Feminism Friday! The Idyllic Land of Norovirus

I wanted to write a status update (a la my friend Joan who writes small missives about her day) in the moment about this little experience, but then it seemed like I had too many things rolling around in my head. (I love Joan's status updates. It reminds me the good things that can happen in rough schools with the right person wearing her heart on her sleeve!)

We have a wreath because adults have wreaths. 

Lately I've been taking a step back, career-wise, and re-evaluating what I'm doing with my life. I worked really hard and nearly non-stop in my twenties and had a lot of stressful years. I have a lot of things I'm proud of-- a Master's Degree, many travels, much writing. Lots of stories from times spent with friends, romance and breakups, and laughter and tears. I said goodbye to my grandmothers in my twenties and I hold them very close in my heart-- their words sometimes echo in mine and I smile to think of all the skills and loves I share with them. Crock-pot cooking with whatever is in the house? Grandma Jane. Flower arranging (ah, dried eucalyptus smells so good!) and wreath making? Grandma Marilyn. I pulled out my watercolor painting supplies and have been working on those-- a skill I practiced while in one grandma's native Italy, the other's love of travelling firmly instilled in me.

The days of working 12 hours and feeling like nothing I do matters, even though I'm pouring my heart into every minute of planning, teaching, listening to, working with, assisting...lessons with children? That's on pause. And man, it feels GREAT. Teaching is rewarding, but it's become a field synonymous with levels of exhaustion akin to having triplet newborns. You love what you're doing, but as soon as one mess of poo gets cleaned up, there's another one waiting.  So a gap year of sorts was in order for me.

I've been nannying and babysitting for families in the suburbs of Denver. I love it. [Any names I use for children have been changed for their privacy. Any pics have their identity obscured because I think kids should be protected from the evils of the interwebz before they're in high school!]

Crockpot stew like Grandma Jane's

The town where I have been working is a very special place. There's a manner of frozen in time going on with these kids' childhoods! Kids walk, bike, and razor-scooter to school. They ride their bikes and take the local bus to the ice cream shop and have milkshakes before heading to the library, skateboard park, or nature trail. They play musical instruments and soccer...and the parents are in the stands or audience, cheering for their babies. In a word, it's idyllic.

After working in inner-city and OTP Atlanta for 10 years, I was left with the sinking feeling that childhood was a myth. Kids had to deal with food stamps and immigration (and they still do), and were generally learning skills (manipulation and lying) to serve them in a life that I wouldn't be proud, personally, to live. They were learning that school was about test scores and nothing more. It is incredibly disheartening for all parties involved-- parents, kids, teachers, administrators, law enforcement. Where did middle class America go?

I found it! (And I dearly wish it for every kid everywhere.)

The cul-de-sac where I've been finding myself every afternoon, Monday-Friday, has kids with swings, apple trees, scooters, bikes, gardens, friendly Fidos, and sassy cats. There are a group of little boys (ages 5-9) who play outside every day. One was using a magnifying glass (from his chemistry set!) to try to start fires. I shared, "Oh, I used to do that when I was a kid!" and he responded, "My mom said the same. It must be a rite of kid passage." Gulp. Wut? Kids talk like that here.

No Holy Grail outfits, but they looked like this. 

The boys also were playing with one of the oldest toys that any parent knows will entertain kids for hours-- a big ole box. I looked out the porch window and thought, "Oh dear. That child has a battle axe."

Box. Best. Toy. Ever. 

Yup. The neighborhood boys were demolishing a large box with their medieval (plastic) swords and battle axe. Boys will be boys, but it sure looked like fun to me. They jousted, they hacked, they smashed, they pillaged. And when the box was in pieces (and had been converted also to a dinosaur costume), they placed all the pieces in the recycling bin. One of them asked if I could try to bring a box from my house tomorrow. I promised I'd do my best. (Recycling dumpster, don't fail me!)

One of the boys noticed my State Park sticker in the windshield of my car (oh skills of observation, very coveted!). I felt that I'd been transported to a beach in SoCal-- as he put his little hands up (in a stop gesture) and said, "Whoa! Whoa! Do you go to Eldo, like my Dad? He has a sticker like that on his car from Eldo." -- yeah, bro, the hiking and climbing at Eldo are totally choice.-- Not really, I said, "Oh yeah, this is a State Park pass for Colorado. You can go to any of the parks. You've probably been to Golden Gate Canyon and Cherry Creek? But I like Eldorado Canyon too." Totally rad sticker, dude-bro.

Just painting this picture of the nature of these kids. They play outdoors. They eat actual food (one of the kiddos had a playdate, in which she searched the fridge for cherry tomatoes she'd picked from the garden (because "they'll go perfectly with our snack!") to go with the berries, cheese, and pretzels. They make their beds. They have TV time limits. They are adorable.

So why did I call this post Feminism Friday? Well, one of the kiddos (who's a girl) was having a playdate with two other friends. They carefully sat down at the table and completed their math  homework and quizzed each other over their analogies. I interrupted only to remind them at you have to say all the words that the colons stand for in analogies, or they don't really make sense. "Ship is to sailor, not ship dot dot sailor, as the colon suggests." These kids are that driven and sweet. There was no inkling that "math was hard because we're girls" and that's refreshing.

There's tons of statistics  (like college enrollment rates) and research that support that women are still underrepresented in the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) fields. Women of color (more specifically Black and Latino) are terribly underrepresented, with this fear of science stemming (sorry) from elementary school years. Motivation, gender, and color are huge when it comes to which people will finish school with which degrees. Particularly, Latino girls see themselves as caretakers of others, and will, if they choose to seek a career, mention ones that relate to taking care of children and babies (teacher, day care worker, nurse), more than any other field. It's incredibly limiting and sad as a society to see this play out. The truth is, we need a society with women AND men scientists and doctors. Women and men bring different roles to the proverbial table, which makes better workplaces for us all.

(Quick side note: I just read The Green Glass Sea, which is a children's book that received the Scott O'Dell award for Historical fiction. It was GREAT. It dealt with a girl protagonist living on the base of Los Alamos when they were building the atomic bombs. The kids meet all the scientists you think about learning the early stages of radiation studies. It's a different side of WWII book than I'd read. If you have kids-- 8-12ish, make them read it.)

Imagine my surprise when the girls trotted upstairs to gather (it seemed like) every stuffed animal and

baby doll known to man to bring to the basement to "play daycare." I was a little disheartened-- these are girls who have scientist and engineer parents-- why are they stuck in this gender-role play?

I gave it some time, and laughed as I came downstairs to check on them. The babies were all in the side room-- in quarantine. They were using makeshift cell phones -- calculators, old phones-- to call all the parents at the day care. They'd come, not as day care workers, but as CDC doctors to quarantine the Norovirus. Yes. The Norovirus. One kiddo warned me, "Don't go in there. It's the Norovirus.  There's vomit. EVERYWHERE! We have to keep these kids on lock!" They giggled and laughed as they put on their imaginary medical gear to take care of the babies and to put on press conferences about spreading the virus. They put on serious voices and made day care outgoing messages for the parents of the children struck.

With the Ebola virus crippling Africa currently and scaremongering laypeople about hospital care of those aid workers returning home, (even in my native Atlanta and alma mater Emory) it seemed prescient that these kids were playing doctor/scientist/aid worker in the basement in Colorado. They are neatly living this beautiful idyllic childhood, but the real world exists.

And this highly-contagious world may have a few health care workers coming up through the ranks in a few years!!

Grateful for...stuff.

I've had this feeling. It's been growing- waxing and waning since about May. It's this overwhelming, but not scary, sense of gratitude. A sense that the town crier shouting, "12:00 and all is we-lll," is maybe, just maybe correct. It's late-- past my bedtime for sure. But this peaceful gratitude-- it means All Is Well. 

All is well? Yes. In two days, I'll be out of my apartment. My apartment was my safe haven, my cozy little spot. It was under 400 square feet-- just a rectangle with a closet, a bathroom, a kitchen, and lots of windows. Since I moved in my sedan, I didn't have furniture. So in August of last year, I was in little apartment with a slightly leaky loaned air mattress and a few boxes, bags, and suitcases of my things. I had a few things shipped from Georgia; I went to Goodwill, Bed, Bath & Beyond, Ikea, and Target; I checked freecycle and on Craigslist. I found an amazing amount of treasure next to the dumpster on my street, just waiting to be discarded, but with a former owner who hoped it could get some more use. Somehow, that little rectangle box with good windows-- it became home. It had my magnets. My cards. My pictures. My books. Somehow, all those things become you, even though 'you' aren't 'stuff,' our 'stuff' makes us feel like we belong. Have roots. 

In August last year, I bought a futon to sleep on. In November, I decided I was too damn old to sleep on a futon, so I bought a bed. That was a good choice. My little apartment with good windows had a rug, shelves, plants. The plants came from freecycle with many of the pots from Goodwill. Amazing what plants will do for a living space. 

But a year has come and gone. I've added clothes and accessories to my wardrobe I never needed before my life up here at 5280 feet. Snow boots, thermal layers, woolen socks, a headband with a hole for my ponytail. Hiking gear, running gear, picnic-in-the-park gear. I noticed it when I moved, and it became true for me-- I think Denver people don't mind having small apartments-- because they get to spend so much time in this great grand wonderful outdoors. The sun is shining 300 days a year-- even when it's cold, it's rarely miserable out.

All of that stuff came in-- one bag or box at a time and all of it had to leave too. So, here we are and I'm back to being grateful. I sublet my apartment (shh!) while I was in Atlanta for a conference and much-needed family time and it turned out to be the best situation for both of us. My "housesitter" was recently out of a bad relationship and needed a homebase that wasn't squatting on her well-meaning friends' couches. She kept the place clean and nice and took care of my furniture. She's a photographer and makes beautiful art. She paid on time and in full. Can't be anything but grateful there. 

And here I am again, feeling grateful. A mom I met, selling her that futon that I got back in August, pointed out that she "meets the nicest people on Craigslist." I couldn't agree more. For all that furniture that I required to make my little space mine, a lot of it had to go. The counter stools, the futon, the ottomans, the mounted dish rack, the vacuum, the bed. One by one-- with ads on Facebook (a bust!), posted by apartment laundry rooms and door frames (a bust!), and craigslist ads, I got rid of those pieces one by one. I haven't met one mean person on craigslist. They've all been grateful for the deal they got and excited for the "new to them" from my home to theirs. Two of the women I met selling things I no longer needed? Also started out, this summer instead of last, with a car full of stuff and nothing else-- departing from "back East" to this haven of buildings, mountains, and rivers in Colorado. Something so poetic and cyclical about getting the things that I needed to replace to someone in nearly the same situation, a calendar's turn around the sun later. 

For all those things I "needed," I realized I had too much. I gave away items on freecycle. I placed books in Little Free Libraries. I brought a load of odds and ends to the Goodwill (the cycle continues!). And somehow, my Christopher could stop gently correcting me for saying "your" apartment to "our" apartment. My magnets and books and jewelry and things were incorporated with his books and video games and art and Das Boot memorabilia. The stuff? It's our stuff. Or it's now someone else's. Lots to be grateful for tonight.  

Farewell little Dexter St. apartment. We had good times. 

So what about you? Could you distill your life into a few small boxes and bags? Fit everything in the space of a car? What stuff would you get rid of in your life...if you dared?

Downsides and Daffodils

I’ve been a little bummed about my life lately. Things just seem to be plodding along and not necessarily going as planned—not that there is a master plan, anyway. There seem to be more downsides than anything to all my past plans, hopes, goals, and dreams. This is a “blah” way to feel.

It’s no secret that physical pain heightens your senses and dulls others. For example, I sometimes have a crick (is that a real word?) in my left shoulder, often from wearing my purse on one side. I have hardly noticed it. Why? Wellllll, I comically fell down the steps in the rain a few days ago.

Yes. It was comical. It’s been monsoon-weather here in the ATL and it was pouring. Like movie-level, garden hose pouring. (Incidentally, I just saw “Beautiful Creatures” and there’s a line where the Girl Witch is having an emotional break down with her Mortal Boyfriend and she commands nature—it’s dumping buckets of rain JUST on him. He, in true Southern gentleman form pleas, “I’m agreein’ with you! Bein’ human is feelin’ bad, and I care about you…Now would you please stop RAININ’ on me?!”) That’s what this rain was. Buckets.

I have about 6 steps from my front porch and a concrete landing. I slid on my heels and hit the right side of my back, below my shoulder blade and above my hip, on every step down. I landed with a thud on my left bum cheek…this is the side where I’ve had problems with sciatica for several years. (Yes, I’m 29, and I have sciatica nerve pain. It’s awesome.)

I actually wish I’d seen this fall—it was probably hilarious to watch. However, turns out that landing on my left side jostled and jolted my left sacroiliac joint, which is generally inflamed (it’s been that way since I was about 10, weird). Due to possibly adrenalin or whatever, I didn’t really feel bad, just more comically embarrassed for about 24 hours. Then my hip started hurting. And my lower back. And my upper back. And my leg would get pins and needles. Then go numb.

I suffered through with some old muscle relaxers at night and ibuprofen during the day. I went to work the next 2 days; sitting in the car puts pressure on my SI joint in a way that was basically misery-inducing. It feels like there is sandpaper neatly wrapped around each bone and part of my joint in my hip…rubbing against any squishy muscle and tissue that are down there. Ouch.

I went to the chiropractor and she said my body is self-correcting and my left leg was about two inches shorter than my right. Hah! Are you kidding? Hey Bones, you’re not a slinky! Stop and do what you’re told! Long story short, it’s been almost a week and I’m a lot better. I do yoga anyway, so those stretches help, but sitting feels worse than walking and standing, by a lot. Sleeping is hard because sometimes I wake up with this stabbing pain, but then again, who needs restful sleep for a body to heal?

Wow, I meant to write less about that, but I just edited in a lot more. Oh well. Another side effect of pain making other parts of your life strangely in-focus, is that I haven’t been able to exercise in the last week (due to torrential rain and pain-in-my-butt).  Running about a mile daily was doing wonders for my mood, self-esteem, waist-line, and general well-being. I missed it terribly! I never thought I’d be one of those people who loved exercise, but I’ll say it. I –love- running. I like the air in my face, my dog on the leash beside me, the feeling of the concrete under my feet.

Speaking of that concrete under my feet, I managed a walk/jog yesterday with my dog and that’s where this post formulated itself in my head. I was walking on a side street in Grant Park which is not particularly kept up. It’s mainly because they are majority rental houses and so there’s not a lot of motivation for landlords or tenants to invest in their groundskeeping. There’s big gorgeous houses a street over, but this one is a little dilapidated.

As the brown, grey, loamy rotting leaves litter the un-mowed winter lawns, there are occasional patches of color. This one in particular caught my eye because it was a happy patch of yellow daffodils in a row of largely untended rental houses. It was so happy and daffodils don’t just come from nowhere! Someone had to have planted those bulbs one fall or winter at some point.

It made me think…I have lived in, decorated, and grown gardens in a half dozen houses since the time I finished Oxford College a decade ago. I plant vegetables, seeds, annuals, perennials, some shrubs, some small seedlings…and do my best to make things grow. When I’ve planned to stay in one place for a while, I’ve planted crocuses, daffodils, hyacinths, lilies, and poinsettias. Crocuses bring the promise of spring and daffodils have shown up in my life at times when I needed a natural, physical reminder of the Creator among us.  I harvest rain water and shower water; I compost and grow fat worms; I fertilize and tend. Gardening is so healing to me…the words of a Mumford and Sons song started ringing in my ears.

(Before you think I’m crazy, it was a particularly serendipitous mix on the ipod and the song “Below My Feet” happened to come on as I was gazing at these little yellow Narcissus flowers. This actually happens to me quite frequently—I credit the radio gods with these nuggets of aural pleasure.)

…Keep the earth below my feet
For all my sweat, my blood runs weak
Let me learn from where I have been
Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn…

Seeing these little tender blossoms waving in the wind on bright green stems, given life at a crappy rental house, from a tenant long since moved on, reminded me that my light and life…even if I’m not actively seeing the result, might be spreading before and behind me. I’m disappointed in the downsides of my life right now, but I have planted bulbs of bright happiness and color in places around Atlanta…and those dark bulbs, planted in cold soil, with roots pushing down, leaves, stems, and petals flourishing upward…might just be nourishing someone’s soul too.

Here’s a clip of Mumford and Sons on SNL… it's a pretty song.

P.S. The lyrics are very poetic and have some poignant Christian overtones to them, if that seems to float your proverbial boat. I recommend to keep the ground below your feet, it’s been a bad week for boats (lookin’ at you Carnival Cruise).