The Nose Rings True

 

In February 2022, Middle Sis and I went together to get our noses pierced.  She was 16 years old and I was 51, and so she (minor) needed me there, with her birth certificate and my approval in hand, while I needed to fulfill my own longing. 

I have wanted to pierce my nose for most of my adult life but talked myself out of it for decades, mainly prompted by What Other People Might Think. My desire remained steady while I grew increasingly aware of other 40-to-50-year-old women with new sparkles in their noses. And then came the era of living and consorting with representatives of a generation of young adults who don't understand how piercings and tattoos have anything to do with their character and heart and efficacy and don't fear loss of jobs, reputations, and respect as a result (of course, time will tell if there are any lingering "ragrets," tattoo removals, or unadorned piercing holes left to close up.  And then they'll be like any other aging generation, with their shoulda woulda couldas accompanied by shrugs).  

As for me, I knew immediately after our appointment that I loved my nose ring, and two years later, I am still giddily happy about it and have forgiven myself for not having it done earlier, while vowing to wear a nose ring through my dying day.  Part of the celebration is, after all, that I did the thing I always wanted to do, finally at 50+ years old, and it wasn't too late and I still have my job and my family, and I was right about wanting it all along.  There are even intermittent unexpected compliments from friends, acquaintances, and new-to-me-people which pop up here and there to make me really feel good about how many times Evan has helped me through my Piercing Problems.

I think there are all sorts of ways to get your nose or ears pierced, including by your bestie or a complete stranger with ice and a safety pin or needle in a bedroom or dorm room or party and/or with a teenager armed with a piercing gun at a mall jewelry store, but these times (including Tootsie's ear piercing for her 9th birthday) we opted to make appointments at a dedicated piercing place with crystals and geodes and succulents and a private room where you lie down and Evan, one of the gentlest, kindest humans I've met, talks you through the experience and urges you to listen and follow all the guidance and be responsible about the wound you agreed to have inflicted and then come back in a few months to change out your piercing when you are so moved.  

By September of 2022 I was ready to shorten my nose ring post and upgrade to a sparkly little flower stud, which sat flatter on my fully-healed nose and didn't get caught on so many things as the original stud.  I think I would have lived happily ever after with that very cute silver-petaled jewel I had no reason to take out.

Except for my annual stint as Elf on the Shelf.  

In 2019, my second year as principal at the elementary school, I adopted an idea from my sister-in-law, whose admin team posed on the roof of their high school on the last day of school before the holidays in Elf costumes.  I initiated a tradition of perching myself in various spots still as a statue, much to the delight and wonderment of my students, who guessed but couldn't confirm the Elf's identity as Principal of our School.  

But then on December 2022, at recess, one particular student let me know he knew it was me up there on the ledge because of my nose ring.

I thought about that all year long going into Elf Season 2023.  And during my early AM Elf Transformation, in my thorough attempt to sustain plausible deniability, I dutifully took out my earrings and the nose ring, consisting of two parts, and safely put them away to be restored during my transition back to Madam Principal in Street Clothes + Other Identifying Accessories.  

But I grossly miscalculated how difficult it would be to stick the back post through a hole in my nose from inside my nostril and then pop the stud into the post from the outside.  I think the second part would have been easy if I could have just achieved the first part.  

I dropped both pieces into the sink (which I lined with paper towels just in case) multiple times and should have given up early and resumed more important Principal Duties, but I was determined to be visible as the Principal with the Nose Ring vs. Elf with No Nose Ring.  

Finally, almost as predicted, the stud part bounced or popped out onto the floor and I could NOT find it, not with my phone flashlight, not with a broom, not with paper towels wiping the entire floor, and not with well-meaning colleagues all taking a gander.  I was so ANNOYED.  I was annoyed as well as embarrassed about caring so much about maintaining Elf Identity, and then even more annoyed and embarrassed about caring so much about my nose ring. Filled with exasperation with myself, I took the post part that remained and stuck it in my nose backwards so the flat disc part was at least visible outside and keeping my nose piercing pierced, albeit loosely.  

I spent the rest of the day getting over myself and also making sure that unsecured post stayed put in my nose until I could get home and try again to attach my original stud.

The next episode in this story involves my futile attemtps at home to stick that little post through the inside of my nostril through to the outside.  I could not make it work with a finger and that tiny post in my nose.  So I tried using tweezers, but I would either not squeeze the tweezers tightly enough, and the post would fall back out of my nose into the sink, or I'd squeeze too hard and the post would pop out of the tweezers and also fall right out.  Clearly, the responsible thing was to give up again and go back to Evan for help.  Instead, I persisted.  Until that time I squeezed too hard (again) and felt the post pop out of the tweezers but not into the sink and then not onto the floor in any place I could find it.  I searched and searched and searched because.  BECAUSE THE ONLY OTHER SCENARIO WAS THAT THE POST SPRUNG OUT OF THE TWEEZERS AND UP INTO MY NOSE AND THEN QUITE POSSIBLY INTO MY LUNGS OR SINUSES.

And as soon as I thought of this possibility I could not unthink it.  

I tried aggressive nose blowing in hopes the tiny metal thingamajig would safely come out of my nasal cavity with no success.

I turned to Google, which did not help.  There were stories of infections and surgeries and x-ray photos of tiny metallic objects embedded in sinuses or lung tissue.  

Meanwhile, it the weekend before Christmans with family in town and shopping to finish and events to attend and in the back of my mind I was wondering if I needed to go to Urgent Care if not just to reassure myself I didn't do the thing I was going to be embarrassed to tell anyone was a possibility. But that sounded like a whole day I might regret.

I decided to carry on for the time being with a variety of unsecured studs and even a hoop in my nose (not my best look) accompanied by frequent deep breaths to check for pain and/or shortness of breath.  I scheduled an appointment with Evan for the day after Christmas to replace both lost parts, because it wasn't like I was going to stop having a nose ring, even if my lungs were possibly inflamed. I was willing to live with the hope/uncertainty that the post was an inconsequential new part of my body, like a pin in a joint or bone.

December 26th arrived, the day of the appointment to get a new nose ring professionally installed.  That morning in the quiet after-holiday lull, I set about cleaning, including sweeping the bathroom and bedroom floors, floors I'd swept thoroughly in search of that missing post.  

And yet, somehow, a couple sweeps in, I just happened to look down and just SOMEHOW happened to notice that tiny grey 3mm post on the floor.  

Suddenly I DID NOT HAVE TO LIVE THE REST OF MY LIFE wondering where the HECK that little thing was.  

In a new euphoric state of non-anxiety, I went to the piercing place and chose a new stud--this time a gold sunburst with a sparkly center.  And I loved this new nose ring EVEN MORE than the last, especially because it came paired with the post I found on the floor instead of in my lungs or grey matter.   

While Evan expertly installed my post and new stud, I explained the whole saga in a relieved, knee-slapping, isn't it funny that I thought I had that thing in my lungs? kind of way, and he patiently reminded me it was only $5 to have him put my nose ring back in, using tools.  

I enjoyed that sunburst nose ring all the way up until one day in late April.  

That morning in the shower, as I reached up to lather my face with soap, one of my finger rings caught on my nose ring and popped it off the post.  It flew somewhere, and when I looked down, I knew it was more than likely that it went immediately down the drain.  Nevertheless, I commenced a soggy search of the shower, covering the drain, wiping the floor systematically with my hands, and then with paper towels in hopes of finding that sparkly needle in a haystack. 

This time, I could only shake my head at myself resignedly and keep the post in from the back precariously until I could get back to the piercing place to buy YET ANOTHER STUD.  This time, with the backing still installed inside my nostril, I only needed to pick a new nose ring and pop it into the post myself.  The sunbursts were apparently out of stock, so I went back to the silver flower design.  They told me I could not put it in while I was in the store, and then gave me the helpful advice NOT to try to put it in in my car, which of course was going to be my first impulse. 

I enjoyed that silver flower sparkle stud all the way up until last weekend. 

On Friday afternoon I heard the news that a dear friend's biopsy results included cancer cells.  On Saturday morning I learned that our close family friend's cancer prognosis had changed for the worse.  And then a family member shared more life-altering news.  I spent the afternoon in a sort of preparatory grief.

I took a late shower in the afternoon, after a run and various chores and errands.  At the end of my shower I stooped over to scrub the corners of the stall with the brush we keep in there for that purpose.  The first thing that caught my eye was a small strong, circular magnet we use for photos on our fridge, the kind that sometimes attaches to other metallic objects and can occasionally be found on the floor of the kitchen.  I wondered how it found its way to our shower.  

The next thing that caught my eye was that little gold sunburst stud.  The one I lost two months and many showers and scrubbings ago in April.  There it was.  Not lost, not down the drain.  Still unexpectedly there.  

And this time, instead of celebratory relief at finding it, I felt a moment of well, hey, there you are, the thing I lost and maybe mourned a little, but now feels so simply replaceable, even over and over again.  It's like it showed up to remind me you can have your nose ring back--actually, it does happen--but so much else might not be able to be found again in the same way, and this is what we have to accept. Maybe it's not so wrong to commit, even irrationally, to something that we know makes us sparkle and smile--something simple we can assure ourselves we can always have, in the face of so much that we cannot. 

Inessential Oil

To “jennymoore it” means to attempt to fix or improve something but with shortcuts and missing steps, thereby making matters...worse. 

I have a history:  of trying to pry the security dye capsule off a pair of pants I LEGITIMATELY bought (but was too lazy to take back to the store)...of using Sharpies to cover bleach spots, and then needing another something that erases Sharpie marks...of supergluing stuff that requires spackle or caulk, or, caulking things that require spackle...or using whatever happens to be around to patch holes (homemade papier-mache, for example).  I've even jennymoored my hair.  Have you tried hair dye on your eyebrows--haphazardly? That's JENNYMOOREING IT to the next level.  

So tonight I jennymoored my sinuses.

I fall prey to a sinus infection every year or so.  And nothing makes me fantasize about strange remedies—like shower nozzles and vacuum cleaners focused up my nostrils—than a sinus infection.  My entire face/nose/head region has been driving me bonkers for a few weeks now and I KNOW!  I should see a doctor at this point!  But who has time for that because:  HOLIDAYS.  And anyway, I can totally handle this myself, DUH...which (spoiler alert) is the basis for all epic jennymooreisms.

Enter oregano oil!  A home remedy with only anecdotal evidence of efficacy.  But hey, desperate times.  I bought myself a vial while I was at the grocery store and was so excited to use it that despite nothing but the satisfaction that "oregano oil" and "sinuses" have Google searches in common, and no other preparation than to confirm that the oil in my vial was in fact diluted, I went ahead and hopefully droppered some right into each nostril.  Boldly, during Middle Sis's piano lesson, like someone with nothing to lose.

And then the fire began. An intense burning sensation spread quickly up my nose and into my eyes and throat.  My nose felt suddenly swollen by two sizes.  My heart started pounding.  I sneezed and both my nose and eyes watered profusely, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve and then used the SAME sleeve to dab at my eyes, thereby spreading the offending cousin-of-stinging-nettle oil to EVEN MORE MUCOUS MEMBRANES.  I tried to remain calm and quiet and NOT PANICKY! while marveling at how crazy my face and head were feeling and wondering if I would be scarred or disfigured from this self-inflicted horror.  A strange numbness then took over and my nostrils throbbed along with each beat of my heart. I silently wallowed in regret.  

When the piano lesson ended minutes later and our beloved piano teacher turned to talk to me, I was visibly weeping and ruefully attempted to explain my sinus remedy mishap.  She offered me a lifeline in the form of tissues and we wished her happy holidays. We walked to the car; I, smelling like pizza and hoping I could drive home, muttering recriminations about my impulsive purchase and how I would soon be offering oil up for free on the "buy nothing" Facebook group of which I'm a member.  I recalled that growing up, there was banter about substituting oregano for marijuana or mistaking one herb for the other.  Back in the day, you know.  When the prospect of ODing on oregano was a FUNNY JOKE.    

Meanwhile, the spectrum of sensations wrought by said oil did serve to momentarily distract me from sinus pain.  

So as I write this I predict that if I am cured of my maladies by tomorrow, I will dip into the oregano again, maybe in another year when my sinuses have me banging futilely on my temples and the memories of searing sinus flames have dimmed.  

Otherwise, free oregano oil to the next hapless victim!  Or, expect to be served some richly oregano-infused pasta sauces at my house.  To be eaten, not snorted.

Keep Moving Forward

A month ago at our school district's meeting of the Board of Trustees, our teacher's union president presented on various clubs our teachers sponsor at our elementary, middle, and high school campuses.  She showed photos of the students and teachers in action, building robots, playing board games and bonding at lunch, providing community service, and jogging.  The elementary school running club was the one that stuck with me, though; they meet in the mornings before school with the simple goal to "keep moving forward for 30 minutes."

I love this idea of focusing energy positively for a discrete period of time.  It seems so doable.

But truth is, in my non-working hours the past month or more, I've had trouble moving forward.  Household chores, social events, exercise--even my own soccer games--have felt undesirable and inordinately challenging.  Depression does that.  Anxiety ups the ante.

I haven't gone running in a couple weeks.  Running is a solo venture, and it requires my own motivation.  I easily recall a few years ago, when I attempted to jog in the nadir of my post-partum depression and I ran/walked and cried, fantasizing about lying down on the side of the road and just staying there.

Busy weekends and weekdays have provided ample excuses for not even trying to venture forth.  Nervous and anxious energy, coupled with an increased resting heart rate and blood pressure, made it seem safer to Just Not.

But this morning we would arrive early for Big Sis's soccer game.  And I felt like running.  So I wore sweats and running shoes and low expectations.  I gave myself plenty of outs.

Big Sis's soccer tournament was at a park on a big block.  I could just run around that block. One mile, max.  So I started out slowly.  I hit half a mile, satisfied that to get back to our parking spot would be about one mile, a distance that I could nod at.  I kept going.  And all the way around the block turned out to be 1.5 miles.  Do it one more time, I urged myself when I was back at the start.  And I felt like it.

Not all runs are equal:  I've run marathons and logged qualifying times.  I've run cross country races and half marathons.  I've run fast and free and jubilantly.  Today I ran a slow 5K by myself on suburban streets, cautiously, but with increasing speed and confidence.  I didn't break any of my own records and I impressed no one but myself.  But my little run today made all of today so much better.  I felt strong and accomplished, and then unusually normal later today, without even noticing.

Tonight at dinner, instead of sharing The Best Part of Our Day, we told each other what made us each most proud today.  Big Sis, who scored a goal in one of today's tournament games which ended with her team as champions, shared that welcoming a new teammate and befriending her made her most proud of herself.  I talked about my little run.

Pride is relative, we are reminded.  The moments of which we are most proud don't have to be fastest times, goals, or championships or awards.  They're best when they're acknowledgements of when we are reaching outside or beyond or despite ourselves or the doubt of others.

I won't fit in a run tomorrow morning.  It's Monday and I have carpool and a parent meeting in the office first thing and then Senior Awards and a long to-do list in between.  I hope to draft off yesterday and feel good about myself but I know it's not that simple.  Nevertheless, I have proof it's possible and within reach of running shoes.  But I'm not going to pressure myself.

In the meantime, I will keep on moving forward for the next five minutes.  Or four or three or two or one.  At least.

What My Depression Feels Like

Depression first revisits like a sternly helpful Auntie, encouraging me to take that afternoon nap because I work hard and there's no harm and the housework will wait. At the same time she admonishes me like so many Internet articles to take stock of my gratitudes and acknowledge so many others who are enduring real, life-threatening challenges. 

And so I rise, and I do.  

It works, for a while.  I celebrate surges of energy and well-being which bring warm golden filters to minutes and hours.  I ascribe malaise and exhaustion to so many long work days, typical for this time of year. And then I'm crying, which is hardly notable because I'm a crier since forever; I cry more when I'm premenstrual, so that's a convenient correlation.  But I get teary because three stressors in a row, and because you ask me how I'm doing, and because you give me a hug.  And then I'm crying when I'm alone and I'm crying in the car and the shower and I'm crying for no reason other than the fact that depression has made its turn into more than a state of mind; it has invaded my body like an all-over ache. 

I don't even want wine.  I don't want cheese or chocolate.

Depression becomes a drone with x-ray vision that hovers over my household, taking inventory of every drawer and closet and cupboard, asking why I own so many things and asking when I will take charge of them, and then asking how I can possibly manage the abstract stuff when I hardly have control of all that is material.  Depression points out that my children will inherit and have to clean out these drawers.  Depression wonders if I'm a hoarder, and Depression thinks it's an appropriate question to ask.  I have to agree.

Depression probes my heart like an MRI and knows I'm distracted and distant and impatient and counts the times I've let my children down, cataloging missed opportunities and sharp words. Depression, with its sidekick Anxiety, wakes me up at 2 or 3 AM and interrogates me.

Depression is a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat and dry red eyes after so much sobbing. At some point no platitudes, no encouragement nor reassurance, no reminders of all I have, no pep talks, no faith, and no ultimata can lift my limbs or change the tide of overwhelm which presses on my chest and immobilizes me.  This is the advent of the breaking point, the nervous breakdown if you will, the hysteria, the really hot mess, the point at which something has to happen and it's not going to be talk therapy or yoga or a nice long walk or run.  It's not coffee with a friend or a massage or girls' night out.  

I recall the last time I felt this way, almost four years ago when I had an infant.  I watch in admiration and relief as my capable now-toddler dresses herself and straps herself into her carseat.  She exerts so much effort I don't presently have.  I remember that my previous self, shortly after feeling like I presently do, left work in the middle of a very normal day to go crawl into bed because I Just Could Not Even.  I Just Could Not Even be too proud to walk away from my job, and into bed.  Crawling into bed was all I could do.  

So I know this is a pivotal point, that to continue on is to go deeper down, and I'm afraid. Something has to happen, and instead of ignoring my sister's call, I answer, and I cry unabashedly.  I know what's next after that, and my father is on the phone.  That he takes charge is reassuring but my dependency on him in this moment is also panic inducing. Someday my children might feel this way and need me, too, is painful to imagine.

Depression means every simple kindness brings an overwhelming rush of gratitude, like I feel for the doctor who calls me back after I hang up on the weekend office voicemail message.  

Her voice is calm and reassuring and patient.  

She asks me if I am feeling sad.  Yes.

She asks if I am feeling hopeless.  Yes.

I explain that I had a significant post-partum depression almost four years ago and that I am struggling again.

She asks if I am having thoughts of harming myself.  "Not serious," I share.  But I want to disappear, I admit to myself.  She will call in a prescription, the medication that was once the flashlight to guide me through darkest parts of the tunnel.  

Depression is a sea that temporarily parts with the tangible relief of enacting a solution.

I want the medication to work before I take it, but it doesn't.  My whole day and every part feels like too much, and we've got stuff to do, soccer games and lunch and drives on the freeway back and forth.  I rally.  Depression points to the parents on the sidelines, normal people chatting about normal things, not choking back tears, not hiding behind sunglasses and afraid to answer, "How are you?"  I observe them all, remembering a time as a child when I had the flu and couldn't remember what my body felt like when it didn't ache.  

Depression and Anxiety love way-too early mornings, buzzing me awake with scrolling to-do lists and dread.  My limbs tingle, my heart pounds, and my stomach reacts to each new reminder like a loop or turn on a roller coaster.  I count backward from 100.  Too quickly.  By twos, then.  I breathe.  I want to stay in bed.  I imagine calling in sick.  I weigh the costs and benefits.  

I always get up.  But I force it.  

Depression yields to busy work days.  I act like Capable Me, surprising myself, responding attentively and ticking through tasks.  Stopping to analyze my head and body invites panic, so I persevere.  I avoid enumerating the rituals I must tend to at home, where my bed beckons:  pick up children.  Make dinner.  Clean kitchen.  Run baths.  Read books.  Ask questions.  Be present.  

Each day I feel a few more solid moments, a little more normalcy.  I want the medicine to work so badly I might be willing it to, but I'll accept a placebo effect, and I feel like the hazy filter applied in different degrees to my Instagram photos is relegated more and more to the edges.  Medication provides the energy for next phases of healing: therapy and exercise and other healthy practices which get sidelined during duress.  

I went off my medication without incident about a year and a half ago, after two-and-a-half years of prescription since my post-partum depression settled in.  I could blame that depression on hormones, while oddly grateful for that experience which deepened my empathy for those who suffer mental illness.

Now a deeper acknowledgment, a recognition of various symptoms and signs over the past year, and a surrender to my own reality and fragility: 

I struggle with mental illness.  

Maybe someday I will refer to that struggle in past tense, but I no longer view that as an admirable goal.  I simply don't want to feel as I have, to live on the outskirts of deep despondence, and I am grateful for defenses and offenses against it.  

Grateful for moments of joy and bliss.  Grateful for tools to more ably face life's sadnesses and struggles.  

List: 2015 Thanksgiving Gratitudes

My multiple, ample, excessive cups runneth over.  I am pausing to appreciate the bounty.

Gratitudes:

1.  My husband with infinite patience for my job and its demands, as well as my habits... He's a rare find, this man, this father, this more-than-co-partner.  He inspires me with his patience, awareness of local and global issues, and earnest desire to teach, guide, and love our girls and pets.

2.  My daughters, who in their own unique ways give to their world, to their family, and to me.  As they and I grow older, I more deeply recognize how they reflect and gently guide me to be their better model and supporter.  Big Sis has discipline and drive as well as creativity and tenderness for family. Middle Sis celebrates a joie de vivre (goofiness) that is contagious, and a natural penchant for taking care of younger children. Tootsie is a force of nature, survivor of minor mishaps, talented copycat, and keen observer of all that occurs around her. Thank goodness she, our last, is a snuggler, too.

3.  My parents who are here and available for great conversation, family meals, childcare, professional mentorship, cheerleading, appropriate course corrections, financial assistance, grandparental cheerleading and support, and a safe place where we can flock.

4.  Extended family and friends who are wise and honest as well as forgiving and loyal and generous, and who step in, pick up our kids, create cousin company and aunt and uncle admiration, offer guidance, make us laugh, reassure, invite us over as well as come over, and support us unconditionally through life's mishaps.

5.  My job, which affords me the opportunity to bask every day in the company of people who exemplify what's possible:   Inspiring, creative, selfless professionals dedicated to enriching young people's minds and souls; and teenagers who are hilarious, infinitely intelligent, bursting with energy and potential, generous, insightful, wise beyond their years, and daily reminders that we adults don't know or control everything. Working in a public school is real work with real people and real rewards, and I'm grateful that the days that await me are full of problem solving, dreaming, teaching and learning, and evidence of what matters. 

6. Our neighborhood of community givers, activists, artists, business owners, non-profit supporters, hard workers, volunteers, and dreamers. How I love this place we've invested in and where we've bought two homes. Our environment boasts canyons, parks, playgrounds, trails, craftsman homes, hills, narrow streets, old trees, raccoons, coyotes, opossum, skunk, hawks, squirrels, rabbits, and tumbleweeds. 

7.  Our daughters' schools:  We are in our tenth year of appreciating the play-oriented, multi-age, loving preschool which has helped raise our girls. Middle Sis is attending our incredible neighborhood elementary school with its loyal and passionate teachers, tireless parent and community volunteers, and unparalleled performing arts, garden, and enrichment programs. Big Sis attends a large urban middle school where her teachers and peers, who represent true international diversity, inspire her. We love that these schools give awards for qualities and attributes versus achievements, and invite us to both shadow and participate in our kids' daily educational experiences.  

8.  My health and the health of my loved ones, which I do not take for granted. 

9.  Our house, which has had to compete with our cozy first home, but which has won me over with its peace and quiet, windows, space, views, safe cul de sac for Big Wheel races and skateboarding, and room for guests and gatherings. 

10.  Human tenderness:  One of life's pleasures is noticing the sweet spots, when siblings love on one another, when teammates share a victory or poignant loss, when acts of kindness happen spontaneously out there in the world.  I feel like I am often front row for those beautiful moments which make living worth it and humanity make sense.  

 Additional Gratitudes:

1.  Good books, good art, and good music.  I am so fortunate to know people who create all three, and my early mornings and late evenings rely on their accessibility and power to deepen my sense of my own existence.  

2.  Those who "let it go."  Ain't got time to hold on to grudges, dwell on disturbances, and generally make big deals. I am increasingly grateful for and drawn to people who keep moving forward, focused on solutions, and with a better, peaceful world in mind.  (After venting over a pint or glass).  

3.  Our coffeemaker with a timer (and the guy who loads it each evening).  My morning cup of coffee, secured before my morning pee, is an indulgence I appreciate EVERY DAY. 

4.  My iPad:  Its lit screen has allowed me to read with the lights off while our baby/toddler slumbers beside me. My books, my music, articles, photos, Facebook...all here.  

5.  Running.  Also known as jogging, limping, leaping, stumbling...we'll take it all.  

6.  Youth Soccer:  Our daughters play a lot of soccer and we spend a lot of time at games.  But the sidelines are where we've met amazing families and learned a few things about the culture of our neighborhood, kids' sports, and parenting.  

7.  Beautiful things and places:  The moon, my friend's living room, beach rocks at sunset, cloudscapes, that necklace, twinkling lights, flowers, architecture, fonts, the pattern on that fabric, your haircut, a garden.  

8.  Food:  I'm fortunate to have a brother who is a chef, a daughter who is a foodie, and a CSA box full of fresh vegetables each week.  I love cooking; I love combining flavors; I love the privilege of eating something different every day.   
9.  Comfy clothes.  The older I get, the more I appreciate an outfit comparable to mashed potatoes.  Soft, warm, unobtrusive, dependable, goes with anything.
10.  Funny stuff:  jokes, memes, videos, stories, our toddler, your mishap, Jimmy Fallon, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert...it's such a serious place, this world.  Cats afraid of cucumbers can make it all okay.  

List: Material (Garage Sale) Girl

You know how there are are those items you buy in the grocery store Every Single Time, thinking somehow you've run out, when you're forever in excess?  It's like you have an inexplicable internal fear of ever being without these (maybe-not-even) staples?   FYI, feel free to stop by our house for lentils, quinoa, brown sugar, and cumin powder, as I may need to borrow the maple syrup, ranch dressing, and soap dispenser refill we are always forgetting to buy. 

I'll own up front that I appear to have an inherited case of "the saves" (because I may need it!  For something!  Like a project!), which we will not call hoarding for now. But I feel I live in a perpetually conflicting state of mostly excess and sometimes inexplicable deficit (often of the things we arguably need, like milk). 

So someone like me has no business shopping on online garage sale sites, unless the products for sale are gently used milk, bread, and toilet paper. But in a free moment, and to the dismay of my husband, I just love to browse the stuff others no longer want. And I've figured out I'm quick with the "me me I want!" finger if you're offering the following items which WE DO NOT NEED:

1.  Patio furniture.  Example:  Lounge swing recently purchased, not yet assembled. Rationale:  we have a big deck. Rationale:  it's a good deal, and patio furniture full price is expensive! Rationale:  life outside is good, and it will be better with this item. 

2.  Throw pillows.  Example:  Blue and beige pillows passed on to me by a friend who recognizes my weakness. Rationale:  they're a cheap way to "redecorate."  Rationale:  they're like art, sorta!

3.  Craft supplies. Example:  Box of assorted free stickers. Rationale:  because we may need them!  For something!  Like a project!

4.  End and bedside tables. Example:  Antique drop-leaf table. Rationale: at one point, we could use a few of these. Rationale:  good end tables are useful, satisfying to own!

5.  Kids' items. Example:  Recently acquired push trike. Rationale:  this serves a purpose right now, and will enrich and broaden my child's experiences. 

Meanwhile, I have one daughter who snatches up and uses any free cardboard in our house, and has a funky obsession with binders. I think we come by it honestly (genetically), but far be it from me to point any fingers at the grandma who kept canned food in the trunk of her car Just In Case. 

What are your excesses and weaknesses?

NaNoWriMo

I forgot that I promised myself I'd write every day in November, like I did a few years ago in an effort to force myself back into a discipline, which, like exercise, tends to make me feel better about myself.  I  just haven't been writing, and recognizing that is a reminder of how much my life--and I--have changed in the past year and a half.  I'm determined to reacquaint with the Fer who writes regularly, the Fer who is excited to connect what happened today to some lingering thought that has been bouncing around in her mind.

But November 1 is almost over, and I only have scattered and disconnected updates:

Tootsie walks and talks and signs words like "please," "more," "dog," and "milk." But most importantly, she's learned very recently how to throw an epic tantrum, and has been practicing daily since.  We've experienced our first Store Episode and Stiff-As-a-Board-Can't-Get-In-Carseat Antics.  Thank goodness she's still cute and loving, and a dancer and snuggler.  Her habits include placing everything from belts to dishcloths to pajamas around her neck and pretending to feed and walk her dolls and Elmo.  And because of the number of hours she has spent since birth at the fields, she can kick a soccer ball.

At the Patty Griffin concert tonight, she covered a Jimmy Durante song:

"You've got to win a little, lose a little,
yes, and always have the blues a little.
That's the story of, that's the glory of life.
That's the story of, that's the glory of life."

I was struck by how true that analysis is, and what I'm still learning to accept--this notion of living with the blues a little.  I'm trying to fight less, stop myself from a mantra of "I don't WANT to be this stressed/tired/frantic/overwhelmed," and instead figure out how to make life less so, in the face of things I can't or won't change in the short term:  I'm a principal.  I'm a mother of three.  I'm busy.  I have bills to pay. I have laundry to do.   

And I was thinking earlier this week that there are seemingly a million little things people do for me and mine everyday to make life easier, better, more beautiful.  The colleague who waters my plants; the friend who texts me a coffee icon and an invitation for a fresh cup; the friend who drops off lunch; the parents who offer advice, childcare, and meals; the neighbors who drive my kid to school; the babysitter who comes to me to pick up my baby and goes out of her way every day; the friends who reassure, advocate for, and believe in me; the husband who holds it all together, day in and day out.

Control

I think it's safe to say that I've been feeling out of control. Since, say, January 11 or so, perhaps.  As a strategy to exert control over the things that seem to be spinning, I will make a tidy little controlled list of all the factors contributing to my feeling of general entropy:

1.  New baby.

2.  New baby, born far away and early, necessitating a six-week stay away from home in Boston.

3.  A new home I moved back into a month ago, where un-unpacked boxes remained piled in many rooms upon my return.

4.  A new job, which I haven't even tried out yet.

5.  A new lifestyle and new roles and challenges at home.

6.  New childcare arrangements to be made, new routines and logistics to figure out.

7.  New bills:  diapers, medical, daycare.

My brain wakes up at 5AM and starts cycling through things I feel I need to get ahead of...and I am awake, though my baby is sleeping and I don't need to practice getting up for work, making bottles and lunches, pumping, taking a shower, breastfeeding...yet.

So I should relax.

I started seeing a therapist/counselor/wise woman.  For the first time.  It's pretty great, though I do a lot of crying.  I cry because I know I am going to talk about stuff.  I cry out of relief.

I mean, if you know me at all, you know I cry.  But the last couple of months have really exercised my tear ducts.  I'm looking forward to a dry spell sometime soon, as long as it doesn't mean I'm not feeling anything.

This week my counselor suggested I take my list of things stressing me out and take care of the things I can control.  Childcare arrangements, for example.  It's such a simple strategy:  list the stressors, start managing them.  But I was busy wallowing in the stressors, letting them quicksand me into overwhelm.

Most of my anxiety is about going back to work.  And most of my anxiety about going back to work has to do with the logistics of getting everyone where they need to be, on time, and doing it right (not driving a starving, sobbing baby and two sisters to piano practice in rush-hour traffic, for example).  I worry about having enough time for everyone, and for my job and the people I serve in my job.

I worry a little about this job, of principal, which I haven't done yet.  And it's not exactly waiting for me...wheels are turning, stories are unfolding, other people are capably leading, and decisions are being made.  My first day of school as new principal will be a midstream day for others.  I'll be behind.  By the nature of my late start, I'll be a meddler; I'll fumble; I'll step on toes.  I'll duplicate and omit and not know what others already know.  I'll wonder if I'm being helpful.  I'll hope I'm still worthy.

It's going to be interesting.

What is also going to be interesting is the journey of the next month, as I try to drown out the white noise of what I've convinced myself needs to be done, and focus on the essentials:  my people.  Myself.    Things are already less fuzzy.  My stomach hurts less.  The nervous energy is dissipating.  My appetite is returning.

Tootsie is helping by sleeping well at night, getting up only once in the middle of the last two nights.  So I'm less tired too.

Deep breaths.

Too Blessed to Be Stressed

I can conjure up a healthy dose of anxiety when change is on the horizon, and I tend to stress out a little in anticipation of transitions.  I forget, for example, at the end of each summer, how I handle the logistics of work and family life during the school year, and imagine that it will be harder than ever this time.  And then the year starts, and what do you know?  I'm coping.  We're okay.  I'm busy, we're bustling, but we make time for family dinners and there are moments of hilarity amidst the homework and driving to and from lessons and practices.  Over the years I've learned I do this, cyclically:  stress out and then figure it out.

But an undertow is tugging at me again.  Call it what you will: the Baby Blues or mild Post-Partum Depression.   I just know it knocks me on my knees most unhelpfully.  I felt it with Big Sis--the joy and in-love-ness, coupled with an inexplicable weepiness and recognition of my own vulnerability.  Why did I feel this way?  Many kind friends would ask me, "Isn't this the most joyous time of your life?" Yes, absolutely!  And...no?  My father, no stranger to the hormonal flux of postpartum emotions, explained that my feelings were helping create the bond that would have me throw myself in front of a train in defense of my newborn.  I found that oddly comforting.   And I eventually emerged unscathed and determined to interact with mothers of newborns differently from then on:  "No, how are you, really?"  Just in case someone else felt similarly.

Ten years later here I am with the baby I yearned for.

In the hospital, in the NICU, in Boston, my emotions had objects:  stressful circumstances, sick baby, unfamiliar and unexpected setting.  Separation from my girls and husband and dog.

But now I'm home, reunited and back in my nest.  And still I find myself wide-eyed wondering why I'm not deeply at peace.

Beyond the clarity of purpose in holding, feeding, staring, talking and smiling at my baby and hugging my girls and husband, my mind zig zags, loops the loop:  making to-do lists, questioning itself, worrying.

There's a new job waiting for me, a Big Job, which I haven't even done yet, but know I can do.  It's the Life + Job that I wonder about, that uncharted territory that I think about each morning when I wake, planning how I'll drop off and pick up and breastfeed and pump and raise my baby and help with homework and cook and do laundry and attend evening meetings and athletic events and dances...and sleep.

And then Guilt, the hair shirt that accompanies bad feelings, bristles my sensitive skin.  I'm "too blessed to be stressed," after all; let me count the ways:  my baby is healthy.  I am raising a thriving, happy family and am married to an incredibly supportive partner.  I have a wonderful new house and job.  I have tons of love and assistance--TONS.  And let me tell you, I know some people who should be crying!  I know some folks going through tough life-and-death stuff, so what is my problem? I ask myself.  There's Syria, and poverty, and depravity, and it's even the anniversary of 9/11, and I'm at home on maternity leave holding a sweet, milky-smelling baby.  Maybe my body needs to plow a field; my mind needs something really serious to focus on.  Could Post-Partum Blues be a first-world problem?

"You're not in charge," the nurse practitioner tells me at my six-week postpartum appointment.  "You can't control this, just as if you had a broken leg or sore throat."  She offers an elixir, with its side effects and promises of relief.  And I hear her, but I want to be the body surfer to this wave, plunging through the whitewash, wave and I both winning and losing, but I, emerging and whipping hair from my face with a triumphant grin.

I'm certain I can get there, and I know the lifeguards are watching.

Strength

Here I am in Boston, a city with which we all felt some affinity after the marathon bombings, as its citizens bonded together under the declaration "Boston Strong" and we all felt buoyed by their optimism, fortitude, and generosity to one another.  Boston Strong tee shirts are ubiquitous here among residents--I see several on my daily meanderings.

And in the situation and setting I am in, there are many references to and I think a lot about strength.

I mentioned to my sister yesterday that I feel this dichotomy inside.  On the one hand, I am someone others consider strong enough to lead a high school.  On the other hand, this experience with a sick baby and living far away from family has exposed my greatest vulnerability.  I've been weepy, unsure, insecure, worried, anxious, and fearful, even when all signs point in positive directions.  Am I these two  personae--both capable and fragile?

My sister lives with a son who is in a consistently delicate medical state with his central line.  She and her husband count on semi-monthly emergency room visits when my nephew is ill or there are problems with the line or tube sites.  We are all in awe of her pragmatism and positivity.  On our walk to the harbor yesterday, though, she described having some of the very same irrational thoughts (overwhelming fear of mortality and worries about her children swimming, riding in cars, getting hurt in general) I have found invade my mind and threaten to affect my general outlook.

I go through the mental exercise of counting my blessings and imagining and appreciating those who are experiencing different, more life-threatening hardships.  I wonder what it means to be "strong."  I wonder about that oft-heard saying that God gives you what you can handle--a suggestion that some of us are built for--and then somehow deserving--of tougher times?  I don't subscribe to that philosophy.  Instead, I search for the learning in the journey (and as my sister eloquently articulated it as she described a particularly difficult time in their family, "we looked for the message").  What do I know about myself now?  What do I better understand about the people around me, about what others are experiencing and what others give and say and use to cope?  What do I know about life that I didn't see or imagine before?

Tootsie is tough, I've felt, since her birth when she emerged squawking and alert, to her relatively quick recovery from her serious infection.  But the babies here who succumb, are they less strong, less determined?  Big Sis is still struggling to understand why our cat couldn't recover from her injuries to live, and in turn I struggle to explain why she would leave us.  Why it might appear our kitty couldn't fight anymore.  I want my daughter to see the strength in knowing that it's time.  There's no rubric for strength applicable to all scenarios which doesn't suggest a kind of comparison, a hierarchy of fortitude.

At home our niece, my daughters' cousin, is caring for her mother, Husband's sister, as she suffers from brain cancer.  Our niece has lost her father already, and in her tender twenties and as an only child, she prepares to say goodbye to her mother, too.  This beloved and admirable niece is the same one who managed Husband's mother's hospice care two Christmases ago.  She is a hero in our family.  And not only for what she's endured--for who she is.

I think of her as having indomitable strength, but with that characterization comes the subtle pressure that suggests she shouldn't waver from her resolute and realistic care and decision-making on behalf of her mother.  That she can't break down and feel helpless and wonder why why why.  I'm thinking differently about strength, now.  I'm thinking it's the staying of the course, the resigned travel down the path which includes breakdowns and meltdowns and steps backward and forward.  The genuine acknowledgement that there are surges of hope and depths of despair.  We are all strong for facing our challenges, then.

I want to share part of our niece's story with you, in her own words.

What do you know about strength, from yourself and others?  When have you faced your most vulnerable self?

February Was Morning Sickness Month

I found out I was pregnant after I'd already poured myself a glass of wine.

I'd spent a chilly Friday night supervising a high school soccer game and was looking forward to a glass of red and some time on the couch with my husband.  My period was due today, I recalled as I drove up the hill to our neighborhood, thinking that just to be safe, I could grab both a pregnancy test and wine at the drugstore.

So confident was I that I couldn't be pregnant, I poured myself a glass of Cabernet before I headed to the bathroom.

The wine, and my relatively simpler life, went down the drain that night, January 11.

Of course, I didn't feel immediately pregnant.  I felt, instead, alternately disbelieving, giddy, panicky, hopeful, selfish, unprepared, worried, old, young, wary, nervous, excited, embarrassed, irresponsible, defensive, strong, determined, gleeful and guilty: conflicted.

I was 41, soon to be 42.  I'd recently had a miscarriage.  Only a week earlier, I'd half-purged the house of baby and toddler gear, ready to accept that we wouldn't have a third.  Our house was small. Money wasn't growing on our big tree in the front yard.  Husband didn't see this coming, now.  No one would, I thought, though having another child was a not-so-secret long indulgent wish of mine.

The risks, all of them, and the potential of raising our little girls' hopes (one of whom had asked for a baby for her birthday) and having them ultimately dashed them made keeping this pregnancy secret paramount.

Meanwhile, I began feeling tired.  And then, hungry.  And then... blergggggghhhhhhhhaaaaggggghhhhhh.

Flu season had struck at school with a vengeance, so I fit right in, though I resisted curling up on the nurse's office cot and going home. I groaned through weeks of what felt like the flu and also like the world's longest hangover, bearing all the same characteristics, including internal wails of why oh why did I do this to myself?  I never threw up, at least outside my mouth.  But I entered many classrooms and meetings with an escape plan in mind.  I conjured images of pregnant women around the globe, sicker than I felt, plowing fields and chasing toddlers.  So I rallied.  

But I lacked oomph. 

And I could smell your breath, and your perfume, or lack thereof.  Also your socks.  

Nothing sounded good.  And then everything sounded tempting until I put in my mouth or smelled it. I ate to fill my stomach with a feeling other than nausea.  I craved sandwiches.  I craved sleep.  I spent most afternoons and evenings lying in bed, feeling like a terrible mother and wife.  The girls grew used to me doing little.  We read books together in bed, but I hardly wanted to play.  Husband patiently tolerated and tended to me, tempering his excitement and unspoken anxiety.  

I became a boring and absent and unavailable friend.  I really did want to meet you for that beer! But.  And I'm pretty sure I was in bed by 7:30 that night.

I felt duplicitous and sneaky as I engaged in conversations with others, including my sister-in-law, about their pregnancies.  "Nope, nothing new or big going on in my life," I fibbed to unsuspecting and remote friends and family members.  I kept Big and Little Sis in mind, figuring I'd ask for forgiveness and understanding later.  

But here we are now at 12 weeks, with some assurance that a healthy little bean is sprouting inside me.  And my growing belly (why yes, I have had a big lunch!  A foot-long sub, in fact!) is ready for its debut.  We have some very excited big sisters and new landscapes ahead. 

Yeehaw!

Been Hibernating...

...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

but I'll be back soon!

New Year's Tribute: Mammom

In keeping with my New Year's tradition of honoring someone who makes my life and work possible  (see previous year's posts here and here), I pay homage this year to my mother. 

I've mentioned some ways my mother is amazing in the past, including descriptions of how she modeled Doing the Right Thing when I was young and nurtured my own development as a mother. 

My mother is the touchstone of our large family; while she forgot her Facebook password and reads versus sends email, she talks to nearly all of her children by telephone during our morning or evening commutes each day.  It's apparent we all want to talk to Mom, a lot.

I have benefited enormously from living close to my parents, and my mother has assisted in the raising of our children from the start.  She was in their delivery rooms, at the hospital with us when Big Sis had surgery, and since the girls were young, watched them at least once a week for special Mammom Days.  She used to bring my infants to me at work so I could breastfeed them in the middle of the day; now she picks them up from school, takes them to the library,  oversees homework, and teaches them to play jacks and construct paper airplanes.  She attends their games and recitals and award ceremonies. 

My babies and their cousins have been guests at my mom's coffees with friends, in strollers on her walks, and in her grocery carts at the commissary. 

My mother reassures me at every turn.  This is normal, she reminds me.  You will get through this, she encourages.  You are not a terrible mom, she shakes her head.  She anticipates my own anxiety and works to alleviate it.  What can I do? she asks. 

She pays attention.  She knows my husband's habits and passions, saving her kitchen compost for his gardens and lauding his attentive fathering of our girls.  She listens to Big Sis and Little Sis and gently clues me in when an adjustment might be made here or there. 

She supports my decisions and endeavors, even when they're made with more heart than head, even when I doubt myself. 

She reminds me that she loves me, that she's proud of me, that she believes in me. 

She helped me develop self esteem, and she helps me sustain it.

In her I have a model for marriage, for retirement, for empty nesting, for grandparenting.  At the twilight of her career as a nurse, she embraced new habits and friends, joined the gym, and established new weekly traditions with my dad.  She dedicates herself to her children and grandchildren but ensures time for herself and husband. 

Thank you, Mom, for your role in my personhood, womanhood, wifehood, careerhood, and motherhood. 

I love you. 

Buckle Up: Minivan & Mini Cooper

There are so many joys to a nice long winter break; topping the list is time with family and friends. 

On Friday night I spent A LOT of time with some high-school buddies, whom I met for a drink after our high school girls' soccer game.  Spoiler alert:  I got home after 2 AM.  And what's even more perfect:  Husband and I and the kids were staying at my parents' house while our kitchen cabinets were being painted.  So I not only stayed out WAY LATE, but I had that weird guilty feeling of coming home to mom and dad's in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking in quietly-ish and trying not to wake anyone. 

Another spoiler alert:  it was more a night of hilarity than a night of debauchery.  But it felt really great to crack up with old friends and even shut down a few bars in our sleepy, touristy home town. 

We occupied ourselves for much of the time with a game of Who's in Your Minivan?  A colleague introduced me to this mental exercise back in 2008, which involves populating your vehicle with well-known folks you wouldn't mind sharing a long road trip with, based on your own criteria:  crush-worthiness, entertainment value, navigational abilities, snack provisions, etc. 

Note:  you and your friends can spend a long time debating and discussing criteria alone, and whether or not your passengers have to be currently living, and if you're driving a Honda van with eight seats or mini-er version with seven...

I had Lenny Kravitz in my 2008 Minivan, which led us to an analysis of his maintenance of the "It Factor," and the recounting of the time one of my friends inadvertently crashed a party he was hosting. 

Salma Hayek and Stephen Colbert emerged as popular choices.  I was talked into dropping off Matthew Fox, Brad Pitt, and Hilary Swank at the next rest stop, but I'm keeping Jon Stewart in shotgun and Brandi Carlile at an audible distance in my van.  I'd have to add Eddie Redmayne from Les Mis and Dax Shepard from Parenthood, as I am charmed by the passion of the former and goofiness of the latter, and the earnestness of both in their respective roles.  Robert Redford will round out my crew for obvious reasons, including his dedication to environmental issues and the possibility I'd get a discount for the Sundance Catalog. 

Let's face it; I could probably fill two minivans (Hey!  Who's in Your Caravan!), particularly if I expanded criteria beyond more superficial rationale and included the many figures I admire.  Okay, not that kind of figure--I meant people.  Sheesh.

Our discussion grew more serious when a friend challenged us to name "the one that got away," or the "what if" or "sliding door" people with whom we'd had brief encounters or missed opportunities.  We dubbed these revelations as "Who's in Your Mini Cooper?" acknowledging that most of us were unlikely to rattle off a long list of fish that got away.  There were high school sweethearts, college buddies and post-college people to consider as we pondered the might-have-beens. 

Spoiler alert:  there will be no great revelation of the occupants of my Mini Cooper.  Ha!

But who's in your minivan?

Baller

The last time I played in my high school's Women's Varsity Soccer vs. Alumnae game it was ten years ago.  Legend has it I told one of my best friends, who played in that game in December 2002 and on many teams with me back in the 80s, that I was feeling "kind of funny" and maybe I should "go buy a pregnancy test." 

Somehow, Big Sis survived that game, which I recall being a little rough and rendering me barely walkable the next day.  Nonetheless, I was safely pregnant.  We don't remember the score of that game, but we remember that I emerged with a bun in the oven. 

Big Sis and Little Sis came out to watch me play today, ten years later, in my next soccer game (I should really stick to one game per decade, because that pattern is working for me, apparently, unlike my legs).  I went into today's game with excitement (I'd been out of town or oblivious for the last nine games and today was an opportunity to play again!), reassurance (I'd heard there are usually So Many former players available that playing time could be negotiated; I planned on subbing out after five minutes), and trepidation (my knee, injured from a mere Recreation League Coaching Clinic, has only recently started feeling better--would playing in this game be worth wrecking it for good?). 

I showed up at the field on time, donning our high school's (lucky) gym shorts, running shoes, and my daughter's soccer socks and shin guards.  And for an excruciatingly Long Time, I was the only alumna there, as students/teenagers/current players swarmed.  I asked them all how their holidays were going, but inwardly I was panicking. 

Oh heck, I thought.  What if I have to play The Whole Game?  I had not planned on this. 

So I was definitely one of the alums counting the arriving alums on her fingers (dangerously close to start time, we were only up to 5).  I was not, however, one of the alums rolling a goal toward the fifty-yard-line in an attempt to shorten the field (though I could be overheard agreeing this was the Widest and Longest Field EVER), nor attempting to add an extra extra current player to our team (only 10 alumnae showed up, so we had to borrow a Varsity player) to make 12 , which is never the number of players on a soccer team (that I know of). 

FYI:  They made us roll the goal back and return one of the kidnapped ringers.  

We played three 20-minute "periods" (which is never the length of a soccer game.  That I know of).  But which was 20 minutes longer than many old and young players wanted to play.

In the end: 

We beat those youngsters (and when I say Youngsters, let's be clear:  at the end of the game I asked my fellow alums who was next oldest after me and one of my teammates pointed to another alum and said, "I think we're both 22?").

We did a round of penalty kicks after, which preyed on one of my very worst fears, manifesting in a recurring nightmare of me vs. goalie in which I clutch and miss the shot, every time.  But this time, I scored!  (I suspect the goalie, a current student, might have gone easy on me...she didn't seem to move at all...)

We laughed a lot:  About counting the time remaining in each period.  About catching our breath.  About running into each other (I think I was in about 95% of the body-on-body incidents).  About unexpectedly winning (we did have some incredible collegiate players--and a current Varsity player--on our team, though...). About hurting in every possible place.  About negotiable calls:  we had no referee, so I took the opportunity when a ball rolled out of bounds and my team yelled "Goal kick!" as an opposing player claimed, "Corner!" to pull vice principal and yell at our opponent, "Referral!"

I left with a geometric soccer-ball imprint on my right thigh, earned when an airborne ball hit me hard on the leg.

I played soccer again!  So fun!  I was one of the teammates hoping for the third 20-minute period, even though I was exhausted.  It could be my last soccer game, ever, I figured.  Let's go!

I was starstruck:  I told the players from both sides that I could say from now on that I'd competed with and against incredible high school and collegiate players, including NCAA champs.  Yeah!

I was proud of myself:  I wish for myself some daring adventures in 2013 that challenge my comfort zone.  Today's soccer game was emblematic:  I am uncomfortable (I've already popped Advil and soaked in the jacuzzi), but triumphant.  I don't know if I played well (informal feedback suggests I was "running around a lot"), but I know that I got out there and played among current students, ran harder than I thought I could, had more fun than I thought I would, and bonded with a team like I remember doing in high school and college.

I hope I inspired both my daughters and the women who played to come on out, even when they're fortysomething, and represent. 

I told my father tonight, "I hope it's not the coolest thing I do for myself in 2013, but it just might be..."

He pointed out, "It's a heck of a way to start."

Yeah!