I Need a Beer

This makes it sound like my light box isn’t working.  Well, naysayers, it absolutely is, so there.   Actually, it almost works too well because it enables me to stay up too late and then get a false recharge in the morning.  I’m pretty sure that is not what the manufacturers intended, but hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.  And what this girl did last night was indulge in a little late night movie watching.  This was a bad idea on a number of levels.  The first and most obvious reasons I should’ve just gone to sleep are my two little living alarm clocks, one of whom is set for around, oh, 4:30.  Yeah.  The second is I’m sick with the virus du jour, and I really could use, like, a serious, serious rest break.  The third is, (and I do promise there is a point to all this blathering), I chose to watch a movie about romantic love.  Did I mention my husband is out of town for an extended period of time, and we may be the two worst phone communicators on the planet?  Yeah.  Stupid idea.   Nothing like watching two attractive people meet by happenstance (but nothing is really by happenstance, oh no!), discover that they share all the same little quirky quirks, participate in some cheesy montage of smiles and karaoke and snuggling, and BOOM they’re in love.  K I S S I N G.  I don’t want to sound too cynical here, falling in love is really beautiful.  In fact, I may be a little bit, just a teensy bit addicted to the falling.  Finding a connection with someone is beyond amazing and makes us feel just a little less alone in the world—for a time anyway—that is, until the dirty laundry starts piling up and they start banging their spoon on their teeth.  Until they discover that you are, in fact, a hoarder and they are, in fact, a neat freak and that you are, in fact, emotionally high maintenance and they are, in fact, emotionally distant and so on.  [Insert your differences here]  It’s beautiful until it isn’t, until it’s work.  Here’s the thing though—that beginning part, though I don’t want to say it isn’t real (because it absolutely is real and magical), it’s not sustainable.  I’m not saying anything new or unique here.  Eventually everyone has to lay their cards on the table, and here’s where I get back to these movies and why they are a toxic bane—these stories make us feel like because that “falling” feeling isn’t sustainable, neither are relationships.  Maybe I’m just easily manipulated by so much pretty lighting and indie music, but I actually have to remind myself of the truth.  I said before that it’s beautiful until it’s work, but in truth, there is so much more beauty in the work.  There is so much more beauty when you move beyond the feeling into action, when you choose to set aside your selfish desires and show your partner kindness, even if he is banging his spoon on his teeth, even if she is so freaking nit picky about you banging your spoon on your teeth that you just want to smack her sometimes.  (That’s for you, Jim.  Love you.)   There is so much more beauty when you know that you can look at each other and say, “you know me, and you show me love anyway.”  So suck it, Hollywood, and try to make some movies about old, boring marrieds who like to go to Home Depot on the weekends, will you?  I need something to watch late night! Ha!  Here’s to love addicts, everywhere, may they find the kind that lasts.  Cheers!

Grace

I have an announcement to make: I have an amazing husband.  I say this not in the “OMG, he bought me this great thing” kind of a way (although the man can pick out a fine Italian leather purse), not in the “he did this or that for me” kind of a way (although I don’t know how I get through the day without all the help he gives me), not in the “he said this sweet thing to me” kind of a way either.  No, I’m talking about the thick and thin, for better or for worse kind of a way, the kind of love that matters.   It isn’t flashy, it isn’t glamorous, but it is real and abiding, and I come to know more and more every day how lucky I am.  To say that we’ve had a rocky past is putting it mildly.  I mean, we’re no Ike and Tina, but…psychological batterings have taken place.  Ten years later, through illness, through depression(s), through wandering eyes (mine), through career changes and medical training, we’re still here, and we’re here as a “we.”  In no small part, this is because of Jim’s patience, integrity, and compassion.  He waited for me while I took us for granted.  He valued us when I didn’t.  He loved me and stayed by my side, even as my selfishness threatened to make fools of us both.  Instead of trying to control me when he didn’t like what he saw, he allowed me to figure it out in my own time.  I think this takes a kind of strength I can’t even begin to understand.  It’s easy to forget where you came from when you’re in the midst of a storm and time feels eternal, relief feels impossible.  All you see is the right now, in all of its chaos and turmoil.  You wonder if your commitments were made in error and if the best course of action is to bail.  I am thankful that Jim remembered for both of us where we came from, the promises we have made, and where we are going.  I know I’ve gone through this musing before (see: Be the Beer), but all the same, I remain humbled and grateful and am still ruminating on all of this blessing that has been poured down on me when I didn’t deserve it.  I guess the word I’m looking for is grace, and though I’m thanking Jim, I’m thanking God, too, for looking after us both.

As I write this, Jim is driving to Oklahoma to embark on three months of training to get him back into the cockpit.  This is a huge, huge deal on the blessings front, truly a totally unexpected gift.  I guess all this mental rolling in gratefulness is borne out of already missing him.  So I apologize for the heavy entry, but I just needed to say it, needed Jim to know it, that I love him and am so proud of him.  Here’s to Jim and his next adventure, may he find blue skies, calm winds, and may his hand be ever steady on the controls.  Cheers!

 

Therapy

My dear friend recently sought the counsel of a therapist, who told her “when you find out who you are, it won’t matter what you do.”  I thought this was pretty profound and true, and also that it was a definite good sign to get this kind of sage nugget on your first session.  I kind of have a thing for therapists.  These kind and gentle souls, wise women just a little older than my mom, whose offices are decorated with rock waterfalls and zen gardens, who listen to celtic music and wear clothes that might best be described as bohemian chic, who have read all of the self help books so you don’t have to.  These lovely sage counselors whose face says, as you spill your guts, 1) I am listening, and I understand you completely, 2) I don’t think you’re an idiot at all or I am very good at hiding my thinking you’re an idiot, and 3) I can help you find the answer you’re looking for.  Ok, I know this is a complete stereotype, but this is what I picture when I think of a wise counselor.  Actually, I think this is also my subconscious perception of God, which I know is totally small and ridiculous and self-indulgent, but there it is.  Seriously, don’t tell me God doesn’t love celtic music.  And I think God is the original author of the thought that if we know who we really are, our own inherent value and worth, what we do, that’s just icing on the cake.  It’s not the cake.  We all know that icing is very important, but eat a lot of that without the cake too, and well, that’s just a recipe for a sick and empty feeling, a kind of false nourishment.  What you do can be gone in an instant, and if you don’t know who you are, what remains?  I watched an older couple yesterday as I was walking into the hospital–it was just an instant, a look shared between them, but I saw there a deep and abiding kindness and love.  Maybe it was just my projection, but I thought it was beautiful.  It is these things that make us who we are, these choices.  Did I choose kindness when perhaps my instinct was to choose otherwise?  Was I patient and gentle even when it was hard?  Did I show love, even to those who are strangers, or worse, enemies?  I hardly ever make the right choices, but I’m trying, and I think the trying makes me who I am.  It is who I am while I do what I do.  So here’s to therapists, these lovely creatures, and to trying, and to the journey.  May we all find peace in the paths we take, and may we all know, in the end, where our true value lies.  Cheers!

Light Box

You know things have maybe taken a bit of a wrong turn when just ordering your light therapy box makes you excited.  And when you pay for next day shipping.  Yes, I caved and bought myself some artificial sunshine.  Yeah, yeah, I know it’s the end of February, and I’m sure that gorgeous days are just around the corner but just in case they’re not…hello, 10,000 lux!  As I said before, every year I google these things, and every year I’ve been too cheap to buy one, plus I’ve had all kinds of other reasons as to why I might feel, oh, just a tad bit lethargic.  Two years ago I told myself that really the issue was a lack of exercise, last year it was pregnancy.  This year, though, no excuses—I’m exercising more than ever before, I’m definitely not pregnant (I hope!), family life is beautiful and full of blessings, and work is…well, it’s work, but I certainly can’t complain more than usual.  So why do I still feel like I’m slogging through a foot of cement just to get through a day?  I’ll tell you why—it’s dark!  It’s dark when I drive in and gray when I drive home, and in between those drives, there are no windows in my clinic (it’s like Vegas but without the flashing lights and the pumped in oxygen.)  Bleh.  Anyway, I am not complaining, I’m really  not, I’m just fessing up to a little seasonal affective disorder and taking care of business.   I can honestly say I am super pumped to have my light.  Aiden and I sat in front of it this morning while he was nursing (I sure hope these lights don’t cause baby mania or anything!), and I felt a little hopeful.  Besides, all the reviews say the light makes you smarter, skinnier, richer, and better-looking.  I mean, who could pass that up?  So here’s to taking the bull by the horns and to sunnier skies, both real and artificial.  Cheers!

Purification

Adulthood inevitably leads to foulness.  Ok, maybe not for everyone, but in my case I offer the following evidence:  Most mornings I get up early, get showered and dressed, and cook breakfast for my husband and myself.  Good start so far, I know, but just wait.  As we sit together, eating breakfast on our bed (which in and of itself is pretty lazy and gross, but hey, the TV is in there and we just MUST catch up on our morning news, ok?), my lovely husband, almost without fail, will push out either one or a series of loud farts.  Just for the record, I would never do such a thing.  Just ask anyone.  Even more egregious, the other morning we had a rare opportunity just to lie there in the rare quiet silence before the boys wake up.   We were snuggled up and talking, very beautiful and still, when I feel his abdominal muscles flex, followed by a loud butt salutation to the morning.  Um, gross!  Of course, these events are chased by profuse apologies, but they continue to happen so I think he’s just ok with it.  Furthermore, I mean, I must be ok with it given I’ve subsequently had another baby with this gas making machine, right?  Where did the days go when we would have DIED if the other one even KNEW about our bodily functions, huh?  To offer more evidence of our spiraling toward further disgustingness, I caught a poo coming out of my nearly three-year-old son’s rear end yesterday.  I caught it with my bare hands (quick side admission:  as I’m writing this I first wrote “I caught it with my bear hands.”  Hmmm.  Interesting visual image but stupid mistake nonetheless.  I think the internets is making me dumb.  Anyway.)  Did I leap up in revulsion and protest, rush to the bathroom, get rid of the darn thing, and wash my hands about three thousand times?  No.  Not quite.  No.  I sat there, laughing hysterically, WHILE MY HUSBAND TOOK A PICTURE to document the whole thing.  Totally foul!  I did wash my hands a few good times and had a serious talk with Jack about how it would really be preferable, by me at least, if he could poo in the potty rather than my hands, but I still find my lack of disgust at the whole event kind of shocking.  Just to reassure you, if someone poo’ed on me in another setting, I’m pretty sure I would be horrified.  Pretty sure.  Goodness, I hope I would be horrified.  Anyway, all I’m saying here is I think as I’ve gone along, gotten married, become a parent, my grody threshold has gone way up.  I can’t say if this is good or bad, it just is.  Still, there must be something non-intuitive going on here, something inherently good in all this revolting behavior, because I can’t stop smiling as a write this.  I think God knew I needed to have little boys, and he blessed me three times over.  I get to laugh, every day, about farts and boogers and wieners—oh my.  As my friend joked, it really IS a glamorous life we’ve chosen.  The reality is, we are all animals with pretty disgusting bodily functions that can only be hidden for so long.  You can shower it, shave it, spray it down with perfume or cologne, but the dirty truth is, we are all just walking, talking shit machines.  I’m just blessed that I have three boys who will put up with mine (don’t worry—I’ve crossed over into figurative territory here.  I’m not pooping on anyone these days, just in case you wondered—ha!)  So here’s to family, in all of it’s glorious mess.  May we all know the love that accepts us completely—good, bad, and grubby.  Cheers!

Hibernation

I haven’t been to the bar in weeks, months even.  I know, right—slacker!  I mean here I made this public proclamation about going to the bar every week and having a beer with friends, and here I sit a totally beer-less backslider.  No beers, no friends.  Sounds pathetic, no?  So what happened?  Where did all that “sticking with a discipline” motivation go?  I could offer up a lot of excuses, but frankly it just hasn’t worked out.  Some of it is the cold, the dark, the gray Ohio weather.  I’ve been here three winters, and around this time every year I google light therapy for seasonal affective disorder.  I crave carbs like none other.  My motivation is transferred towards the acquisition of donuts and a warm place in my bed-ha!  In all seriousness, during these dark days the last thing I need is another sedative.  On the flip side, I probably do need the socialization, though I find myself seeking more and more solitude.  My friends from medical school called this “hermit mode” which is probably a pretty apt description, although I assure you I am not sporting crazy long fingernails, going days without showering, or peeing in bottles a la Howard Hughes or anything.   I am a little ambivalent toward my tendency to retreat.  I do enjoy the simple peacefulness of being alone with a book after the boys have gone to bed.  I do feel so much satisfaction and recharge in going out for a ten mile run with nothing but the music in my headphones keeping me company.  In fact, these times feel all the more precious now given my work—talking and listening and interacting with thirty or more people in a day can be exhausting.  A lunch break alone feels like a deep inhale, exhale.  So I am alone, but I do not feel lonely…most of the time.  The downside to seeking solitude is that on occasion I do feel lonely or bored or have the craziest cabin fever and wish I could fly off to warmer climes.  At these times I try to remember that while February may feel like the longest month of the year, the truth is exactly the opposite.  The days are getting longer, the temperatures warmer, and under all that snow melting, imagine this, the grass is actually green.  I bet my bulbs will be coming up in another month.  Maybe then with a little more vitamin D in my system I’ll be ready to belly up to the bar again.  We’ll see, but for now I’m mostly content to spend my time with my boys, with Jim, and with myself, be it on the road, on a treadmill, or nose buried in a book.  Here’s to all my fellow hermits, wherever you are hiding, may you find peace in your solitude and no loneliness in your aloneness.

Finisher’s Beer

I am a runner.  Unlikely, even unbelievable, and yet there it is, and it’s the truth.  This has been a process 16 years in the making, and I think I can finally claim my place on the team, as it were.  If you’re looking for me, I’ll be the short, squatty one in the back rocking out to Single Ladies on my iPod.  I started trying to be a runner when I was 16, shortly after having my ACL repaired and deciding that after six or eight weeks of immobility, I was not only going to walk, I was going to run.  So as a senior in high school, I joined the track team.  I’m not sure what they thought of their chunky new member, but I know what I thought of them—so tall, so skinny, so fast.  I was immediately intimidated and mentally defeated, and I can’t really say that I gave it my best or even really knew how to do that.  In college I ran intermittently, mostly to fulfill ROTC requirements, sometimes to blow off steam but never to truly train or achieve anything (except maybe weight loss).  Truthfully, I was firmly entrenched in the “non-athlete” category and had been since kindergarten.  Who knew co-ed tee-ball for five year olds was so hardcore in Houston, Texas?  I can still remember the coach’s red face after I missed not only the ball but the tee altogether for the umpteenth time.  Oops.  And from that point on I was the smart girl, the new girl, the shy girl, but certainly not the girl who could run fast or catch a ball.  No way.  So when my dad and sister-in-law suggested that we all sign up for the Air Force 10K which happened to fall just a little over four months after Aiden’s birth, I thought of it in very pragmatic terms.  It will help me lose the baby weight, help me prepare for my PT test, and FORCE me to be active.  Strangely enough, though, even from the beginning, that first two miles at two weeks post-partum, when I felt like my, ahem, insides were going to fall out, it felt like a privilege, a freedom, an escape.  And so I kept going, finishing the 10K beside my dad and feeling great and signing up for a half marathon.   My dear friends Mike and Courtney checked in on me and my training often, offering hints and tips and big-time encouragement.  My strong and fast friend Rebecca did the same, as did my sister-in-law and my parents.  And sweet Jim asked me every weekend what I needed to accomplish and never balked once when I asked for 2 hours of kid-free time to get my long run in.  To steal a sentiment from my dad, I felt all these great hands and spirits lifting me up and pushing me along.  So when, last weekend, I crossed the finish line at my first half-marathon, my eyes welled up with tears of gratitude.  In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing huge, certainly no cure for cancer or trip to the moon, but in my little world, it felt like a lot.  It makes me smile when Jack reads “One Fish, Two Fish”, sees the weird guys that like to run in the hot, hot sun and says “just like you, Mommy!”  Anyway, the above beer was enjoyed in the company of my boys after 13.1 miles in the Arizona desert and in the knowledge that despite what we think we know about ourselves, life can always surprise us.  Here’s to pleasant surprises, new identities, and many, many strong and safe miles on the road.  Cheers!

Santa’s Beer

Nothing says “I live here” like waking up in Dayton on Christmas morning.  I will readily admit that this reality was a disappointing turn of events for me.  Amazingly, this was the first Christmas in my 31 years away from my parents and only the second Christmas not spent in Oklahoma.  We had planned all year to make that trek, but at the last minute, work issues and whatnot came up and our time off shrunk to a three day stretch.  I initially scrambled and searched, looking for flights and ways to make it work and fit.  “Well, we would get in at midnight on the 23^rd and then fly out on the 26^th at 6 am.  I think the boys could handle that, don’t you?”  Yeah.  After a couple hours of some mental ping pong on the issue, I realized that the best and right thing was to do the hard thing for me and stay home.  Ok, I will admit it.  I cried.  A lot.  But after some time, I made nice with the decision and planned.  I bought turkey brining bags and cookie cutters.  I found recipes and wrapping paper, and I tried to get cozy with the idea of having a quiet long weekend at home in place of the frenzied family gathering that is my tradition.  Somewhere along the way I got excited.  I exhaled.  I realized that here was a small and precious opportunity to make a beautiful time for our family.  No rushing to pack bags, no “special” airport pat downs because you’re packing breastmilk and are therefore, obviously, a terrorist, no missed naptimes and crabby nights, no post-holiday exhaustion after making that long flight home; and it really was a beautiful time.  Were there hiccups?  Sure.  Let’s just say that Jack and I are not going to get our own cookie baking show on the food network any time soon.  Our creations were less than presentable, but I will say that Jack’s icing decorations do have a bit of Jackson Pollock-inspired style.  Also, the turkey brining bags still sit on the shelf as I had a near-melt down about cooking my first turkey and bought a honey baked ham instead.  The Christmas-shaped pancake molds?  Well, either I am a moron, or Williams Sonoma is full of crap.  Regardless, those pancake blobs were tasty and warm after a Christmas morning present extravaganza the likes of which can only be had with a crazed two year old going from gift to gift.  Did I miss my family?  Yes, without a doubt and I hope that we can be with them next year.  Still, I was filled with peace and joy at the Christmas Eve service at church, and I see the unexpected gift that this “disappointment” became.  Santa(s) shared some beer and cookies on Christmas Eve and watched the snow fall and the tree lights twinkle.  It really was kind of magical.  “In a year, we all will be together, if the fates allow.  Until then, we’ll have to muddle through, somehow.”  I think we muddled quite nicely.  So here’s to holiday cheer and family, near and far, and God Bless us, every one.

Be the Beer

 

Na na na na na.  Na na na na na.  (My apologies for the Caddyshack reference—man what a great movie!)  Over the Thanksgiving holiday, we were fortunate enough to go home to Colorado to visit my family, and this meant a plethora of babysitters, so I enjoyed this Phantom Canyon Brewery Zebulon’s Peated Porter with my sweet husband.  It was sort of a “wait, wait—I think I remember you” kind of a moment, like “oh yeah, so you really ARE that cute guy who liked my green Vans in college, not just the guy who shrinks my sweaters in the dryer.”  Only now he is older, handsomer (not fair, am I right ladies?), wiser, and more patient.  In short, he has really grown into himself, and I’m lucky he’s hung around these years.  It was nice to have an evening to be reacquainted, to enjoy each other’s company without any distraction or pretense, to just relax and exhale.  It may sound strange (or not) that a couple who has been together almost ten years this January needs time to be reacquainted, but it seems to me this should be a daily directive under the category of marital TLC.  We have come a long way from that girl in the green shoes, that cute guy.  Growth and change, sometimes purposeful, often painful, have carried us far downriver from those days.  At points along the way, we didn’t like the people we’d become.  So often over the past years I have not been present, have been elsewhere or so inside my own head that I haven’t been able to see Jim, right there with me, sharing the load and the journey.  At times I think he has found himself similarly blinded, and it is no small miracle that we stand on the other side of ten years and are looking in the same direction.  Since the birth of our boys I’ve been able to witness his gentle, supportive nature, to watch him nurturing them and encouraging me.  It is not without much awe and gratitude that I look at him now, still here with me despite all of the rough water under the bridge.   Still, I think that rough water carried us to an appointed place and time, was intentional and purposeful, and has strengthened us much like the fire in the potter’s kiln.  I’m so happy to be able to share not only my victories, but more importantly my failures and shortcomings with Jim and to know that he will be here regardless.  I don’t think very many people are so lucky. 

During our date he asked me “so, what’s your next Madonna move?”  He has watched me jump into things with both feet and change accordingly, for a time, until it’s on to the next thing.  While I don’t think the pop icon and I have too many things in common, this propensity for change and the appreciation of a good dance song are two.  This need for change and impulsive leaps, however, has often been motivated by a desire to escape more than a desire to pursue something new.  So I told him my next move is to stay put, to be present in my day to day with him and the boys, and to quit running away.  He said he was glad, and I think he is.  So we’ll sail on smooth waters for now, until the next rough time which we know will come.  Let’s hope that we can navigate them with increasing skill each time and that we can keep our compasses in sync.  Here’s to true north, and here’s to Jim.

More Juice, John Benjamin?

Feelings of strong dislike for one of Jack’s daycare providers have crept up on me this week.  I was a little miffed when, several months ago, upon first meeting Jim and me she took it upon herself to argue with me about my decision to not allow Jack to have juice.  Hello?  Ever hear of the childhood obesity epidemic?  I was a little baffled when, a few months into his term in the class, Jack came home and started referring to himself as John Benjamin Kerley (his given name), and all the teachers in the class started calling him John.  She and I had words about what his name is (I am not kidding) one day in the hallway for over ten minutes.  There is a rule against nicknames that I was already well aware of, having written a letter for his last class giving his teachers permission to call him Jack.  Does this sound crazy?  Welcome to government-run daycare.  I was increasingly annoyed when she told me one day that Jack was aggressive and defiant (this at 6:45 in the morning as I’m dropping him off.)  Actually annoyance wasn’t my initial reaction.  My initial reaction was worry and guilt, worry and guilt, ruminating all day long about “what if my kid is the bully?”  The annoyance kicked in when I picked Jack up that evening and his other teacher seemed shocked by that report and flatly denied ever seeing him be aggressive, endorsing only “normal” 2 year old behavior.  So there’s the background.  Now here it is:  I was effing pissed off (pardon me, pardon me) this week when, after having to wake my poor little one up before he was ready and literally physically force him to get dressed, after rushing out of the house, late again, with both boys upset and fussy, I drop Jack off and get the report that Jack isn’t sleeping during nap time, that he “screams and screams until he falls asleep.”  Ok, lady, now this I know isn’t true and this constant barrage of negative feedback is getting out of hand.  In fact, I am at the daycare center every day feeding Aiden during lunch and am lucky to get to sneak a daily peek at my sweet, sleeping toddler who is, in fact, not screaming (or maybe I’m just missing something?)  I was dumbfounded, really.  I didn’t say anything given my history with this woman—like arguing with a brick wall, but really that’s an excuse.  Instead of doing the right thing and confronting her, I drove to work and stewed and stewed and stewed, and then called the daycare director and complained.  I felt a terrible, lonely ache for my little boy.  How awful to have to leave him in the care of this woman who doesn’t love him.  It’s life, not everybody is going to love you, but still, is it really a lesson you want a 2 year old to learn?

In the midst of all of this badness, something even worse happened.  I fell, like Alice down the rabbit hole, or maybe more appropriately I should say I chewed, like a cow with a mouthful, on a false narrative that haunted me the rest of the day until a good friend got me to snap out of it.  That is, that all this time I’ve thought that it was me who was repaying my medical school debt, but in reality it is my boys who are making the sacrifices.  Although I tend to get impatient and irritable, angry and rage-y even at times, it’s been a long time since I’ve really felt depressed.  However, this thought had me so captive, so stuck in my mind and so low I just couldn’t move on.  I spent the rest of the day on the verge of tears, very dramatic.  Sarcasm aside though, it was just a really bad day, until I texted my friend Claire, another doctor-mommy who, like me, sometimes wishes she could drop the former and more fully embrace the latter in that title.  To quote my funny friend: “She is clearly wacked out.”  Yes, indeed.  She also pointed out that even though I feel like this woman doesn’t love Jack, it is very unlikely that he knows that, and with that, I backed away from the ledge.  Jack is a happy, healthy, bright, and funny little boy.  As my mom reminded me, this is not despite the care he receives at the daycare but likely because he is so well cared for there and at home, and she is right.  Are the boys sacrificing and would they be better off with me at home?  You bet.  But it doesn’t mean that I’m not exactly where I am supposed to be right now.  It doesn’t mean that these current sacrifices won’t lead to greater dividend and reward in the future when I am free to be home.

As I dressed Jack for bed that night I thought about how quickly that false narrative weighed me down, about how quickly I sunk like a stone in all that guilt and badness.  A few years ago I used to get similarly bogged down, viewing myself as a victim of momentum and other people’s encouragement.  How did I get here and become this doctor person?  The truth is, I got here through choices and doors opened for me, through opportunity and hard work which was self-motivated.  The truth is, I am lucky to be without debt, lucky to be serving in the Air Force, lucky to have a job to support my family.  All this musing was quickly interrupted by Jack’s announcement “I am a robot!” when he saw that his little hands were stuck inside the sleeves of his pjs and peered down into them with the simple wonder and fascination of a child.  My heart felt warm and full, and my head felt still.

So here’s to this teacher, who doesn’t love my boy.  May she seek other employment opportunities soon—ha! Cheers!