. (Dear Colleagues, sometimes you have no idea how desperately I wish I could join you for Happy Hour when I'm at soccer practice or whatever, but please know that I am still so grateful for your camaraderie and solidarity, for your friendship and compassion and inspiration. Sometimes I don't know how to tell you that. It matters, and I love you.)

So anyway, hey, white people! Hey white folks who are surrounded only by other white folks who are writing well-intentioned things about unity or whatever! Do you spend your one wild and precious life with kids who are genuinely terrified that our new president will send them away? No? Then with all due respect, please stop, at least for a little while, realize that you are perfectly fine but not everyone is, and let people grieve. Wildly, desperately, deeply. Look, I believe we all need each other, I really do believe that, but I am also reeling with the realization that there are an awful lot of people who seem to think this country actually just belongs to white folks. And who cheerfully elected a president who trivializes sexual assault, among other things. A man who speaks about women in incredibly degrading and dehumanizing terms. And his supporters do not care, and there are a lot of them. What the actual fuck? So I'm not sure how to reconcile that yet. I don't know what "unity" looks like. Yesterday morning my daughter and I talked about how exciting it was to vote for Hillary. And I might as well tell you all right now that I was excited to vote for Hillary. I didn't "hold my nose and vote." I think the narrative people have created around her is sexist and absurd and built on lies spun by white men. I also know that if you believe that narrative and you're reading this, well, there's nothing I can do to change your mind and, quite frankly, you're probably not going to change mine (especially with a "Share if you agree!"). I was proud to support her yesterday and I am proud today and if you want, I can tell you why I decided I would be behind her all the way back in the winter of 2000 when I was a junior at Concordia College and realizing that what I believed deep in my soul took me far from where I was raised, which was tricky territory to navigate. But today, well, here we are. Now we just get more of the revolting fuckery that half our country is fine to excuse. How do I navigate this territory?

And I mean, I will figure it out. Because Matt and I are doing our damndest to raise a different sort of man, and we are raising a fierce and strong woman. And they both have good men and women in their lives who are the opposite of everything this new leader unapologetically embodies. It's just that it's pretty horrific when I have to acknowledge that we're apparently surrounded by people who have no problem excusing that horrific behavior, and bafflingly, those people also seem to think they have "values" and "morals." Do not speak to me of values and morals. Ever. Is it any wonder I spent hours last night feeling sick to my stomach?

I am going to get up and go to school again. I'm going to dig in. I'm going to raise my children, I'm going to teach these kids as well as I can. I'm going to find hope again: in my colleagues and in our kids. I do believe this, I think. But let people grieve this loss, because it is a loss. Let people be afraid without dismissing or placating them. Even if it's all right for you, it might very well be not all right for someone less privileged and less safe.

The sun did rise, but the morning is gray. I've been awake since three o'clock this morning. Not, like, half-dozing and restlessly trying to sleep, but wide awake. Up. The only positive thing that can come from this is that I am going to come home to furiously clean bathrooms after conferences today.

This isn't okay.

My friend Tara said it best: I thought I was afraid for what it would mean to have him in charge of this country but what I've realized I'm really afraid of is being surrounded by people who think like him.

I think we've been in denial about how many there are.

I remember crying the night Obama was elected, weeping through his speech, and feeling so hopeful. This morning I'm crying because I feel like we've rammed ourselves into frenzied reverse.

All evening, Suzannah begged for election updates.

When I finally tucked her into bed, she asked for extra kisses. She never does that. She usually complains that I kiss her too much.

I hugged her close and whispered, "No matter who wins the election, remember that there are good people in the world doing good things, and we will fight with those people. We're going to keep fighting for the light, kiddo." She relaxed a bit, and smiled.

And then I walked into the kitchen and burst into tears. (I'm still crying as I type this. Crying and shaking. The day was so warm--too warm, eerily warm for November. I'm freezing right now. I can't get warm enough.)

Matt wrapped me in a huge hug. I told him that nothing, nothing, is more terrifying than white men who are afraid of sharing. He agreed with me. I made an excellent choice when I married him and he is reinforcing that tonight.

"We're raising a daughter," I sobbed. "For that matter, we're raising a son."

How are we here? How is this who we are?

We will not overlook, rationalize, normalize, or excuse misogyny, racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, bullying, and hatred. We are raising our children to be better than that.

I can't write any more tonight.

Another Saturday

I finished A Lowcountry Heart this morning and I am utterly bereft.

We woke to rain, and we watched our girl play soccer in it. For over an hour-and-a-half, through warm-ups and a game, the girls played while I huddled under my umbrella. Suzannah's ponytail was slick with water, her cheeks pink. I couldn't feel my toes through my soaked running shoes. Isaac and one of the other little brothers spent most of the game kicking an empty can around the skate park next to the soccer field, and jumping wildly in giant puddles. He was more drenched than his sister. In the car he peeled off his raincoat to reveal a soaked shirt, and his rain boots came off with an unpleasant squelch.

The girls won 8-0 today.

Back at home Matt made perfect grilled cheese sandwiches and I heated tomato soup. Afterwards, I curled up on the couch for a quick nap, something I usually try to save for Sunday, but the sound of rain on the roof was too alluring. The kids took warm baths but as I write this, my son is back outside on his bike, with his boots, in the rain, while Matt cleans the gutters. Suzannah has been reading, reading, reading. I'm starting a new book, too: The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead, which I already think you should read.

The rain is relentless. It hits the ground with so much force that the street seems to move, to ripple under the water. The water froths at the edge of the driveway, gushes noisily from the downspouts. The sun will return this week, and I will find it beautiful, but these afternoons are the ones I love the best: rain-darkened and gusty. I didn't go for a run today, though Matt did. I ate my grilled cheese and pulled a quilt around my shoulders. I reread Pat Conroy's 2001 Citadel speech and wept.

We won't cook at home tonight; we'll slide into a booth somewhere else. The kids will do their best to annoy each other, and Matt and I will be exasperated. We will make half-hearted threats. We'll smile at each other while the kids complain that someone's foot is too close to the other one's side underneath the table. Or we'll roll our eyes. Or both. I can see these moments play out because so many Saturday evenings play out exactly this way, and I love every single silly moment.

Reading, grieving, anxiety, love

It is a spectacularly beautiful autumn day in the Pacific Northwest. The morning was crisp and sunny, with a bite to the air. I wrapped myself in a hoodie and cheerfully flung wide the door to my classroom, propping it open.

"But it's cold," my students cried, the delicate flowers that they are. I smiled and reminded them that I am from Montana and a day like this in November is golden and lovely and meant for enjoying, and I was sorry that I am made of tougher stuff than they are. By the end of the day the sun was just a little lower, but warmer. I left school as soon as I could and managed to squeeze in one of my head-clearing runs before collecting my children at school. This is one of the most perfect times of year to run outside when it's not raining. The air is smoky and sweet, the sidewalks full of soft piles of leaves, still damp, not quite turned to brittle crunchiness. That will come later this month.

This afternoon at soccer practice I sat comfortably on the sidelines for the first time in a few weeks -- the practices have been damp and drizzly lately -- and read A Lowcountry Heart: Reflections on a Writing Life, a collection of Pat Conroy's blog entries, letters, interviews, speeches, and articles. Ron mailed it to me and it arrived in the mail yesterday, the best gift from one of the best men in my life. I am utterly heartbroken that these words are the last of Conroy's that I will read but so grateful that someone else shares this love with me. I sat at the edge of the soccer field and read and read, falling in love again with things I've already seen (I've read everything on his blog, but it is such a joy to have it all between two hard covers, especially since I share his distaste for the word blog), and falling in love with things I've somehow missed. No one else on this earth can remind me in quite the same way why I am an English teacher and remind me how fiercely I love it, and how fiercely I love my kids, these kids, exactly where we are. No one else can remind me in the same way how desperately in love I am with perfectly crafted sentences, a love that drives me to write my own clumsy attempts. I was a voracious reader before I fell in love with The Prince of Tides at the age on fifteen on a roadtrip to Minnesota, but encountering Pat Conroy opened up a wider love for the power of language and books than any writer has before or since.

I cannot read his work without tears streaming down my face, and I cannot read his work without laughing out loud. Years ago I said that one thing I wanted in this life was to meet him and tell him exactly what he has meant to me. I've met a number of writers I have loved and admired but I am grieving the loss of the one I loved above all others. Back in February -- have I written this already? I think I have -- I read his announcement that he was battling pancreatic cancer while sitting in our hotel room in Portland, Oregon. That afternoon I went to Powell's and bought a signed hardcover copy of Beach Music, which I read for the first time in my dorm room during my freshmen year at Concordia, as well as a new copy of The Water is Wide (my battered paperback is tucked in my old bedroom at my parents' house and I need all of his books with me) and a hardcover first edition of My Losing Season, which I loved much more than is reasonable for a girl who doesn't care about basketball or the Citadel but who found herself caring very much when Pat Conroy wrote about it. And then I walked to a coffee shop up the street and wrote him a long letter. A young woman sat nearby and asked me, after awhile, what I was writing. I told her, and we talked about books and writers and the IB program (she was an IB grad!) for a long time. We exchanged book lists.

Pat Conroy died three weeks later, and I never sent the letter.

*

I'm off Facebook for awhile, at least until this election is over. I'm anxious enough without the relentless noise of social media. I really am terrified that Trump will win. And I am terrified that people I love, people I respect, will reveal that they voted for him. I really do not want to know. I've never felt like this before; in every other election of my life I've disagreed with plenty of people (I hail from a mightily red state, after all) but I always felt like I could at least try to understand their perspective and appreciate where they were coming from. I can't do that this time. I cannot in any way condone voting for someone who is an unapologetic racist, a bully, a xenophobe, a misogynist. I do not want to raise my children in a world that normalizes that behavior in a leader. I think about how anxious I was four years ago, but my word, after the horrifying Al Smith dinner this year I went back and watched the Al Smith dinners from both 2012 and 2008, laughed with appreciative nostalgia, and realized just how ugly year is. John McCain and Mitt Romney possessed a fundamental decency that Donald Trump just does not, nevermind everything else about him that is just monstrous. And watching people rush to excuse that is revolting to me. (I read a comment on a friend's page that went something like, "Donald Trump could stab a baby on live TV and his supporters would still be all, 'But e-maaaaaails!'")

I read what I wrote on election day four years ago and it all still applies now, every word, except now I look at Mitt Romney almost fondly. Oh, 2012 self, if only you knew what we were in for next.

In 2012 I was not disciplined enough to not read Facebook around the election. (I don't think I was nearly so afraid of losing friends.) Now, though, it feels absolutely necessary. I love Facebook for a lot of reasons but every single time I step away I recognize an almost immediate and significant improvement in my general mental health.

I'm teaching Margaret Atwood in my junior classes right now. This feels appropriate.

I can imagine what Pat Conroy would write about all of this. I wish he were here to do it.

(Please just let everything be okay.)

Fragments

Sometimes I want things to be easy. Sometimes, when things feel hard, I fantasize about moving somewhere and raising my children in a safe little bubble and teaching in a safe little school where my biggest problem is all the white moms who are irritated because their honor students have a few B's or their sons aren't getting enough playing time on the field and the school district would never be in the news unless it was to report on the Homecoming game; perhaps the biggest controversy would be some conservative parent protesting a novel or a cheating scandal or something. But the thing is that I don't want that. I don't want those people to be the people who influence my children, the people they learn from, the people who shape their worldview. And frankly, I know that so much of what I value about where I am now would not be possible if I retreated to that mythical bubble.

But right now I am indulging in a fantasy, because things have just not been easy this year. Well, some things. I need to remember that, on top of everything that makes me feel so unmoored right now, I also have the deep privilege to teach three of the best classes I have experienced. Teaching them is exciting. It's everything I love about teaching. That is something, and it is a lot.

*

Sometimes, the parts that are hard become the parts that I live for. The parts that make me stay, in the end. And when that's not enough, I have the best people in my corner, in the trenches with me. The best of the best. And these people are the people I want in my children's lives.

*

October makes the unbearable bearable. When I can manage it, I squeeze in a quick run before I pick up the kids in the afternoon. I run through piles of damp, fallen leaves and breathe in the faint scent of woodsmoke. Some of these fall afternoons have been beautifully sunny and warm. The other day I jogged through a light rain that soothed the edges of my fraying nerves. The sky begins to darken earlier, and I am ready to settle in at home afterwards, settle my kids at the table with their snacks and their books and their math while I slip into the bathtub with a book of my own.

*

Twice a week we go to soccer practice. Suzannah runs to the field, ponytail swinging, shouting greetings to her friends. Isaac runs off with the other little brothers. Sometimes one of the soccer dads brings a football and tosses it around with the boys; sometimes they stomp through puddles and run off to collect sticks and branches and enter a world of wild boyhood just beyond my grasp. They play at the edges of the trees, stomp through piles of leaves, disappear for a few anxious moments, and reappear with whoops and hollers. I sit at the edge of the field, my eyes glancing between them: my girl on the field, my son just beyond it. I love them so much I can hardly breathe. Observing them like this, when they are wholly, unselfconsciously themselves, so present in their bodies, is one of the great gifts of motherhood. These babies, my babies, these wonderful humans. What will they become?

*

I tell everyone I never wanted to be a soccer mom and I mean it. I never did. Matt and I are great lovers of outdoor activities: hiking, swimming, running. We are not great lovers of sports, although I have been known to enjoy a good college basketball game. But somehow, the two of us produced a child who loves sports (she understands football more than I do, no question), and when she said she really wanted to play soccer with a real team, what could I do but sign her up? And as it turns out, I love it. I really do. I've spent every Tuesday and Thursday since mid-August at the soccer field, sitting in a camp chair and reading or chatting with the other parents. I've spent every Saturday for nearly three months watching her play fiercely in games, and there is no reading then: I'm in it, all the way. I'm balling my hands into nervous fists, I'm cheering, I'm leaning forward and holding my breath. I have intense respect for her coach, who is a legitimately awesome coach but who is also gracious and positive. I love the girls on the team and it has been amazing to watch them grow together. I love the other parents, how they learn the names of all the players. Two months in and we cheer together. We shout encouragement to each girl, by name, and when one goalie throws herself into the mud to stop a ball or one girl finesses the ball away from the other team and passes smoothly and another shoots it triumphantly into the net, we know which parent to turn to: "Your girl is doing great."

The girls didn't play their best game today; they had a make-up game last night (from the game they lost due to the epic storm that didn't quite happen two weekends ago), a mere eighteen hours before their regular game today, and we could all tell they were tired and foggy. But still, the mood was upbeat. One of the dads said, "It's more like they're out there going for a nice little jog together and they've forgotten about the ball," he said. He started jogging in place next to me. "Y'all want to to out later after the game? What are you doing this afternoon?" And we all laughed. We didn't love losing the game, but I did love that when the girls walked off the field together, red-faced, hair sticking to their cheeks, they called cheerful good-byes to each other: "See you tomorrow!" Because we play in a state cup qualifier tomorrow. It's exactly the sort of weekend I assumed I would dread, but somehow, I don't. When I learned the season lasted until December, I thought that seemed like an awfully long time; now, as I can stare down the month of November, I'm already feeling a little sad about the season's end. I really, truly love this. What an unexpected joy.

*

After today's game we headed to Seattle. Matt took the kids to EMP and dropped me off at one of my favorite coffee shops to work on an online workshop I'm doing this month. I really wanted to just sip coffee and read (I'm loving Work Like Any Other by Virginia Reeves), but I hunkered down and worked for two hours and wound up feeling so glad I didn't put this off for late Sunday afternoon, which would have made me edgy and stressed because I still don't really know what I'm going to do with my freshmen on Monday and I need to spend part of tomorrow figuring that out. When they came back to pick me up the kids were happy and spent and full of stories: Suzannah ran into one of her classmates and they played together, and Isaac told me what he loved best about the Sound Room. We drove to West Seattle for dinner. Matt and the kids walked to Easy Street Records while I wandered over to Elliott Bay Brewing to put in our name. I crossed the street behind two men in jeans and boots and leather jackets with chains, and suddenly they clasped hands and giggled and crashed their hips together, totally smitten. They walked more and more slowly as they looked at each other, and I couldn't help smiling. One of them leaned in to kiss the other, and then he glanced back at me.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said.

"We're totally hogging the sidewalk," the other said.

"No, it's okay," I said. And then I blurted, "You're...really cute."

They looked at each other and beamed and laughed.

"I had to bring my Jersey boy to Seattle," one said. "It's his first time."

"Don't listen to him. I just met him five minutes ago. But I think he might be my next husband."

We all laughed and said goodnight as I went inside the pub. I scrawled our name on the wait list and headed for the bathroom. I passed a table with two parents and a golden-haired baby, who looked up at me and grinned and waved, her chubby hand opening and closing. Coming out of the bathroom, I met a mother leading a toddler by the hand. That kiddo looked up at me and said, "Hiiii!" And in the space of five minutes, I just felt that in spite of everything, the universe can show us these beautiful moments of grace, these fleeting random encounters: people in love, babies, toddlers, husbands who lead children into a restaurant and slide into a booth with their wives. The warmth of it all.

At least I don't have hantavirus (probably)

Hi, everyone. I had a spectacularly terrible week, kind of, and I cried a lot and felt really angry and I don't really want to write about that here at the moment, so I'm going to write about some other things instead because it still feels like a good night to write something.

We are supposed to be in the midst of a spectacular wind storm here in the Pacific Northwest. To be fair, lots of areas are; we just left West Seattle, where we ventured this afternoon to do a little kite-flying on Alki Beach (Matt and Isaac) and cozy beverage-sipping and reading (Mom and Suzannah). By the time we'd had dinner, wandered around inside Easy Street Records, and had dessert, we ducked through some pretty impressive sideways rain on the way to our car. But our neighborhood is relatively quiet, if wet.

I'm mostly grateful, because every time we have a terrific storm I'm a little afraid that the enormous tree in our front yard will topple over and crush our house. Matt reminds me that our tree has been firmly rooted in our yard for decades longer than we've walked the planet and it has survived a storm or two. Also, during the truly spectacular wind storm of 2006, we lost power for several days. We had a baby and a freezer full of breast milk. The baby fared much better than the milk, which I had to pour down the drain. I cried bitter tears, and when I revisit that moment, I'm still not okay. (In 2010 we lost power for about an hour during a snow storm. I had another freezer full of milk for Isaac by then, and I distinctly remember telling Matt that either we make sure to get that liquid gold on ice or someone would damn well have to start drinking it.)

I do love a good storm, though. Two years ago Matt and I had a beautiful overnight at the ocean on our anniversary, and a December storm at the coast is a fabulous thing to witness when one can duck inside a cozy little cabin with a book and a good drink and company that loves the same thing. I don't think we're going to witness anything like that tonight. However, we did get to see the weather turn from eerily still to impressively gusty in a couple of hours, and tonight our kids are in jammies early and watching a movie, and I'm sipping wine and writing this and enjoying the fact that I made sure every last bit of laundry was done in case we do lose power for days, which looks unlikely at the moment.

I did have Matt stop and buy ice on the way home, though, just in case. And we may or may not have exchanged words on how "necessary" that might have been, and I may or may not have said fine, let's not even worry, and I hope the power does go out and we have to throw away all our food, so there, and then because I am a totally rational person I said that if the power does NOT go out and he says something smug about that then I might just throw away all our food anyway SO THERE. (There's a reason I have a pair of socks with the words "Dealing with me must be fun" on them.)

Speaking of Matt, two weeks ago this happened: he pulled me into the hallway and said in a low voice, "I have something to tell you. I've been putting it off, because I didn't want you to freak out."

During the time it took him to finish speaking those two sentences, I was absolutely certain he was going to tell me that he was leaving me, that he had lost his job, that he had cancer, that I had cancer, that all of our parents were dying, that somehow all of our money was gone, that he had discovered some very expensive structural issue with our house that would require us to tear it down, and/or that we had to move.

What he said was, "I'm not totally sure but I think I saw a mouse run into the laundry room this morning."

I wanted to laugh, because after all of those other things that blazed through my obviously unhealthy brain in two seconds, it was a huge relief. The relief was short-lived, though, once I realized that we actually would have to tear down our house. I am not exactly afraid of mice, but I also don't think I am emotionally capable of handling a mouse infestation at this particular moment in time.

I said as much. I think Matt made some sort of attempt to soothe me. I started googling (which is always, always a terrible idea) and determined that our house was obviously full of mice, and they'd found a hole in the dryer vent and it was just all over. I announced that they can fit through a hole the size of a pencil eraser and so there was just no way we could even fight it.

My dad, who had a workshop in Seattle and was staying with us for the weekend, said, "Oh, for Pete's sake. Have you seen any droppings? You don't have a mouse infestation."

(I was already flinging cereal boxes out of the cupboards and Cloroxing my cabinets, which were devoid of mouse droppings, but that was beside the point.)

Now, my parents come from farming folks, and they know how to deal with a mouse without getting all hysterical about it. My dad remained maddeningly calm while he said, "Here's what you do. You buy this particular kind of trap. They sell it at WalMart; we'll pick up a couple on our way home from dinner. You'll set two, with a bit of peanut butter. And if there is even a mouse in your laundry room, this will get him by tomorrow morning."

Matt listened to my dad and bought the traps.

I sent hysterical texts all over the place.

To Becca, I wrote "MATT IS PRETTY SURE HE SAW A FUCKING MOUSE RUN INTO OUR LAUNDRY ROOM. We can't find it. Probably we have to move."

To Kyanne: "I THINK THERE IS A MOUSE IN OUR LAUNDRY ROOM. My dad is being calm. I said to we had to tear down and rebuild, and that's 'silly.' I randomly bleached some cupboards."

She wondered why I thought there was a mouse. I replied, "Because Matt is pretty sure he saw it. Like the actual mouse. Pretty compelling." Later that night we all went to the Old Spaghetti Factory after Suzannah's soccer game, and since the wait was forty-five minutes Matt took the kids for a walk and my dad and I sat in the bar. My text to Kyanne: "Fyi I am drinking my first gin and tonic in six weeks in front of my dad because MOUSE."

It gets better, of course, because the lingering cough I thought was merely the remnant of my cold led me to google hantavirus, which then led to googling "Mortality rates of hantavirus," which led to me texting my mother with the unfortunate news that what I thought was a cold was in fact something far more sinister, and her response led me to believe that she was not taking me seriously. Figuring I had about a 50/50 chance and nobody even cared, I stormed off to bed, where of course I did not sleep. Early the next morning I crept out of bed and went to check the traps. The one we'd set next to the kitchen garbage can was empty. The one in the laundry room was not.

I ran back to Suzannah's room; she was already awake and reading in her room (of course).

"Suzannah!" I cried. "The mousetrap worked!"

"Yes," she said. "I already know that." She didn't even look up from her book.

My dad was up as well. "I saw it," he said, "but I didn't throw it out because I wanted to make sure you saw it. If I'd told you the trap had worked but you didn't actually see the mouse yourself, you'd accuse me of making it up just to stop you from freaking out." Turns out my dad knows me pretty well.

After examining the mouse a bit more closely, I decided it was too fat to be just a regular mouse and was, in fact, a mouse full of babies, which led to more googling, which led to me loudly announcing that mice can get pregnant every single month and they mature in a few weeks, and that had better be the only mouse, but I was going to make sure. So Matt moved everything out of the laundry room (Everything! And he had to move the washer and dryer out from the wall so I could really get back there, too) so I could inspect and scrub every corner. I feel like I keep a pretty clean house, but that laundry room hasn't been so thoroughly scoured in years.

No one else seemed flustered. My dad said he thought it probably just darted in the back door when it was left open for too long, and that I probably didn't have to worry about hordes of mice filling our laundry room via the dryer vent. He recommended leaving the two traps set for a couple of days, and if nothing showed up, I could relax.

We haven't seen any mice since then, and I haven't found any droppings. But this morning my son pulled out his art supplies, sat at the dining room table, drew and colored a picture of a mouse (really a pretty good one), cut it out, and poked it through the bathroom door when I was in there this morning.

"Hey," I said (because for crying out loud, I haven't been to the bathroom by myself in a decade). I heard his gleeful little chuckle as he ran away, calling, "Daddy! I know how to scare Mommy!"

Checking in

Well, hey. It's been a little while.

School is back in session and somehow it is almost late September already. I am working very, very hard right now. Every teacher I know is working hard right now. Things feel intense in a seriously unsustainable way. Looking at my calendar in the past few weeks has made it difficult for me to breathe; last week I had seven meetings in five days. This week, I had almost that much, with a beast of a cold on top. On Tuesday of this week I left the house just after six o'clock in the morning and didn't return until six-thirty in the evening, and Matt came home to find me nearly in tears on the couch announcing that I didn't give a shit about dinner or if I even ever ate it again. I've been drinking too much coffee in the mornings and too much Nyquil at night. It really all seems pretty stupid for someone still technically working "part time."

Part of it is just the unavoidable crush of September. Open Houses. New routines. Planning for new classes. Also: new trainings that will ultimately be good and valuable but are, at the moment, just overwhelming. And some of it I chose; like, I also decided it was a good idea to take a ten-day intensive writing workshop at the same time school was starting. (It probably wasn't my best idea, but also, I don't regret it one bit.) I also decided to take a month-long break from eating grains, dairy, or sugar, because! I am at the top of my game when I'm not eating those things, and at the beginning of September, I thought, "Why wouldn't I want to feel amazing at the beginning of the school year? Let's do this!" I did a strict Whole30 in January and realized I'd never felt better in my life, but over the summer I was pretty careless about when and what I ate, so I thought it was a good time for a reset. I've drastically reduced my overall consumption of grains and dairy in the last eight months so that didn't feel particularly hard; what was hard was not being able to come home at the end of an exhausting day and just order a pizza and pop open a bottle of wine. But I married a man who chops vegetables like a champ, and in the end, I always felt better after eating real food at home. I've had tons of energy and I've been falling asleep at a reasonable hour and I've been waking refreshed before my alarm! Until I came down with this monster of a cold and everything just went straight to hell.

So I'm tired, and sometimes I have a terrible attitude about everything. I have one class that feels really hard right now for lots of reasons. Today someone asked me if I would be "interested" in committing to a particular thing and, as important as this thing is, I twisted my face into a polite smile while feeling intense hostility, like, back away slowly, Lady. I blow my nose two hundred times an hour and it is so sore and I am utterly pitiful. I coughed my way through two Open Houses this week, mine and the kids'. I collapse uselessly in the living room at night. Or I become insufferable, scrubbing the bathtub at six-thirty in the morning before breakfast, announcing loudly that if Hillary Clinton can campaign with pneumonia like a badass, then I sure as hell can stick to my cleaning schedule when I have a damn cold. My husband thinks this is misguided and bizarre, and he shakes his head and mutters things about how if I ever skip cleaning the house it's probably a sign I need to be hospitalized, but there are certain things I cannot tolerate and feeling like crap in a grimy house happens to be one of them.

But even in (and perhaps especially in) the midst of these tough weeks, there are moments of deep gratitude: When two of my colleagues make me hot tea and another slips me packets of Emergen-C while I'm teaching. (I really work with such great people. Truly. That is worth everything. I think part of what's been so hard lately is that I spend my entire planning period hunkered down working in a total frenzied panic because I hardly even know where to start right now and I don't have time to check in with my people, to wander around a bit and say hi, and that has me feeling as unmoored as anything.) When I huddle in front of my junior classes with my mug in hand, croaking at my students, and they respond with sympathy and generosity and are, generally, just purely delightful. When I teach three classes of kids who call me out of my stress and my feelings of total inadequacy and make me forget how wretched I feel, when I can genuinely enjoy a class on a twelve-hour day that leaves me weeping at the end of it -- that's a good deal. Last night at our Open House I told several parents how much I just adore this group as a whole, how much I love coming to school every day because of them, and one mother pressed her hands over her heart and said, breathlessly, "Really?"

(I am clinging to such moments because today a freshmen boy informed me he wanted to be in "any English class besides this one." Which, I mean...I kind of feel the same way, at the moment. That was at the beginning of class. Things did not feel better at the end of it.)

And there are other good things, things I must remember because I romanticize September. My children love school, and I love their teachers. Suzannah's class is this wonderful, dorky bunch of kids and her teacher, whom she also had last year, is a perfect fit for them, and she has a classroom library to die for. Isaac's teacher is exactly who I hoped he would have, and he seems to be doing really well. I could not be happier with the teachers who spend their days with my children. We walked through the halls of their school and every adult -- the principal, the P.E. teacher, the music teacher, the teachers who have taught them in other years -- greeted them by name. What a wonderful and necessary thing, to feel known and loved at school.

Suzannah plays soccer on a team now, and while practices add hours to a couple of our weeknights this season, she loves the game and I love watching her become part of this team. And I find myself unexpectedly riveted at her games. I never wanted to be a soccer mom, but I do love watching my girl play. Isaac tears around the playground next to the field with the coach's son, or he plays ball with a group of other little brothers, informally "coached" by one of the soccer dads. I love watching him play, too.

And the thing I have loved and craved every night this month is bedtime. Not just because it's bedtime and that means going to sleep (which is a beautiful moment for every single reason, whether it's my children or me) but because it means I lie down with my son for a moment and say, "I love you so much," and he says, "I love you more, Booger." And two nights ago when I went miserably bed before my kids had even brushed their teeth, Suzannah crawled under the covers with me and twined her fingers with mine, and when Matt poked his head in the door she said, "Sorry, Dad, we're having a little Mother-Daughter time." Those are the moments when the snotty freshman boys and the extra meetings and the endless coughing and the exhaustion and the desperate clawing through my to-do lists just falls away. And those are the moments in which I find myself again.

Happy Friday. I hope we all rest well this weekend.

Here we are again

It is the night of the hottest day of the summer, after the warmest night on record. Fans whir in different corners of our house, and open windows catch the breeze. We don't have air conditioning, and we have no plans to get it, despite the fact that it would be really lovely right now. But here in our little corner of the Pacific Northwest, I can survive a few nights of sweaty discomfort. Usually, usually, when we keep our house closed during the day, the shade from the massive trees in our yard keeps the inside cool enough. And, truth be told, something about walking from the heat of the day into air that feels artificially cool and then back out again feels weirdly unhealthy to me. But I don't work in an air conditioned environment, either.

My daughter sleeps sprawled out with her blanket wrapped around her head; she gets hot, but she has this need to be cocooned, much like I do. When Isaac is hot, we wipe him down with cool washcloths and point a fan at his bed. He sleeps with his stuffed animals, clutching his nightly favorite (usually Shasta the wolf or Beagle, but this week he has added Foxy the Fox, who came home from Glacier with him) and surrounded by a few others.

"This is a lot of friends in bed, Bud," I say when I crawl into bed to kiss him goodnight. "I'm not sure there's room for all of you." And he screeches in protest when I pretend to take one for myself.

It is the night of the hottest day of summer. Tomorrow, after gymnastics, the plan is to spend the rest of the afternoon at Madison Beach, swimming in Lake Washington. We try to do this at least once every summer, twice if we're lucky, almost always in August. Matt and I take turns swimming out to the floating dock with the diving boards while the kids splash and swim and build sandcastles. We go out for pizza afterwards. It's our almost-end-of-summer ritual, to soak in these last lazy August days. I love this: to feel the heat on my shoulders as the shadows lengthen. To swim in Lake Washington with a view of Mount Rainier, to feel the sheer pleasure of water and sunshine on my skin, to put down the pressing anxieties of a new school year, the planning and the worrying and the anticipation, to just be present in the moment.

The other is my annual 5k for Northwest Hope & Healing along Alki Beach, the last Sunday in August. This year will be my seventh, and it happens next weekend. I will run, and my family will cheer at the finish. I'll eat a bowl of clam chowder from Duke's Chowder House, served from one of the tents set up along the waterfront, which is surprisingly perfect at the end of a morning 5k along Puget Sound. Then we'll go eat brunch at Easy Street Records and wander the farmer's market, just like we do on Father's Day.

"This bookends our summer," I said to Matt today. Father's Day, back in June, feels like so long ago. Isn't that funny? When teachers greet each other at the end of summer, it goes like this: "How was your summer?" "Too short!" But it hasn't been too short for me; it's been perfect. It's been enough. I've had my long summer afternoons in the sun. We've played at the ocean. We've played in the backyard. We've spent so much time in so much water: hot springs in Montana, swimming pools, sprinklers, splash parks, lakes. Matt and I have hiked. The kids and I have spent mornings at the school playground; they played while I jogged around the track. Sometimes we collected the neighbor boys along the way; sometimes they just ran back and forth between our houses. My kids have been bored and whiny and learned to deal with that when I said no, you may not watch a movie right now. We've sprawled listlessly in the heat. We've had spontaneous lunch dates with friends. We've spent time with family. There have been cookouts, gin and tonics at campsites, S'mores. Popcorn in my dad's ancient popcorn popper, deer in my parents' backyard. Sunsets spreading across an infinite dome of sky. I drove one of my favorite stretches of Montana highway at dusk while my family dozed around me. I've read great books. I've tried to write about it all. It has been exactly, exactly, what my soul needed. And we're all ready, I think, to embrace what comes next.

I used to describe August as one long Sunday afternoon, filled with a sort of low-grade anxiety bordering on dread depending upon all kinds of things. But in the past couple of years especially, it hasn't felt that way. Tonight I thought about how much I have always loved the beginning of the school year, both as a student and as a teacher. It's a gut thing. It's about fresh new notebooks, pencils, maybe a new outfit. New planners. Unbent edges. Possibility and potential. As a mother of two school-aged children who still love school, it's about seeing old friends and making new ones. Both of my kiddos, this year, know and love their school; Suzannah has the same teacher, and she still has a year's buffer between now and middle school. Isaac is still at that beautiful age when school is just purely fun and safe and his learning is exploding and he is so proud of it all. And now that I'm no longer birthing and breastfeeding and potty-training my little ones, now that they are growing into their own independent selves, it feels like the right time for me to grow in different directions myself. I had my babies and I loved having babies, and now I love having school-aged children who are content to hang out at school with me while I have meetings and plan professional development and set up my classroom. I love having children who are just used to this framework, who see school as their home base, their comfort zone.

I hold all of this close to my heart this week, because I am overwhelmed. It's not a bad thing, exactly. It's good work. But every single square on my calendar for August is full. Yesterday morning I sat with my new planner, looking at those two white pages with all of its writing, and I couldn't decide whether to scream or cry. Every day is full: meetings, soccer practice, gymnastics, a dentist appointment, more meetings, registration, professional development. I'm teaching a class I haven't taught before; when am I even going to plan for that?

I remember a day in college, so many years ago but still so vivid. I sat in a lit class, junior year, a semester in which nothing about my life felt okay, and I made a to-do list. I sat in that desk in Bishop Whipple Hall and looked at that list and pressed my fingers against my mouth to keep from literally screaming out loud. I was taking on too much and I wasn't okay. But I whispered to myself, "It will all get done because it has to."

It will all get done because it has to.

The great difference, I suppose, is that I can see the big picture in a way I couldn't when I was twenty years old, and I am living with great joy and love even when I am stressed out. But I still stop every now and then when things pile up, and I say: It will all get done because it has to. And I'm not twenty years old any longer, and I can see the bigger picture. It's one I believe in. The picture is constantly developing and evolving, but I love it. I'm in it. It's beautiful. Let's do this.

Just to be present

A few weeks ago I was incredibly privileged to attend the IB of the Americas Conference in Toronto. On one hand, it was a trip to Toronto, a city I've never seen, and that was fabulous, but also, there is just something purely magical about meeting people from all over North and South America, people who teach in so many different contexts but with whom I share so much common ground. I attended one of the best workshops of my professional life. I attended energizing and inspiring breakout sessions. Every evening I found my brain churning, and at one point I flopped down on a poolside lounge chair next to my boss and found myself talking a million miles a minute, feeling totally overwhelmed but also very determined and excited. I took many, many pages of notes. I made lists. I couldn't shut up.

I also spent a day walking around with my DP (Diploma Programme) Coordinator, visiting independent bookstores and feeling the pulse of the city around us. I carved out time for myself each day, which I didn't do last year and which I realized is important for this introvert's sanity. In the late afternoon, after the workshops and breakout sessions and before dinner, I hunkered down in the corner of the hotel bar (and once I claimed one of those poolside lounge chairs for two hours alone) and sipped pinot gris and wrote and wrote, just processing. I read a novel. I went swimming a couple of times. Twice I rose at dawn and jogged a couple of sweaty miles in the damp morning air, just to move, to clear my head before a long day. These little acts of self-care soothed the edges of my typical travel anxiety and possibly made me a more pleasant travel companion. ("You've actually done really well this time!" my principal said on the final flight home.)

My mom flew out to stay with the kids while I was away, which also helped a great deal with my travel anxiety; I didn't worry about them at all. She sent pictures of them shooting off rockets with their uncle and baking cookies at our place. Later, Matt sent me a text explaining just how many cookies we actually had: "Your mom doesn't play." (When I arrived at home, my mom said, "And don't try to give any away to Aaron and Morgan. I left cookies with them, too.")

Before I left for Toronto we'd been having a fairly cool summer. Comfortable, mostly, but not quite hot enough to enjoy the hours in the backyard or at the spray park that I so crave. Since I've been back, though, we've had stretches of hot, sunny afternoons that call us outside to slather ourselves in sunscreen and play in the sprinkler. This week, it's been too hot to walk to the park, even; well, possibly the kids would have been fine, but I usually jog a few miles around the little track while they ride their bikes or play on the merry-go-round or "big toy" on the playground and that appeals to me in no way right now. We've been spending our mornings in swimming lessons, our afternoons in the backyard. Once we drove to Seattle with Morgan and her sister to go to the Elliott Bay Book Company. Once we had lunch with Kyanne in Tacoma. Today we took our friend and pastoral intern to lunch before meeting another old friend at the spray park. Two nights ago we picked up dinner and headed to a local park that features live music every week; we met one of Suzannah's new friends from swimming lessons and played with our kids on the playground and I fell in love with my community again. The park was full, and parking was scarce. Kids were everywhere. But everyone was relaxed and friendly, and my kids played with kids they didn't know, and I chatted with mothers and fathers I didn't know, and I thought about all of our different contexts and how we still managed to share this moment with our kids on the merry-go-round and how that matters to me, a lot. There are a lot of reasons I choose to stay exactly where I am when I'm reading editorials in the local paper about how our city is "going downhill" because it doesn't look like the city people remember from a few decades ago, and the people on this playground don't look anything like the people writing those editorials, but I didn't live here a few decades ago and I do live here now, and this is my home and my community. And I unapologetically love it.

So here we are, at the end of July, and it feels so different than last summer. Last summer was by no means terrible, but I went from a deep sadness (losing my beloved pug, worrying about losing one of my best friends when he moved to a different job) to bouncing from Montana to home to Chicago to home to Minnesota to home and right back into planning professional development. By August tenth I was back at school every day, without having had the stretches of summer to just...be present in my life. This summer, I've had more time at home, which is what I need and crave. A year later, the friendship I worried would change has deepened in a way that means everything to me. I have time to process what I've learned before I step on another airplane. I can let it be okay to spend afternoons in the backyard, watching my children aim the sprinkler at the swings or the slide and create their own version of a waterpark at four o'clock in the afternoon while I pour a glass of iced green tea and read on the patio.

Next week, my kids will attend VBS and I will divide that morning time between writing and meeting with colleagues; there is so much work to be done before school starts. And it's good work. It will be all the better because I've had the time to slow down and breathe in the smell of water and grass and sunshine in my backyard on these July afternoons. The week after that, we will load up our CR-V and head to Bozeman for a few days before driving to Glacier National Park. I tell people that if I could only visit one place again in my entire life, it would be Glacier. We'll pitch a tent and curl around each other under the night sky, breathing the sweetest pine-scented air in the world. We'll hike to the Hidden Lake Overlook and swim in Lake McDonald and eat huckleberry ice cream. Even me, probably, even though ice cream upsets my stomach because I can't do dairy anymore. We'll buy T-shirts at the Cedar Tree and grill hot dogs and make S'mores at our campsite. This is becoming our family tradition now, and every year, despite the fact that I am sleeping on the ground and the four of us are sharing a pretty close space, my heart and my head feel at home and at rest. The nights spent in our tent underneath the Montana sky are peaceful in a way that no other experience can replicate; I am present in the drumming of rain (I'd say we've been rained on overnight at least fifty percent of the nights we've slept in that tent over the past few summers) and in the hush of the breeze through the skinny evergreens and the way the dusk settles over the lake.

This is what I want from summer: to be present in this moment without dreading the next.

Outrage exploding on my Facebook after Dallas.

It's not that I don't think there should be outrage, but where was the outrage after Minnesota? Small bursts here and there, but nothing compared to this.

Why did it take Dallas to inspire the public outrage?

This morning Marlon James said, "I know I have more mainstream followers than most, so listen to me: Whoever shot those Dallas policemen, doesn't believe in Black Lives Matter either. They have no belief in peaceful protest for constructive change. Diamond Reynolds was very clear: She wants accountability, changes in recruitment, counseling for unhinged cops, and reform, not some jackass' idea of revenge. We need Cops too."

He also said: "White Americans. Fucking do something."

We need to do better. We white Americans like to do precisely nothing UNTIL it is "our own" being gunned down (and often, not even then). Black folks can't wait that long.

Intentionally slowing down

And just like that, it's July. Summer really is still just beginning, so I am trying not to do the thing I do in July: feel anxious about its inevitable end. I am trying to slow down. Breathe. Relax.

Last year, summer felt a bit too full, too fast. It was full of so much goodness that I don't want this to seem like a complaint: we had family trips to Montana and Minnesota, and I went to Chicago for a truly exciting conference. But these things came so fast, so close together. By the time I was home from Minnesota it was time for me to start prepping for the next school year already and my new responsibilities that came along with it, and I was back at school every day for three weeks before school began. What I missed was the slowness I deeply appreciate and even crave, as a mom and as a teacher. Days of lying around with a book while the kids run through the sprinkler, afternoons of wandering up the street to the park any old time without planning it first. It's not that these days didn't happen at all last summer, but I actually had to plan them. This summer, I'm looking forward to a family road trip and to another truly exciting conference, but I'm hoping for a slower pace.

The last two days have delivered exactly this, but I've had to retrain myself to appreciate it instead of feel anxious. Sometimes I feel I need to account for my days in the form of lists, little things I can check off and say, "This is done." Two days ago I found my anxiety mounting throughout the afternoon. The morning was full of documentable activities; Suzannah and I got pedicures (Isaac played quietly on his Leapster and waited for us, but we made sure we had the first spots of the day), we took Isaac to get a haircut, we met Auntie Morgan for lunch, and I cleaned the bathrooms and vacuumed the house. But then the day slid into languidness, in that way of summer afternoons. I turned the kids loose in the backyard with the hose. I wandered around restlessly before pouring myself a glass of iced tea and reading some more of my book: A Brief History of Seven Killings, by Marlon James. (If anyone is interested, I think that might be the most brilliant work of literature I will read this year. No exaggeration.) The next day, we walked to the park in the morning and a different park in the afternoon. We ate lunch together. The kids were whiny and bored but I think dealing with boredom is an important part of childhood and sure enough, they bothered each other for awhile but also played basketball in the front yard, blew bubbles in the backyard, and dug out some watercolor paints. Eventually one of them punched the other "as part of a game" and I banished them to separate parts of the house. Suzannah became so absorbed in her book during her exile that she declined to come out, and Isaac busied himself with toys he'd forgotten he even had. I read more of my book. Today we met Kyanne for a leisurely lunch in Tacoma, plus coffee, plus a bit of wandering around, but back at home I lounged in the backyard with another glass of iced tea and another book and the kids played and I thought, this is exactly what I want out of summer. The sun on my shoulders, a glass of iced tea on my patio, a book in my hand. The kids playing, fighting, running through the sprinkler, biking up the street. This. What a privilege it really is, to lie in my backyard in this neighborhood, to see nothing but trees and hear nothing but birds and the occasional lawnmower at four o'clock in the afternoon.

It's not that I don't have to-do lists; I'm still me, after all. But they don't have to be daily to-do lists. Not yet. Not on the first of July. And the first two weeks of summer have been full enough: we packed our entire house into our living and dining rooms, had all our carpet replaced, and are still in the process of putting our house back together. Matt's parents have been visiting. They took the kids to the ocean with them for a few nights; Matt and I joined them for a day at the beach but rented a hotel room with an ocean view and a loft with a jacuzzi instead of camping. (That was pretty spectacular.) Our kitchen faucet started leaking. We replaced it. Our backyard faucet started leaking, which meant that we had to call the contractor who did our kitchen and patio and over the past few days we've had guys in our backyard cutting into the side of our house early in the morning. Our new kitchen faucet has a different problem, so we probably have to return it and replace it again. And I understand that any problem that can be solved with a quick evening trip to Home Depot is not, in fact, a real problem at all; all the same, sometimes my highly anxious self creates problems where there aren't any to be found.

All that to say: this afternoon, as I settled myself into my backyard chair with my book and my glass of iced tea, as I wondered whether or not I was making the most of my summer, as I fretted about house repairs and swimming lessons and travel details, I thought to myself: don't ruin this moment, this sunny and slow afternoon. Just be in it. And I realized in that moment that the last couple of days, the ones that have had me so worried that I wasn't doing enough to enjoy my summer, have been exactly the kind of days I have waited for, wanted, craved.

I also uninstalled Facebook on my phone. I thought I'd leave it off while I was at the ocean; then I decided I'd leave it off for a week. Now I'm determined to leave it off at least through the fourth of July. Longer? I don't know. I've read a bit when I'm on my computer (which isn't happening much since I got rid of my huge, old, increasingly flimsy corner desk when we got new carpet; this weekend I'm going to get something simpler, sturdier, and smaller) but I think my anxiety decreased significantly when I gave myself permission to just take a damn break. Two things: I do not want to be the person scrolling mindlessly through Facebook every time I have a quiet moment, because I think we could all benefit from being present in the real world even in those moments in which things are boring or awkward, because remember what it feels like to just be a person in the world? To just be? And second of all, and this is honestly an entry I am not ready to write, or maybe I'm just sick of trying to write it again and again and again: I cannot read any more shit from people whose first response to yet another mass shooting is "Stay away from my gun rights!" I am so, so, so done with this even as I understand we are absolutely nowhere near done and we are also apparently nowhere near even trying to do the tiniest damn thing about it. This will keep happening. And when people are gunned down in their safe places, in schools and churches and clubs and movie theaters, the fact that we respond with "Not MY guns" and "It's not a GUN problem!" before we say anything else? That makes me literally, physically ill. We are ill. And I cannot. I cannot read that shit on Facebook right now. (How many times have I written a slightly different version of this very same thing?) It's not just that; I think a break from social media is just a very healthy thing every now and then, which is why I've tried to take a week off each month of 2016 so far. I have been only marginally successful, but something about my need to recenter myself, to breathe deeply, has made it easier for me to do this summer. And that's where I'm at right now.