It's not cute

I'm going to make the assumption that most of us, from time to time, consider the impact technology and screens have had on our lives. The impact on our health, on our relationships, how we use our time, and so on. It is tremendously convenient and has increased our access to knowledge, our ability to do things quickly and multitask and for many, it has had a general positive impact. As a parent, if you haven't personally considered the impact on your children, the necessity of consideration has probably been thrust at you either via social media, from your pediatrician, or from school. Children need to have some basic understanding of how to use technology but you've probably also gotten some pressure about how much screen time they have the nature of the content.
This post isn't about so much about children's limits on screen time or the content they are exposed to but more about an altered perspective of children because of technology. I'm going to warn you, it's not cute.

It's not cute. When you use filters on your children (or yourself for that matter, but let's stick to the topic at hand). When you use a filter to take pictures of your children, you are altering their reality, they way they look, the way they see themselves. It is often meant to be playful but it is creating the perception that we aren't [cute, polished, sparkly, funny, pretty, perfect] enough as we are - and we should hide behind a mask. I recently saw a friend's post of her children cooking - and she put a bunny filter on it. Why? It completely distracts from who your child is and what they are doing. The bunny ears became more noticeable [more important] than the child.

It's not cute. When you shame your child on social media. Those little children you have now are going to grow up and be adults - who deserve to have some say in how much of their life is public, to have some privacy in their formative years, and to be allowed a separate identity from your filter of shame. There are many things that happen in childhood that are meant to stay in the privacy of the relationship between the child and the caregiver - as it is our responsibility to help them grow, protect them, and not embarrass them. (Everyone pooped in the bathtub as a baby. Yup, you too. But aren't you glad you aren't tagged in that picture for the world to see?) If you want to post something about your child, ask. If they are too young to understand the question, just send the pic in a text to your mom, she'll love it - probably because you did the same hilarious thing as a kid. This goes for naughty, embarrassing, outstanding, or brave behaviors - essentially all behaviors. Remember, if children can't trust what you'll do with information, they'll stop bringing it to you.

It's not cute. When you post pictures of your child watching TV. It is certainly very challenging to capture a sweet picture of your child as they are always in motion and you're likely in motion trying to keep up with them. And if you have two children? Trying to get them in a picture together, cute, and not in a blur of motion is nearly impossible. So of course, when you finally exhale and they sit still for a moment, it's tempting to capture that sweet moment of youth that is so fleeting. But pause for a second. When you truly think about your child, is it the moment that they are spaced out to a glowing box when you really love them the most? Does it capture who they are? Does it share their magic with the world? Or are you merely documenting the easy mesmorization that comes when a TV is turned on? What are you conveying to the world when all we see is the vacancy in your child's eyes when they are lulled into the passive act of watching TV? Post the blur - that's where the magic of childhood is.

Technology, screens, and social media have allowed use to do some pretty amazing things. Be mindful that it doesn't alter, distract from, or hide what is already pretty amazing.

I will lie to you

Following the birth of my first son, I had postpartum depression for several weeks. I knew that this could happen. I knew that I was supposed to ask for help. I knew I needed help. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell my husband. I couldn't tell my friends. And I couldn't tell my doctor. I lied to everyone.

I'm not sure what I expected postpartum to be like but here's how it was for me: I held everything together. I showered and completed everyday tasks. I went back to work at 6 weeks. I had no inclination to hurt myself or my son. But in private, I was falling apart and had no control over my emotions or my incessant dark state of mind. I knew it was irrational. I knew I was not okay. But I absolutely couldn't tell anyone about it. Every time I tried to talk about it I froze. As it began to subside, I was slowly able to talk about it with my husband but even months later, there were very few people I could open up to about it. Years later, I could talk freely about it in one-on-one conversations. Which became very important as my husband and I decided to try for another child. There are six years between our two children and my postpartum depression was a very big reason for this. The biggest reason, really. What if it was worse? What if I didn't get better? What if this time is different and I had an inclination to hurt myself or our baby? I ask these questions every day as I am 2 weeks out from delivering baby #2.

Postpartum depression likely isn't any more common now that it was six years ago. It appears to be talked about more in public spaces and certainly talked about more in my personal circles. I very intentionally bring it up all the time. I want people to know that there is a chance this could happen to me again. And that again I will likely be too paralyzed to do what I know I should to get help. I asked three people in my life to check in on me: my husband, a local friend of 15 years, and an out-of-state friend of 4 years. I anticipate the out-of-state friend being pivotal for a couple of reasons - we've become extremely good friends in the past few years but he's not personally involved in my day to day well-being so he'll have a zoomed out, bird's eye view of what's going on with me and he has experience with people dealing with depression and anxiety. So I asked him to check in on me. I gave him permission to check in my with husband and friend so they could compare observations and figure out how to help me if I need it. And then I had to explain that I would most likely lie to him. When he asks if I'm okay, I will lie. When he asks if I need help, I will lie. When he asks if I'm being honest about how I'm feeling with my husband, I will lie. This was hard because I've never had to give someone a warning that I was going to betray them - and trust that they will forgive me. But he listened and he understood and he committed to checking on me in the weeks and months following the birth of my baby.

Several months after my initial ask, out of the blue, he asked if I had ever lied to him. I didn't make the connection between the two conversations and was taken aback that he would challenge our friendship in that way. My mind raced through personal, minuscule omissions I kept from him and slight exaggerations I had made about useless life details like how I slept on this night or that night. And then he reminded me of our conversation and rephrased the question, asking what it'll be like when I lie to him and how he'll know. This was a surprisingly difficult question to answer. I'm a really good liar. I once read an article that children from "broken homes" are the best liars because their formative years occurred through a time of hiding feelings/actions at home to keep the peace and hiding feelings/actions in public to avoid shame and embarrassment. I pride myself on being an extremely honest person but that is an active choice. Of anything, lying about my feelings is one of my most refined abilities. I explained this and that he very likely would not know.

I'm trusting him to know me well enough to know if my tone is off, if my responses are too aloof or dismissive or shallow. I really can't offer any guidance for how to tell when I'm lying about depression except that it will almost inevitably happen. So instead, I said this: "I'm asking you now, in my clear state of mind: I will need your help. I won't be able to ask for it. And when you ask if I need help, I will lie to you. And I hope you help me anyway. And when I'm better, I hope you can forgive me."

Neither of us is wrong

This morning I was standing in one spot, making my lunch. My 6 yo was playing hockey through the kitchen (as one does at 6:45am) and repeatedly hit my feet with the hockey puck. He finally said "Mom, why do you keep stopping the puck?!" and I replied, "Do you mean, why do you keep hitting it directly at the exact spot I happen to be standing?!" He tilted his head to the side and said, "well... neither of us is wrong."

What he said is true. It's just a matter of perspective. But if neither of us is wrong, are we both right?

We are confronted with this daily. We often get stuck on our own perspective with a steadfast belief that we are right. This is often tied to a dichotomous assumption that the other person is therefore wrong. But the other person has this same attitude - about their own perspective being right and ours being therefore wrong. The reality is that both perspectives are right because they belong to the person viewing them. But it's an interpretation based on a limited perspective. It's not ultimate truth. And ultimate truth doesn't really matter because both people are emotionally connected and attached to their unique perspective.

So what can we do?

First, recognize that our perspective is just that - ours. Which means no one else shares it exactly.
Second, do our best to articulate our unique perspective without accusations or exaggeration.
Third, invite the other person to articulate their perspective - and do your best to listen without trying to apply your perspective to their lens.
Fourth, revisit your perspective - has it shifted with any new information?

At the very least, before you get too stuck on your perspective being right, remember the wise declaration of my 6yo: neither of you are wrong. Starting there might help you see that you are indeed not being hit by what's coming at you, you are merely in the way and stopping the forward momentum of what's happening around you.

Because it mattered

I have many strengths and qualities that I'm proud of and have contributed to my success as a writer, as a parent, as an educator. However, getting over difficulty and strong emotions is not one of them. I regularly mourn lost relationships - romantic as well as fizzled friendships. I miss my freedom in college. I miss school. I miss being a kid and being with my family. I even miss struggling when money was tight.

My experiences practicing Zen Buddhism inform my awareness that this is due to attachment - the source of all suffering. I attach easily to feelings of love and being valued with an intense desire for feelings and people to stay exactly as they are. Despite that desire, the reality is everything and everyone is changing all the time.

Part of my Zen Buddhist practice, is regularly reading, reciting, and embracing the Five Remembrances (Thich Naht Hanh):

"I am of the nature to grow old; there is no way to escape growing old.
I am of the nature to have ill health; there is no way to escape ill health.
I am of the nature to die; there is no way to escape death.
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change; there is no way to escape being separated from them.
My actions are my only true belongings; I cannot escape the consequence of my actions; my actions are the ground on which I stand."

Sometimes this helps and sometimes it doesn't but I've come to accept that my longing for previous relationships and experiences is indicative of the influence they've had on my life. The moments that linger in my mind were powerful, emotional, and impacted the trajectory of my life.
And sometimes when those really special, powerful moments of my life are over, it hurts a little. Sometimes it hurts a lot. The magnitude of loss is comparable to the depth of the value of that moment. It hurts because it mattered.

Outlet or Outlet Cover?

Eight months ago, my partner and I were enthusiastic to learn that we were expecting a second child! After losing a child through miscarriage the previous year, we were overjoyed. And anxious. We wanted this baby so much but it was hard to let ourselves feel excited. And for me personally, I was ill-equipped to handle the complicated emotions that come with early pregnancy that following a loss. Anxiety and depression are regular players in this act of my life and they took front and center roles over the last year; specifically anxiety, stole the spotlight as we awaited the passing of the “danger zone” first trimester. And while I wanted this baby more than anything I’ve ever wanted, I entered a place of  necessary abandon of my usual coping strategies – specifically drinking alcohol and running – leaving me alone with my thoughts, feelings, insecurities, and anxieties.

In addition to dealing with worry over the health and well-being of our unborn child, I also had to come face-to-face with the everyday stress of life - paying bills, dealing with challenges at work, driving in bad weather and so on. The kinds of things that would usually accumulate and I would turn to running or drinking to relax and regain control of my emotions. Prior to this pregnancy, I accepted those as outlets for processing stress and difficult emotions. But now without either of my two go-to strategies, it became quite clear that I didn't actually know how to deal with discomfort and overwhelming feelings. These go-to's weren't outlets, they were outlet covers. The merely allowed me to avoid dealing with what needed to be dealt with. This initially resulted in being short-fused, losing sleep, and a general impatience for typical inconveniences. And I felt disappointed in my lack of ability to handle these things without a crutch. I didn't have a plan for working through this but I talked to people I trusted, I named my emotions, I focused on what I could control, and I wrote about my feelings. This didn't ease my desire to go for a run or to have a drink but it did help to process the uncomfortable feelings and reduce their impact until they subsided. 

But I know this time without running or drinking is temporary. We have four weeks until we meet our new little one and assuming goes well for me and the baby, questions remain: after the baby is born, where does that leave me with my cast of difficult emotions? How quickly will I retreat into the compulsion to chase away difficulty? Have I learned to separate outlets from outlet covers?

I Believe Her Too - Part 2

January 8^th, 2019

I wrote the first part of this post in October 2018 when Christine Ford testified against a man running for one of the highest positions in our political system. I didn’t initially publish this post for a variety of reasons: fear, vulnerability, and guilt. I understood that I was reliving previous experiences that filled me with fear. I understood that by posting this I was admitting things about my past that are hard to talk about and hard to remember and by publishing, I was inviting people to know those things about me and that made me feel vulnerable. It was the guilt that surfaced that surprised me. And at first I wasn’t sure what that was about. At times, I recognized the role I played in some of the situations I was in – but that’s not guilt, that’s self-blame. I can recall too many times that I didn’t believe what a friend told me about how they were treated or I mentally downplayed their emotional reaction to what they experienced. And I felt guilty. As I should. I haven’t always advocated for women and their safety and I felt guilty about that. As I should. I haven’t shown up where I needed to, when I needed to.

Fast forward to January, 2019 and the airing of “Surviving R. Kelly”, a documentary on Lifetime. The most blatant difference here from other cases of women and children being coerced, abused, and exploited points directly to the endemic treatment of girls and women of color. The collective “we” has not supported them, protected them, and defended them. In fact, the #metoo movement was started by a black woman in 2006 and was later hijacked by a white actress in 2017 demonstrating the systemic hoarding of power. The message for decades has been that black women and black girls are disposable.

Enough. Black women and girls are important.

This isn’t about our stories or our guilt but about doing the work. We showed up for the white women. This is a moment when black women and children victims of years of abuse have a chance to be heard, defended, and believed. As we watch this horrifying documentary unfold, we have an opportunity and a responsibility to show up and believe them too.

I Believe Her - Part 1

 October 1^st, 2018

13 years ago, I met a guy online and we picked a restaurant to meet at for the first time face-to-face. After we ordered, I politely stepped away and called my best friend to tell her this guy was who he said he was and seemed safe. 

3 years later I married him. Let me make this clearer: My FIRST interaction with my husband was an assessment to determine if he was likely to physically or sexually assault me or not. Not because he gave me any reason to think he would but because I experienced what happened when I assessed wrong. 

This past year, as Christine Ford testified against a man who violated her in the worst way and got away with it for decades, two big things happened: women everywhere had to relive the moments a man stole something from them, and many men started paying attention. I’ve lost count of the number of times in that week following her testimony when I couldn’t breathe, my throat closed, all of the muscles in my back tense, or my eyes filled with tears. Because I don’t want to remember, but I do. Because I’m angry. Because I don’t want to look at nearly every single woman and know this has happened to them too, but it has.

Watching the men in my life reeling from the events of this week, gradually but finally seeing the magnitude of objectification of and assault against women has been equally overwhelming. The moment other people recognize your reality doesn’t always bring a feeling of relief. For me, it was exhaustion from having to relive it in order for their recognition to come. It was anger that it’s taking so long for people to understand and pay attention. It was defeat in knowing that this recognition does not come with an end to the harassment and sexual assaults of women. 

My husband would describe our first interaction differently than I do - he was deciding if he wanted to date me. I was deciding if he was going to violate me. Two very different ways we encounter the world. 

Christine Ford did not win her case but she was heard. She did not overcome her attacker in a legal context but she took back her power and empowered many women to do the same. Like countless other women, despite what the headlines say, because we’ve been there, I believe her.