Plenty of Room

I haven't been back here since I graduated from college, so after dinner with an old friend last night, I rode around the campus and community where I spent several years of my life. I gasped over some major changes to a few of the university buildings, but the community itself was virtually unchanged. "I told you," my friend said, laughing as she pointed out the same local hole in the wall restaurants we frequented for years. "It's like Hotel California. This place never changes."

We went to a liberal arts school and I'm pretty sure we and everyone we knew all assumed that we didn't need "useful" degrees and we would spit on the idea of going to school to make ourselves "marketable" - but now, all of us are in careers completely unrelated to our idealistic degrees. In fact, despite my worry about explaining how I got into the field I'm now in, as soon as I started talking, she nodded understandably and just said, "but you like it. You found something you like. I, on the other hand, worked in the field related to my degree for four years and realized that I hated it." Then she told me about her husband, also with a liberal arts degree from the same school, who also now works in a technical, "useful," and "marketable" field -- by choice, as shocking as that would have been to us all 10 years ago.

For a while I've had this inner struggle going on that could be summed up with this title: What I Do vs. Who I Am. I've resisted getting close to people I work with because I've told myself I don't really identify with them, I'm not really "supposed" to be there, I'm only paying the bills, this identity is only one I use for a paycheck. I've (sub-consciously, I think) resisted staying in touch with people I knew in school out of some sort of attempt to distance myself from having to explain why I'm not (fill in the blank with whatever way an English Language and Literature degree could meet my career expectations and simultaneously create some kind of ideal, whole identity). I'm only now starting to realize, though, that there's really no need for me to separate those identities. I don't actually have to explain or justify, because the biggest secret of all is that we're all ultimately just doing the best we can. That's what I was doing in school when even while choosing that liberal arts degree path, I didn't actually know what I "planned" to do. That's what I'm doing now as I prepare to get certified in an area I always automatically assumed I would avoid at all costs. Who I am really hasn't changed, though. At the core I'm still like Hotel California, too.

And last night we had drinks with some retired Floridians.

I'm in Chicago for training right now, which means most of my days are taken up with treks across paisley carpeted floors to hotel conference rooms set up with stiff white cloth-covered folding tables, and a few gasps thrown in to express my sheer disgust and dismay over the cost of two eggs and a cup of oatmeal brought to my room before classes start. John got to join me on this trip, though, and just left the room armed only with his camera, so at least one of us will get to enjoy the vibrant scenery around here.

There is a world boxing championship going on here this week, and an inordinate number of European boxing teams are staying in our hotel; last night before dinner, we were on our way to the elevator when we heard what sounded like some primitive form of laser tag ahead of us. Turns out the entire Latvian boxing team was practicing, and the "lasers" were short bursts of breath with every air-punch into the fancy gilded elevator lobby mirrors. Ah, Chicago. It's great to be back.

Why do I bother?

Today I had one of those moments of sheer emotional survival. The scene: a seven-year-old's birthday party, the parking lot of a gymnastics warehouse. I'm at the trunk with two helium balloons, chatting politely with the mom of one of Bryce's classmates. I tell Quinn to let himself into his side. Suddenly I hear an angry male voice, "DID THAT JUST HIT OUR CAR?" I walk around to Quinn's side, see his door has made definite contact with the back passenger door of the car next to us - the car of Bryce's classmate's next-door-neighbor, the car holding a young friend of one of Bryce's oldest friends. I flinch, I grab Quinn's door and move it, I see a scratch on their back passenger door and say, "I am SO SORRY!" I know it was an accident. I look at Quinn, whose eyes are wide and confused, I scold him and tell him to sit down and buckle up, we need to be more careful. His formerly happy eyes well up with tears and his face flushes with shame and fear: "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! It was the wind - it was an accident. I was TRYING!" I am brought back to reality, to true priority, but the owner of the car isn't. I tell Quinn it's okay, I know it was a mistake, just buckle up, but the friend of the friend's mother is standing there yelling, "you've gotta be kidding me! I just got this car three months ago! OH COME ON!" while my four-year-old cries in shame. I look at her and apologize again, offer to give her my insurance information even against my own instinct. She scolds all of us again, "I don't know, I haven't even SEEN IT YET!" a clear indication that I am in her way. I push down my own desire to remind her that FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT'S JUST A PAINT SCRATCH ON A HUNK OF METAL; PLEASE TELL ME YOU HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO THINK ABOUT, AND IF YOU DON'T: PEOPLE ARE DYING AND BEING TORTURED RIGHT NOW, and I take my rage out on the trunk, where I toss the balloons and slam the door shut. I shakily and in shock and disbelief search for my car insurance information while she dramatically circles her car and undoubtedly discusses the unacceptable scratch with her husband, who has yet to make eye contact with any of us, but sits and stews in the passenger seat while my two children observe in confusion and fear -- there is no telling what his own child is seeing or thinking in the back seat of her shiny three-month-old punk skeleton sticker-covered car. Another classmate's friend walks out and notices me. I tell her the story while her own kids clamber into her car without thinking of the swing span of their car doors. She looks at me in disbelief: "It didn't matter that you were just at the same kid's birthday party?!" "Apparently not," I say. She looks up and whispers, shocked, "SHE JUST TOOK A PICTURE OF THE DOOR WITH HER CELL PHONE!" I look at her while I write the last three digits of my insurance policy number. "Yeah." I say. "I told you." Her breath catches in her throat. "I am sorry," she says, "I would rather have a mark on my car than treat someone the way she is treating you." "Me too," I say appreciatively.

The angry woman walks around to my side of the car and I hold out my information while I say, "I'm sorry this is so important to you that it makes you this upset. I apologize again for the scratch." She grabs it and, shockingly, makes her face look even more offended and entitled than it already did. "I didn't think I was that upset. But cars are expensive, and I just got this a few months ago." "Yeah," I say, walking around to my door, my obligation fulfilled. She continues in her huffy state, "don't you want my information so when I call you know who I am?" "Sure," I say. "I mean," she continues, "weren't you at the birthday party I was at?" "Yes!" I cry. "We were at the same birthday party!" "Well, yeah, we're C's next door neighbors." "Okay. Yes, cars are expensive. I've apologized, and I apologize again that my four-year-old accidently scratched your car door when the wind caught hold of it as he was getting in AFTER THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. Goodbye."

I make sure they pull out before I do. Behind them and silent for the first time since the ordeal started, I notice all the cartoon character stickers plastered on the back window and license plate. Oh yeah, presentation is definitely important to these people. A paint scratch on their car door would be a HUGE DISTRACTION FROM THE PUNK SKULLS.

I'm always telling my kids that it's all about the choices we make. I see today's event as another opportunity to point out how I made some difficult choices because they were the right things to do even in the face of a self-centered, petty jerk. But I also see the situation as something an older, more sophisticated child would (and undoubtedly will) point to as a way to prove me wrong. That ultimately there is no way to rise above the pettiness, that ultimately we're all petty survivors, we're all out for ourselves, we're all jerks out to prove something, even if that something is how "above" the petty people we are. As we drove home and I tried to explain to the kids why I was upset with the angry car owner's behavior, as I tried to use this moment as a teaching moment and an example of what not to do, I realized the most they were going to take from this pathetic ordeal was that I had called someone a jerk. What brought the realization home was when, as I drove along the highway listening to Bryce's constant question stream, he said he'd wished I had let him have a word in edgewise while at his grandmother's this evening, because he'd really been wanting to tell her that I'd "called that lady a jerk."

Fall Break

Even though it still reaches into 80's in the afternoon, and there is nary a colorful leaf to be found, it's still fall break time from school so the boys and I went on a hike at a local nature reserve. Click the picture to see the slideshow.

Don't Go Out in Public With Them

"How many kids did that lady have who ended up drowning them all in the bath tub?"

"Five," I said, sighing and rolling my eyes, shooting lasers out of my eyes at John for asking such a horrible question with such a horrible motive. It was horrible, I knew, because when he'd asked I'd secretly thought it was pretty hilarious, actually. But just as soon as the hilarity washed over me, the guilt and misery did, too, or at least a sense of obligation to guilt and misery, hence the eye-rolling and laser shooting. I couldn't pretend to endorse that type of humor, even as the kids, now 6 and 4 1/2 -- well beyond ages where writhing under the booth with dirty napkins on their heads would be acceptable -- mewed like cats or some kind of mutant baby creatures and clawed with greasy, alfredo-covered fingers at my work pants because the 40 minutes of conversation and participatory menu coloring apparently hadn't been an acceptable level of parental attention for them, these precious offspring of mine.

I'd had enough. "We're leaving," I said through the sawdust remaining in my mouth where teeth used to be. Then in the awful clenched-mouth, growl-snarl language I've perfected for them, "Get. Up. Here. NOW! COME ON." I'm not sure why in my anger I still think this form of aggression-speak will be effective or somehow won't create more problems. "Soooo-rrrryyyy!" Quinn whined. At this point I wanted to stomp my feet and pound my fists on the table. I grabbed the styrofoam containers of half-eaten cheese pizza and successfully cracked the little non-hermitically sealing tab with my passionate clutch. I did that dramatic thing where I just walk away as if I'll leave them orphaned if they don't immediately snap to military attention and march dutifully and solemnly behind me to the car. Bryce crawled out from under the booth, grease-stained cloth napkin sliding slothfully to the floor, that faux Italian villa floor on which he'd just been "sleeping" due to the sheer fatigue of eating two slices of gourmet cheese pizza. In the parking lot he was still whining about wanting dessert, and I was still using this victorious moment to relish the fact that I was the adult here, I was the one with the power. Right.

At the gas station while John was filling up the car I continued to lecture the kids about their behavior. It's unacceptable, it's embarrassing, there's no need to act that way, I'm so disappointed that they make these choices. "Poopy Stupid Poopy!" Quinn screamed, like a two-year-old, while flinging his milk straw across the car. I wanted to open the door and sell the kids to the gas station owners, but I just said, "you're going to your room when we get home." A few minutes later Quinn made a quiet, funny joke and I grinned at him. He caught my eye: "I want to hug you, mom." This is the Quinn I've come to know and love - the physical, sensitive, wanna-be comedian, that kid who doesn't understand why people don't crack up laughing at his slapstick comedy just because, for instance, his grandmother didn't want to be hit comically by that hard cover book - it was funny, what's the problem?

While John gave the kids a bath, I had to finish something work-related, and when I went up to tell them good night, Quinn was studiously reviewing his latest "magazine," a high-quality party supply catalog (he has a collection in his room - don't you dare throw any of them away, there might be a rubber duckie in a pirate costume he hasn't yet admired). He climbed into bed, drowsy and soft and blinking long sleep-blinks at me. I kissed his cheeks and forehead and realized that an hour before I'd wanted to eat my young and had felt only marginally guilty about that. "We should really just stay home for dinner from now on, shouldn't we?" I asked him, stroking his silky, still baby-fine hair. He yawned again, his soft, pudgy hand on mine. "Yeah," he said.

Top Ten, Schmop Ten

Recently I read over the entries of the past several months and realized that I'm actually no busier now than I've ever been. I'm simply making different choices with my time, my energy, and my brain. There is so much to say but I'm choosing not to say it. I haven't yet determined why, but I think I'm trying to work something out; I think I'm expecting that one day I'll find myself "done" or "ready" and suddenly things will be clear, I will have only one well-lit path stretching before me, no tangled brush to slash through, no distracting wild creatures flapping around my head, no darkness or confusion stopping me in my tracks while I deliberate over the road that led me here.


I am several different Kristens despite my belief to the contrary. The dominant one is the one who thinks she shields the rest from failure, but in the process she also holds back alternate realities and darkens what might in other contexts be the most obvious paths. She has my best and worst qualities, and her strength has been unmatched. I think, though, that it's not unlimited; she tires and shakes with fatigue more frequently, and begins to know that there are others whose time is coming to light different paths and to make her finally lay down that comfortable, familiar shield.