Embarrassed

I live in an amazing area. It's gorgeous here. Gorgeous as in sometimes I want to stop on the side of the road just so I can gawk at the scenery. The weather is amazing -- never too hot or too cold. There are no bugs. (No, really, no bugs.) And even better, the people here are awesome.

This place, that I never expected to live in, is amazing in every way possible... except one.

The housing prices here are astounding. And not in a good way.

This past month, as we've visited countless homes in the hopes of moving to a town that would allow us to reduce the amount of time we spend commuting and that would bring us closer to our community, C has lamented the unfairness of the high price of homes.

"But we need homes. Why can't they all cost the same?"

So, after patting ourselves on the back for raising a bleeding heart liberal like her parents, we've explained to her again and again that sure, there are affordable homes, but if you want to live somewhere as special as we do, you have to be willing to pay the price.

This week we found the house of our dreams and one dizzying few days later, we're finding ourselves the new owners of this house.

And I am SO excited.

Seriously, it'll be like living in one of those spots I want to pull over and gawk at.

I keep wanting to pinch myself about what just happened.

And yet, I can't seem to allow myself to scream it on the rooftops.

Fact is, I think I'm embarrassed about what we're paying for this house.

For this area? It's a deal. Ok, fine, at least it's quite reasonable. And a great investment. And we can afford it. Which is astounding in and of itself.

But I have friends whose husbands have lost jobs this year. I have friends facing foreclosure. I have friends who live pay check to pay check. Sharing the listing with them to show off our new gem feels so... unfeeling.

Tonight as I was driving I thought back to the year we've just lived through. Everyone has their own burdens. Ours are health related, not financial (knock wood). As much as C wishes it were possible, we can't all live in the same homes, in the same towns. We've chosen this place because of family and roots. It is our home. I can't keep being embarrassed about the choice we've made in living here.

I'm excited about this new chapter in our lives. Yes, it will mean some sacrifices. Yes, it might be a little insane when you think about the actual numbers involved in the game. But when I wake up in the morning and I drink my tea in front of a view that makes my soul whole, I'll know there was a reason we found this place just when we needed it.

I'm making peace with my embarrassment. I'm embracing our choice.

On Loss, Love, and Connections

I went to a small high school. I had a handful of close friends and a handful of people I knew, but that was pretty much it. Other than the dude who would drink a 6-pack before homeroom and the guy with the drug problem, everyone was pretty much healthy and average.

I went to a huge university and attended two programs at once. Overnight the number of people I encountered on a daily basis grew exponentially. Suddenly I knew people, lots and lots of people. People with health issues, people with mental issues, people with family issues, and people who were absolutely totally average.

I finished school and went to work for a synagogue. Suddenly, I didn't just know people, I was actively involved in their day to day lives. I was the front line for every health or family crisis. And it was a big synagogue, so there were many, many crises.

And then, because apparently, I can't get enough of being in the thick of people's lives, I got addicted to the internet, where millions of people share snippets of their lives every day, weaving webs that entangle you in their ups and downs.

It's a wondrous thing being constantly surrounded by people. It means that you always have someone to pump you up when you're down, or someone to chat with when you need a sounding board. It means that you have friends all over the world. It means that no matter what you're going through, there's someone out there who can relate.

What it also means is that you know a million more people who are going through tough times.

When I had a handful of friends my life was pretty sheltered. I knew about the usual, run of the mill challenges that people face. As my social and professional circles have grown I've seen more and more of the horrors that life can bring.

Most days I love being hyper connected. I thrive on all that connectedness.

Other days the weight of what my friends face makes me want to shut off the world, curl up under a blanket, and never come out.

It was easier when I hardly knew anyone.

My friend Susan is struggling today. I've known Susan, first virtually and finally in the flesh, for over 5 years now. She's the only rocket scientist I can claim to actually know. She's wise, funny, caring, and a pillar of strength. She's fought not one, not two, not even three, but four cancers over the last four years. FOUR cancers. She has two little boys and loving husband. She has friends all over the globe. She's changed how I see science and how I want my daughters to see it. She's touched my life and improved it. And no matter what happens over the next few weeks, there will always be a little Susan shaped part of my heart. It'll glow when I show my kids a cool science trick or help them learn about a woman who has changed the world of science.

I know a million people (give or take a couple thousand) and in putting myself out there I've opened up my heart to a million heartaches. My heart breaks daily, but if I weren't putting myself out there, weren't opening myself to the possibility of sadness and horror, I wouldn't be opening myself to the possibility of meeting people like Susan.

And if I hadn't met Susan? Well my life would most definitely be poorer for it.

(One of my favorite posts by Susan: http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/2011/09/23/its-not-fair/, demonstrating that strength and wisdom I mentioned above.)

What if you had a drinking problem?

Let me preface this by saying that I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not even a heavy drinker. I enjoy a glass of wine here and there at dinner or out with friends, but, in reality, I loathe losing control of myself and my emotions.

In fact, I can distinctly remember the handful of times I've drunk myself blotto, and let me assure you, you really only do need one hand to count the occasions.

That's why it caught me so off guard this year, when, often after a stressful sleepless night or an intense morning drop off commute, I walked into Starbucks ardently wishing that they sold Irish coffee.

I laughed it off each time, indulged in a latte or a pastry instead of my usual drip coffee and banana and found my peaceful center through a chat with a friend - either virtual or real.

And so, one day at a time, I navigated my way through the year's challenges without turning to any substance stronger than coffee or candy to see me through. I didn't stop every day and think "another day, yay." I just did it, and until I read Amy Hatvany's book Best Kept Secret over Christmas break I thought nothing of it.

The story unfolded in front of me - sad tale of a newly single mom who finds herself drinking more and more until the drinking is out of control - and I couldn't stop reading. One line played itself over and over again in my head. "Plenty of mothers use alcohol to manger stress. You just happened to get caught."

It could so easily have happened to me. It would have been so easy to break open a bottle of wine at the close of every stressful day. To have a glass at lunch to fortify me for the afternoon. I never did though. I never really even wanted to. The need to rise to the occasion again and again was stronger than the occasional urge to find some sort of escape. 

Was it because I've seen it before? Was it because I'm aware of the risks? Was it because deep down I know I might have an addictive personality?

I don't have the answer. I don't really know why I didn't start drinking heavily this year. All I know is that I never did and I'm grateful for it.

I read the book and gained a better understanding of the struggle that many face with alcoholism. In hind-sight I now know, or at least suspect, that a friend who estranged herself from me was probably heading down the same path the protagonist took, if she wasn't already there. Did she drift from me because she didn't know how to talk to me about her problems? Or was it because she saw the look on my face when she told me about a bad night she suffered through? Odds are high that I'll never know.

I wish I'd know more back then. I don't know that I would have been able to help her, but at the very least I could have been more understanding. Maybe a little less judgmental.

When I finished the book I let the story rest inside me. It was heavy, full of sadness, and yet uplifting in an odd way. The protagonist's strength was admirable and despite the sad ending, that's what I took away. Like so many mental illnesses, alcoholism is an object of shame, stigmatized by society, punished by the family courts. With the right support, the right education, the right resources maybe parents wouldn't lose their children, maybe spouses wouldn't feel the need to leave, maybe friends would be able to help.

As I often do I turned to Facebook to share my thoughts with my friends and sat there, blown away by something I'd never noticed before. I'm friends with a lot of moms on Facebook. Some I know personally, some I know virtually. I'm on there daily, chatting away, and until I'd read Best Kept Secret I never noticed just how often people post about wine or booze. To most, like it's always been for me, it's nothing. A post here or there in passing. A recommendation for a bottle of wine. A comment about how the cocktail is helping recover from a hard day. A whine about needing some wine. A reason to laugh and commiserate with others about the challenges that parenting brings.

But to someone struggling daily, for someone who fights alcoholism every minute of every day, this virtual world where I, and so many other moms, find so much of the support that keeps us going, must be just another source of anxiety.

I have no solutions or answers to this problem. I'm sure none of those moms are even looking to me to supply the answer. I'm just grateful that, thanks to one book, my eyes are a little more open today.




Join us Jan 26th, 8-9pm CST for a virtual Twitter book club hosted by Great Thoughts featuring Best Kept Secret and Amy Hatvany (@amyhatvany) herself. Follow the conversation with the hashtag #Gr8Books. 

It's like dating... except when it's not.

They say it's like dating. Hunting for an agent I mean. That you put yourself out there, again and again, you meet people, and sometimes you click and sometimes you don't and just like when you date, you can't take it personally when the chemistry doesn't work out.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel like I need to mention that I've never dated. I know. It's weird. But I never did the whole, go on a few dates, decide if you like the guy, kiss, etc. In each of my relationships I skipped the whole "does he like me? does he not?" part of things and skipped straight to the kissing.

I like kissing.  (I know. I'm easy. Don't tell anyone.)

Even so, even without any dating experience, I have to argue that when it comes to the Great Agent Hunt the dating analogy is flawed.

I mean, unless we're comparing it to Internet dating, which I know even less about.

Seriously, (and again, have I mentioned that my experience is lacking?) when, in dating, do you have to think back on your life, write a short (one to three paragraph) synopsis of it, throw in a one paragraph bio, add a quick letter of interest about why you're interested in that person, and email it in the hopes of maybe hearing back sometime in the next three months?

Doesn't that sound more like applying for a job to you?

You scour the web for people you'd like to work with much the same way you'd research appealing companies. What's the person's personality like? What have they accomplished over time? Does it seem like you'd fit in? Once you find someone who seems like a good fit, you pull out the letter you've already sent out countless times and tweek it to fit the new situation or overhaul it completely if needed. What do you have in common with the person that you could mention in the intro paragraph? What drew you to them?  What can you say that will make you stand out from all the other applicants?

Sending brownies with your query is apparently frowned upon. Sad, but I can see how that could quickly spin out of control.

The end result is the same. When you apply for a job you know there are hundreds of other people doing the exact same thing as you. They've worked hard to get where they are, they're equally qualified. When you query your book, you're up against hundreds of other writers who have sweat just as much blood and as many tears over their book as you. The only thing that sets you apart is that one little email, an email that can only ever be an inadequate representation of who you really are, a low res 2D representation if you will.

And still, you send out your letter and hope it's just witty enough to catch an eye and just shiny enough to sustain it, you take a deep breath and move on to the next one, hoping it's the best you could do, but knowing full well that in the end it's not just about you, it's equally about the other person, the person reading it. If there's no spark there, no matter how wonderful your email might be, it won't make a jot of difference.

Which I guess really is the same as dating. No matter how authentic you are, no matter how pretty, how well dressed, how witty or shiny you might be, you can't create that spark and you really can't take it personally when it doesn't happen.

And when it does happen? The magic is powerful.

Powerful enough to make me want to kiss people. Though, apparently, much like the brownies that's also frowned upon. Go figure.