Grateful?

Today, I don't feel very grateful--I feel more... annoyed. Annoyed Jeff has to work the entirety of another weekend (this is the third one in a row). Annoyed by the uncertainty of preparing our faculty for the fall. Annoyed by the insane heat. Annoyed by being limited in where we can go and what we can do.

Deep breath. (Or, as Lily calls them, "balloon breaths"--the ones where my palms go facedown on top of hers faceup, and we let our arms expand up and down as we pause and breathe.)

It's not that I'm not allowed to feel annoyed--or robbed of the summer or angry at COVID or frustrated by figuring out another weekend night on my own with Lily. But it is important for me to put these things in perspective.

As a mom, I constantly worry--constantly--about whether I'm doing enough for my daughter. Any moment that isn't social media worthy (not that I'm on social media in the first place) feels like a failure, and it's magnified 1000 times by my own anxiety. But if I can step back for a moment and take a few balloon breaths, maybe I can see that she's doing just fine.

Maybe, by posting it here, you can help reassure me she's doing just fine?

As I type, she's in the "play office" (that room I partially took over once distance learning became a reality), happily orchestrating some complex situation where Noah's Ark rescues animals, then takes them to the PlayMobil aquarium to rehabilitate.

Her hair is wet from the pool Jeff MacGyvered out of a Trader Joe's watermelon cardboard box and a $20 tarp from Home Depot--the spot where she's spending several hours each afternoon in these days laden with heat indexes and advisories.

When we've come up short with ideas of things to do these days, we turn to the Summer Bingo card I made for Lily; with each 5 squares complete (which don't have to be in a row), she earns a prize. At 5 squares, she had a nail painting party with mom, and the grand prize of 25 squares is a "Lily's choice" day: she determines everything, from what Jeff and I wear, to what we eat for each meal, to all activities.

So far, she's knocked out items like making her own lunch, baking from-scratch blueberry muffins, and creating a nature scavenger hunt for me and Jeff. In fact, she just finished her tenth square this morning, so Jeff and I will spend tomorrow morning being soaked in a "Water Balloon Fight with Mom and Dad," which is the prize for that milestone.

Miraculously, in spite of all that is happening, she still has been able to make summer memories with her closest friend in the neighborhood, whether they're dipping into a backyard pool (an actual inflatable one this time) or out catching fireflies past their bedtimes.

(For those of you keeping track, that's just these two little girls, growing up too fast. :)

And yet--in spite of all of this--even in the most mundane moments, when Lily listens to an audiobook for hours on end and colors while I spend time on a long Zoom call, it's easy for me to feel like I'm not doing enough, planning enough, or being enough for her. The voices that tell me she hasn't yet done her sight word flashcards today or hasn't read me a book or hasn't practiced her lowercase letters can scream so much more loudly than the ones that say, "you're doing the best you can."

But I AM. I'm doing the best I can every minute of every day. I'm helping raise a child who is silly and creative and thoughtful. I'm taking care of myself by reading a book or watching an old season of Project Runway. I'm knocking out the laundry and the grocery shopping while Jeff is at work to maximize our at-home time together.

Thanks for helping me see that, friends. I have no idea at this point who--if anyone at all--may still be reading these posts. But writing them is like chatting with those who I know used to check in on them, and that's a comfort.

I'm grateful for what I have and for you.

Windows

Since I've set up my "distance learning" office in half of Lily's (tiny!) playroom, I spend a lot of time in front of a window that looks out onto the trees and path behind our townhouse. This afternoon, one of our cats ("Little") is stretched out in the windowsill, enjoying the breeze and the fluttering leaves falling. People are strolling by with dogs and children, interspersed with the occasional runner or bicyclist. By all accounts, it could be any lovely spring afternoon--not one in this crazy new reality in which we live.

Sometimes, I miss my old window very much, even though it didn't look into the outside world. That window looked from my office at school into the students' main gathering space. From there, I'd lift my head from a troublesome parent email to smile at students laughing at someone's joke, or I'd find myself weighed down by academic matters only to glance a football sailing by (which always warranted a knock on the window to remind the students to take projectiles outside). I miss my students deeply.

These days, it's easy to halt my gaze before I even get to my actual window to the outside. Instead, the three windows directly in front of me become a metaphor for the juggling schedules we're managing daily: my email on one, the spreadsheet I'm balancing with course sectioning on the second, and Lily's reading video on the third. It's not unusual to find myself observing a math class while helping Lily fill in her hundreds chart or responding to a senior's essay while helping Lily understand how she can use "why" and "because" to make her opinion writing stronger.

But our virtual windows also give us a wider point of view. We have family Zoom calls with friends in Wales and Germany--at times when none of us ever would have all been home before. We have happy hours with friends after little ones are in bed and virtual playdates that result in raucous laughter rolling out of Lily's room as she pretend plays through a phone screen. More than anything, these windows give us connections, reminding us of the importance of a world outside our walls.

As they have for so much of my life, books become our windows, too. As Lily's ability to read grows, we often find her tucked under her bed, quietly sounding out words and using pictures to help her figure out the trickiest ones. And she finally loves chapter books, too--which is such a joy for me as my memories of my mom and dad reading chapter books to me are some of my favorites. After finishing the first book of Harry Potter, we've moved on to Dragon in the Library, a book which allows the protagonist, Kit, to travel into different magical lands through the vehicles of books. (Serious meta!)

On the best days, we leap out of our windows, beyond their confines, into the world that still exists beyond them. We take class lessons outside (thanks to Lily's brilliant and creative kindergarten teachers) and learn skip counting by literally skipping as we count or practice addition by stomping through puddles in the rain.

We race to find the unknown--whether that's a winding path to a river or a splashy kayak trip through a bay. With the understanding that windows will keep us in if we don't force them open, we push with all our might against them and breathe deeply when the fresh air enters our lungs.

Our windows lead us into worlds as small a puzzle and as big as an alley full of murals, as simple as learning lowercase letters and as complicated as maintaining social distance while erratically flying a kite. Most importantly, our windows do not confine us; they become our vehicles to new worlds and experiences.

Who knows what tomorrow's window will bring?

Being an Introvert in a Self-Isolated World

Finding great joy in the very smallest things.

Over the course of the past week, our lives have drastically changed. Last Friday, I curiously asked a good friend "so... you've implemented extreme social distancing?" She replied that their family had; they were limiting to nuclear family walks but otherwise avoiding others as much as possible. I couldn't believe it when she suggested our daughters--best friends since they were two--have a Google Meet "play date" from our houses that are less than 200 feet apart.

And then this week happened. The week when waking up every day and turning to the news revealed some new state shut down or quarantine enforced; the week when working from home became not a privilege but a practicality; the week when Lily began to cry at least once daily with her frustration with how the coronavirus was separating her from her friends and keeping her from our annual visit to see my parents in Florida. 

In some ways, the days became the easiest part for me; I went for a run in the morning, then set up some activity stations for Lily while Jeff made breakfast. Once Lily was settled into activities and Jeff had begun to telework, I could take a shower and head to the basement for my own work. We tossed in some family activities whenever possible: a hike in Bluemont or a long walk to the post office and grocery store to stretch our legs.

The evenings were tougher, though. Once I'd done all the work I could do and headed up from the basement, it became so easy to slip into my comfort with being an introvert. Self-isolation is, in some ways, an introvert's dream: it eliminates guilt as no one is allowed socialize and it feeds into a desire to just remain quiet and alone.

Yesterday afternoon, as I finished my work, I arrived upstairs to an empty house; Jeff had taken Lily kayaking on the Potomac, so I was left to my own devices. I straightened up, ran a few small errands to get needed supplies for meals, and then arrived back home, happy to have the opportunity to settle into folding laundry with a favorite movie in the background.

And then I got a text inviting me to have a cocktail.

See, in our neighborhood, it's possible to socially distance and be with our best friends. We live next door to some of the people we love most in the world, which means that we can kick our feet up, still be six feet apart, and share laughter and human connection. 

Our green gin and tonics, in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

So, as much as I would have been drawn to staying inside on my own yesterday afternoon, enjoying a quiet house before Jeff and Lily's return, I found myself making my way onto our deck, pulling up a chair to the railing, and realizing that I can be an introvert and still recharge through time spent with others.

I don't know what the weeks and months ahead will hold, but I do know this: introverts like me cannot succumb to complacency. Pick up your phone and call a friend; set up your kid with a Google Meet where all they may do is make funny faces for a half hour; know when you need to initiate the contact with the rest of the world instead of waiting for them to reach out to you.

I can't wait for cocktail hour tonight--after all, there's still a weekend to kick off!

Worry's Kryptonite

I'll explain this at the end. :)

If you've read much of this blog over the years, it will come as no surprise to hear that I worry. I worry a lot, about just about everything. When one concern expires, another always rears up behind it, reminding me that worry is inescapable, that--no matter how exhausting it feels--it always seems to have power over me.

As the New Year turns, I've been thinking about resolutions. An educational consultant I follow shared this thought in a recent newsletter: "A few years ago, I switched from yearly resolutions to choosing a word for the year and that has helped shift me to a healthier place of manifestation." What a novel thought--not focusing on something to change but, instead, on something to center oneself around.

For the past few days, I've been vacillating between worry and... I'm not quite sure what. Mostly just worry, I suppose. Worry about a sick and aging cat, about keeping up with friends as I enter my busiest season at work, about being a good enough parent and wife, about preparing to finish one semester course and begin a new one, about whether the car is making a funny sound that needs to be checked out, about if I'll be able to complete the 10-miler I signed up for in April, about why the front burner on the stove isn't working right... you get the idea.

Often, the only thing to put the brakes on the speeding train in my head is getting out of the house and moving, which usually means a morning run but which, over this break, has more often meant a hike with my family or walk with a friend. When I did just that today, it was with a well-known Corrie Ten Boom quote at the forefront of my mind: "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength." I've been ruminating on this idea for a couple of days now--on the idea that worrying today about what the cat's labs will reveal tomorrow cannot change what they will reveal; it can only make me miss out on today. And today has been pretty great: Lily's neighborhood hot cocoa stand on this last day before break ends, the joy of a walk with my best friend, the comfort of the cat sleeping on my lap with all four of his paws in the air.

For some people--perhaps even for many--the opposite of worry is "hope," and perhaps that's the word they'd choose to focus on for the year. Merriam-Webster offers me a wealth of other options for antonyms: "calm, content, ease, peace, quiet, sereneness" and even (the awfully unhelpful) "unconcern." But I don't think any of those words oppose the kind of worry I experience. My worry is not about trying to feel differently; it's about changing the reality in my head. And, so, here are my words for 2020:

"Reality check."

When I'm worried, my new task for myself is to fact check the reality of that worry. Sometimes worry is real, and that's not a bad thing; I can acknowledge that when it's the case and make a plan to move forward. But when the plan is already in place, when the vet appointment is already made, when Jeff is already planning to call about the stove, when we've just played a family round of Go Fish, when I have a syllabus ready to go for the new course this spring, then all my worry is doing is stealing today's strength.

And guess what, Worry? You don't get to steal my strength. Because, if I let you do that, I miss out on all of this.

Lily's first time skiing

(Rocking Horse Ranch, December 2019)

Lily's first trail ride

(Rocking Horse Ranch, December 2019)

Watching Lily fill her nature journal with new discoveries

(Riverbend Park, January 2020)

A New Year's Day family hike on the Potomac

(Riverbend Park, January 2020)

As for that picture at the beginning, worry can't steal today's small moments either. My favorite dressing just came back in stock at our local Giant after being out for months, and I'm elated! If I'd worried about it every day, would it have come back faster? Sure wouldn't. But you know what forgetting to worry about it gave me? Incredible joy the day it returned!

Worry, you've got a new kryptonite.

2020, we got this.

Who Run the World?

If you're familiar with Beyonce's 2011 hit, you answered the question in this post's title with a loud cry of "Girls!" This Sunday morning, at 8:59am, it was those words that carried me across the finish line of my second 10K, which was also my first since "Crossing the Bay" nearly two years ago.

I am tremendously, phenomenally, incredibly proud of this accomplishment. Back in 2017, when I ran my first 10K, I trained hard to get myself ready for the 6.2 miles required. While I was pleased that I finished running, it was a huge blow to finish at 1 hour, 10 seconds. I had come so close to beating my one hour goal, yet fallen so short.

This time, I signed up for the race just 5 weeks ahead of time, knowing that I hadn't run more than 4 miles in nearly 18 months. Though I still work out early each morning, I wasn't exactly sure what it would take to get me back up to 6.2 miles, and I wasn't remotely certain that I could even come close to touching that 1 hour goal. But, just like 2 years ago, I woke up each morning at 5am, pulled on workout clothes in the darkness, laced up my sneakers, and made the drive to work in pre-dawn light. I set a simple enough goal: put 15 miles on my legs each week. Usually, that looked like 3-4 well-paced miles on the treadmill or road on Mondays and Wednesdays, 2 speedy miles on the treadmill on Tuesdays and Thursdays (followed by some cross-training on the elliptical), and a 5-6 mile run on the road at some point over the weekend. I tried not to focus on my time, but that goal still loomed large.

When I woke up Sunday morning, it was to the same sore throat and congestion I'd been battling all week. Lily implored me to "just have fun!" and Jeff reminded me that I needed to cut myself some slack, but I still had expectations for myself.

Miles 1, 2, and 3 went well enough: I kept my pace at 9-9:30 miles, and I kept the dream of that sub-hour 10K alive.

And then came mile 4.

Mile 4 was nothing but a hill. Really, when you look at the elevation graph on my fitness tracker, it's just uphill. My pace fell off to a 10-minute mile, and not even Eminem could get my feet moving any faster.

Mile 5 was better in terms of the terrain (there were less uphills and more flat stretches), but my legs were becoming useless. I berated myself for starting out too fast but was pleased when my pace dropped back below 9:30 again.

And then came mile 6.

Everyone started to pass me. I knew my feet were dragging, but there was nothing I could do about it. I started wondering if I might end up as one of those runners who collapses in the final half mile, unable to go on. (This thought was particularly embarrassing as there were runners on the same course completing a 10-mile race, and the leaders of that path were starting to pass me.)

At last, the entrance to the final stretch appeared ahead of me. As I banked to the right and pushed up a final hill, there was Lily, proudly wearing her "GRL PWR" shirt and cheering with her fists raised over her head, with Jeff right alongside her, equally enthusiastic. Though this vision is what usually pulls me through my toughest workouts, it did little on Sunday; I just had no gas left. As Lily ran a few steps by my side, the most I could muster was a weary thumbs up. (Jeff would later tell me that he had to tell a confused Lily, "Mommy is working really, really hard. She's just so tired.")

And then came the final turn. We ended on a high school track, so I made myself a deal: if I had to run a lap before the finish line, I could give up on my goal; if it was under a lap, I wasn't allowed.

It was less than a quarter lap. And the moment my feet hit that track, I remembered every interval workout, pushing to sprint when I was at my weakest, and I pushed with all I had left.

And it was enough.

58:59.

You know who runs the world?

This woman, who came in in the top 25% of runners overall.
This mom, who came in 21st of 188 women running that day.
This wife, who came in 5th of 32 women in her age bracket.

And you know who knows that?

My daughter. Because she saw a mom who was past the point of exhaustion, who was nearly in tears, who needed someone else to get her a bottle of water and help her regain her breath. And who still ran with all she had in her to meet her goals.

That's right, Lil. Girls run this world.*






* Lily has requested that we check with Beyonce to see if she might amend her lyrics to include "dads of girls also run this world." Because she's pretty sure daughters help make the best dads. I have to agree.

Dear Dad,

I've written about and to many people on this blog, and they are all important parts of my story and our journey and Lily's family. However, I fear one may be more absent than I ever intended, and so comes this note.

Dear Dad,

Late each July, I don't know how to say goodbye. Each year becomes a bit harder than the last, and perhaps that's because I see the breathtaking and belly-laugh-inducing and joyful-beyond-all-belief moments expanding with each year of our daughter's life.

Before we go forward, perhaps it's helpful to go back. This summer marked Lily's sixth on "The Hill" (where my parents live in Connecticut). Here's a brief retrospective:

July 2014 - 6 months old, on my saddle

July 2015 - 1.5 years old, on my horse, Rocky

July 2016 - 2.5 years old, on her very own pony, Mallie

July 2017 - 3.5 years old, on Mallie

July 2018 - 4.5 years old, on Mallie

July 2019 - 5.5 years old, on Mallie

Dad, I don't have words to explain how it feels to watch you care for my daughter in the exact ways I know you cared for me. Yes, perhaps our tradition was hopscotching our way into NCCS's lower school classrooms each morning, my hand firmly ensconced in yours, and perhaps Lily's is hopping into her pink Jeep, riding down to the barn with you in tow for a morning of feeding and watering and mucking and riding.

But the outcome is the same: it's a girl, confident that she is loved, confident that she can conquer the world, confident that--on the days when maybe the world conquers her--there's someone in her corner, telling her to get on her feet, put on her boots, and face the next day that's to come.

Dad, Lily loves you so much. I know this in the way that I now know only a parent can: in the cadence of her giggle, in the confidence in how she mounts Mallie, in the exasperated tone when I ask if I might be allowed to accompany the two of you to the barn. She loves animals because you love animals--because I love animals in the way that you taught me to. She loves Red Steagall and Willy Nelson (and requests them on her Amazon playlists) because you love them--in the same way that I can't hear "On the Road Again" without smiling at memories of our Starcraft van, circa 1983. 

And, Dad, I am so thankful for how much you love this little girl. How you indulge her requests for stories of our childhood barn cats, how you allow her an extra bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, how you always put rainbow sprinkles on top of her ice cream cone at Fudgies. Watching you love Lily is a rare gift, for it is my opportunity to remember that the ways you loved me are not merely reconstructions of my memories but actual reality. 

Recently, I asked Jeff if he thought your memory might be fading. He was perplexed by my query and asked why I'd posed it. I explained that, quite a bit recently, I'd heard you call Lily by my name. Exasperated, he replied, "it's because you're her--and she's you!"

How blessed we are to be so loved by the same (Ganny)daddy.

All my heart, 

Tory

Who knew painted walls could grow?

Over five years ago, I wrote this post in celebration of Lily's nursery coming to life. In November 2013, I couldn't think beyond the next three months, couldn't imagine what it would be like to have Lily at home with us, couldn't imagine what it would be like to enter, as Brandi Carlile sings, "the end of being alone inside your mind / You're tethered to another and you're worried all the time."

But, darn, if I didn't love her nursery.

Those bubbly sea creatures, the joyful knowledge that they were conceived of and painted by someone who loves us so much, the creativity of a muraled nursery--I looked at them daily and never even asked how they might grow with this tiny person inside my belly.

And then that not-so-tiny person turned five.

For a while, we'd been promising Lily we'd flip her big-girl bed when she was five in order to give her a little loft space underneath, but I think we were hedging our bets a bit that she might forget.

Not our kid. The questions started coming fast and furious about when, precisely, we'd get around to The Change. And so we arrived at an increasingly frustrating weekend morning, researching the Best Under Loft Bed Spaces for Preschoolers of All Time Ever. Because, of course, we weren't going to fall short of The Best.

It definitely had to involve fairy lights. And some sort of elaborate treehouse construction. Likely stairs instead of a ladder. Some secret hidden door. And pink. Lots of pink.

And then we saw that octopus on our wall, and we suddenly thought, "well, of course. Under the sea."

So, maybe it's not The Best Space Ever, but Lily thinks it's pretty darn fantastic. It does involve fairy lights (and a hot glue gun and Jeff dodging blobs of hot glue), and it will eventually have curtains to make it feel a bit more of a hideaway. We quickly learned Lily wanted nothing to do with stairs--ladders are what all the Big Girls are using these days.

And it's got love.

A whole lotta love.

Just like we've got for our Big Girl.