34 Goals Before 35

Turning 35 has always felt like somewhat of a milestone to me - not quite sure why.  Even more so than 40, although that's certainly another big one as well.  Maybe it's just a number - maybe it's the age at which I thought I would "be totally a grown-up" or "have figured out my life" etc etc.

Whatever it is, it has felt significant and weighty to me for years.

I turned 34 a few weeks ago, and several months before that, I decided that I wanted to make the year between 34 and 35 into something fun by giving myself some adventure/fun/wanted-to-forever goals - to be more precise, 34 goals before I hit 35.  I wrote the list well before my birthday, but am just now getting around to sharing it publicly, because, you know, life.

If you'd like to join me in any one of these, please name it and claim it!  I'd love company, and the goal is for this to be fun.   The goal is for these to be tangible, attainable, adventure-oriented, fun, and not (too) work-related!  No further ado, here's the list:

1) Get highlights - never done it, always wanted to try it, got enough gray hairs to justify it!

2) Eat at Top of the Hub - lived here a decade, and never done it, it's long overdue.

3) Take the kids to NYC (maybe on the train?  They'd love that!)

4) Take a trip with Jon, just the two of us - this is an annual item, but including it none-the-less!

5) Go hiking with Jon - maybe tackle Washington again, but take him along this time!?  We always have good conversations and make good memories when we're roaming, but haven't done it solo in years.

6) Run a half-marathon - the last time I did this was in 2011, and it was a good life discipline as well as lots of fun (except the part where we took the last two months off from training and then ran it cold turkey...)  I'd love to get back on the running horse, and this is a good stretch goal for me!

7) Write a viral-ish blog post - how does one make that happen? can you? It's probably dumb luck half the time?  And other times, it just involves writing well, writing relevant, writing often, and putting your content out there in more than one location - so that's what I'm going to try to do.

8) Release a pattern for Murph&Moose - I've got a few in the works, just haven't actually released them.  Time to make that happen.

9) Plant sunflowers - they're my favorite flowers, but I never actually remember to plant them

10) Buy a house? (hahahaha)  But maybe if I put it here as a goal, that will lead us to begin laying the next steps for it sometime in the next century.  It's one of those things you should do as you become a grown-up, right?

11) Blog or write weekly - it's life-giving for my soul and good for my brain.

12) Spend time each day in reading, quiet time, and reflection, even if it's just 5 minutes

13) Get to know 3 new neighbors

14) Learn how to make a buttonhole correctly - I'm an excellent seamstress, but this is one skill which I am embarrassed to say that I have never mastered, rarely use, and still have to hack when I do.  This is going to be the year that I learn!

15) Go on a monthly date night - same goal as last year, but it's been great, so I'd like to keep it up!

16) Find a job?  Or have a clear career idea that I pursue, as we move toward having all three kids in school in a year or so.

17) Join a CSA - I'd happily take recommendations!  We love fruits and veggies and eating local, but need to not break the bank.  We've talked about it for years, but I think I'd like to do it this year!

18) Get a tattoo - wanted to for years, but have always been broke, pregnant, nursing, or dealing with life, or all of the above.

19) Take a class in something - I like learning, and parenthood has made my brain kind of squishy.

20) Finally go to counseling (again) - the events of this last year make this a really healthy choice for me, and I'm saying it out loud so that I'll actually make the phone call.

21) Go ice skating with Jon - or at least go ice skating without requiring a Bobby the Seal 😂😂

22) Write hand-written letters more often

23) Finish 5 books - this might seem like a low number, but with 3 little kids, a husband, and a small business, it hasn't happened the last several years, and I'd like to change that.

24) Go to Patriots Training Camp for Jon - he's wanted to for years and we've never made it happen. This year, I'm going to try to make sure that we make it out!

25) Get a massage - I have a gift certificate for one, just haven't done it yet and need to use it sometime in the next 6 years! ;)  Time to make that relaxation happen, but making personal pampering time is tricky sometimes.

26) Family trip to DC

27) (Finally) Plan and execute a themed family Halloween costume

28) Drink more water than coffee each day - shouldn't have to be a goal, buuuuuuut it is.

29) Use my serger more Learn to use my serger!

30) Be intentional with one-on-one time with each of the kids

31) Continue watching Oscar Movies - specifically, finally watch 127 hours, so we can mark 2010 as complete on our Oscar Best Picture Nominees list.  For the past 5 years, Jon and I have been watching through every movie ever nominated for Best Picture (all 500+ of them).  2010 is complete except for 127 Hours, and somehow I'm just never in the mood for 20 minutes of sawing off a limb.

32) Create space to go deeper with a few good friends

33) Make a Quark toy - I've been looking for ways to integrate my physics background with my love of sewing, and I've been dreaming about this one for a while!

34) Write out family rules of life - these are very pinterest-y projects these days, elegantly written out values, principles, and rules that we expect our family to be shaped by (e.g. in our house we... say we're sorry when we're wrong... see failure as an opportunity to learn.. clean up our own messes... value the brother over the toy, etc).  But I love the simple clarity that they provide for shaping character and would like to think this through for our family.

What about you?  What goals do you have for this year?  

Do you have a milestone birthday coming up?  What would you like to accomplish before then?

FALSE: God never gives us more than we can handle

This morning, I ran into a dear friend and amidst the usual banter, she was asking more seriously about what to say to another friend who was in a really hard situation and feeling overwhelmed and unable to bear up under the load (because my friend was there with me in my darkest hour that I'll describe below, and knew that I had been there before).  And my friend said, "I just don't know what to say because I know that God never gives us more than we can handle, but she really is overwhelmed."  I shared some of the thoughts I'll share here, and then we went our own ways.

I went home and kept mulling over the conversation because something just wasn't sitting right.  As I pondered it, I realized that it was that phrase...

"God never gives us more than we can handle..."

As I wrestled with it more, I realized - I don't actually think that that is what I believe, nor do I think it's what the Bible actually says...

I'm not a Biblical scholar, but I've never found that one in any of my Bible searches or studies.  Yes, you can find that God will not tempt you, beyond what you are able to withstand (1 Cor 10:13b).  And you can find that "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." (2 Corinthians 4:8-9 - but that is in the context of verse 7, that we are weak and the power is God's not ours...)  But nowhere in Scripture does God promise that He will not give us more than we can handle - the closest I can find to it, is an allusion in John 16:12-13 that He has more to tell us than we are able to bear now - but even so, it will be revealed in days to come.

If you can find it, let me know.  I'm willing to be corrected.  But Scripture is full of examples of people who are given more than they can bear - Naomi, Mary, David, Paul - not to mention, many people whose demise is trying to control their own circumstances and "handle" what they have been unbearably given (c.f. Moses, Abra(ha)m and Sarai/h, Solomon, Saul, Jacob, just to name a few...)

But rather than wax theological, let's make it personal.

A year ago, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, at the ripe old age of 31.  At 32, I wrestled with the fear that I would be left a widow, with three young children.  For 6 months, we lived in 3-week cycles of chemo and hospitalizations.  We were in the hospital for 40% of our days and nights.  I juggled being back and forth between home and hospital - struggled with the kids' fears, anxieties and needs, as well Jon's needs, and my own emotions and needs.  We were deeply cared for by our friends and communities - and on one hand, it was a profoundly rich season in its starkness - everything important was revealed and everything else fell away, and that is beautiful in its own way.  But in other very real ways, it destroyed me, overwhelmed me, and has led to struggles with depression, now that we are out of it.

The darkest day for me was two days after Christmas 2017.  Jon had been unexpectedly hospitalized 2 days before Christmas - with one of the more scary infections that he had, and his discharge just kept getting pushed back day after day.  Hope given and then taken away... again, and again, and again.  The kids and I had spent Christmas alone, and then immediately after, everyone came down with the stomach bug - I had gone 24 hours without sleeping at all two times within 4 days, and still had vomit in my hair, from the baby who had refused to sleep anywhere except on top of me, waking up hourly to vomit on me.  I was exhausted and alone.  And then Jon found out that he would not be discharged that day, yet again, because his white blood cell counts were still too low.

I had a full blown panic attack, with three small children surrounding me, needing me.  I was lying on the floor, unable to breathe, certain that I was having a heart attack, phone with barely any battery, sobbing - physically unable to move - while my kids watched and my baby climbed on me and I couldn't do anything to help them or protect them. 

Tell me again that we are never given more than we can handle. 

Even now, when I think about that day, I tear up.  Because that was the day when I screamed at God - "I can't do this anymore. This is more than I can bear..."  And it was.  I couldn't handle it.  I texted my sister and told her I needed help and she called my local friends and they came over and sat with me, held me, until I could breathe again.  Fed my children dinner, and reminded me that I wasn't alone, and wouldn't leave until my kids were in bed and I was stable.  Loved me tangibly and beautifully.  We made it through, but I was undone. 

Because the reality is - God does give us more than we can handle.   We do come to the end of ourselves.  Trials and suffering and struggles that threaten to undo us.  Loss, grief, depression - darkness that cannot be managed, the end of the tunnel nowhere in sight. 

Even today - Jon and I woke up this morning to news that an acquaintance, that we had briefly interacted with on a few marriage retreats and admired from a distance, unexpectedly died of a heart attack yesterday.  One moment she was living her ordinary, joy-filled life - the next, she was gone.  I imagine that maybe today, her students, her husband, and her children feel as though God has given them more than they can possibly bear. 

It cheapens grief - and it falsely inflates our own sense of power and strength - when we insinuate that we, or anyone, should be able to bear up under whatever God (or evil, or life, etc) throws our direction. 

"We can bear up under anything" is never the motto for a Christian because it's only part of the Gospel.

The Gospel is that we are broken.  We are sinful.  We are undone.  We are weak.  AND we are rescued by a God who is holy, mighty and loves us beyond belief.  We are able to do all this (being content in any circumstance)... through Christ, who strengthens us (Philippians 4:13).  We are made enough because his power is made perfect in weakness...  therefore we will boast all the more about our weaknesses (2 Cor 12:9). 

"We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body." 

THAT, is the Gospel. 

Yes.  You are crushed, undone, and overwhelmed.  But God is not.  But you are not alone.  And where you can't, He can.  We like to focus on the He can part - but the other half is messy and involves a lot more "we can't" than we are comfortable with...

So this morning, I told my friend to tell her friend - and if this is you today, I'll say it to you as well -

It's okay that you can't do it all.  It's okay to be undone.  Because in those moments, God draws near to us, and where we can't, He can.  In those moments, you will have the sweet privilege (when you look back in hindsight) of knowing God far more intimately than most - because you will have to depend on His strength more dearly than most and you will know your own weakness more deeply than most - in the moment, it's okay if you yell at Him and don't feel sweet or intimate at all.  He is there none-the-less, and He isn't going anywhere.

It's okay that you can't do it all - you will have to let go of some things, and you won't be able to do it all - because you aren't God and that's okay - and some days will suck and you will have to ask for help more than you want to.  And other days, you will feel more normal and capable than you want to.  

I told her to tell her friend - "today you can't - so how can I practically help? can I pray? can I pick up groceries? can I babysit? can I fill up the gas tank? can I sit with X for you?"

Because friends, the Gospel is not "chin up, you'll get through it" (aka God never gives us more than we can handle) - but it is the reality of God with us.  Emmanuel. God who dwells among us. The God who says, you don't have to be strong, because I Am.  And you don't have to be alone, because I Am. 
And that is the Gospel we get to reflect to one another, by how well we sit with them, stay with them, and carry their burdens with them.

THNGVBD

I bit a rock instead of a black bean last year and cracked my tooth - but I didn't get it looked at for a year because my husband had cancer and we were a little busy - so by the time I got it checked out, I had to get a full root canal, which was fun.  And when I got to the dentist on Tuesday for a routine cleaning, I checked to see if I had enough insurance coverage to get the x-rays and found out that the root canal had maxed out my coverage until January and so, not only were x-rays not covered, but the routine cleaning wasn't either so I had to get up and leave the dentist - which if you think going to the dentist is bad, try going to the dentist and then leaving embarrassed, it is even worse.

I could tell that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

We have always said no to x-rays for our 5 and 4-year-old at the dentist because they're 5 and 4 and we brush/floss regularly and we figured why expose them to extra radiation - until my 5-year-old started complaining of a sore tooth.  I thought it was probably just loose - because he's five - but we did x-rays and found out that he not only had a cavity but actually had 4 cavities, including two that needed root canals.  Additionally, our 10-year-old car, which is like 70 years in car-years, needed a new battery because it wouldn't start one day a few weeks ago, and then when it did start two days later, it shook so badly that it felt like an earthquake to drive.  Turns out two spark plugs and an ignition coil solved that problem - but crowns and a car that is almost ready for medicare rendered our bank account nearly insolvent when all those bills came in on Tuesday...

I think I'll move to Australia [good public transportation and universal health care, and also USD are worth more than Australian dollars...?]

After I picked up our kids from school on Tuesday, I took them to the post office before we went to the park.  They threw temper tantrums.  They whined.  They planted themselves on the sidewalk and refused to move.  I told them it would be fast.  I told them we'd go to the park afterward.  I said we wouldn't get a special treat if they didn't cooperate.  No one listened.  

I could tell that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Because no one would cooperate, and no one was moving (but the little two were in the stroller), I told the 5-year-old to stay put on the sidewalk and went into the post office without him - because he's five and he wasn't moving anywhere (which was the problem) and there was a huge picture window in the front of the post office so I knew I could see him the whole time anyhow.  I asked two people if I could cut in front of them in line, and just had to drop a pre-paid package, so the whole thing took less than 2 minutes, but by the time I got outside, there was an angry glaring woman who wanted to know whose child this was and why his parent was totally negligent.  Her glare needed no words to communicate that I was not only a bad mom but also a total embarrassment to humanity, despite the fact that my child *still had not moved* from the spot he claimed he planned to live in for the next 16 years.

I could tell that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell it was going to be a bad day because we then continued down the sidewalk to the park, but the bridge we needed was closed for construction, so we had to go back the way we'd come to get to the other bridge.  To pacify my now very angry, tired children, I gave them the only snack that I had with me, which was Cheetos.  They all loved those, which helped a lot.  The baby loved them most of all and smeared them all over her face and legs and stroller, which was great until we passed the same angry glaring woman, who now had artificial orange cheesy goop on my two-year-old to substantiate her claims of my ineptitude at motherhood.  I'm sure your kids only eat kale and quinoa neatly without ever getting mess anywhere and never throws tantrums, Glaring Mom.  

Meanwhile, my child is smearing her Cheetos all the way to Australia.

We finally made it to the park and found one of the boys' friends there which made them super happy and they had lots of fun playing together until the mom, who doesn't really like me, started trying to convince them to play with another friend because they were "more athletic" and more "socially of the same status" and my mama heart burned and ached within me for the terrible things that money and status and moms can do sometimes. Maybe it was just her insecurity, or something else going on that I knew nothing about, but to me, it felt like a slap (in my lower class face).  Luckily her kid was kind and kept happily playing with my sweet, kind son and he was oblivious to the whole thing.  But my shame and rage just kept climbing higher and higher.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

That's what it was too, because, after the playground debacle, we headed to sports and I further cemented our lower class status by changing my kids clothing in the corner of the fields behind the stroller, which is never as sheltered as I anticipate it being - meanwhile the baby ran off and I shouted more than I wanted to and the boys long socks got stuck halfway on and they tried to take off their underwear instead of their shirts and then kept saying while half-naked "why can't we just go to soccer practice NOW?! Looks there's my friend!"  "HI FRIEND'S MOM that we don't know LOOK AT MY NAKED SELF!" (not really the last part, but that's what it felt like...)

Now, I said, I'm going to Australia.

On the way home,  I forgot which stop we get off at and was corrected by my husband which made me cross and grouchy and I didn't feel like explaining the whole long story of my afternoon, so I just snapped at him and made him grouchy too.

"I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!" I wanted to shout to everybody.  [But I didn't, because I'm a grown-up, and we don't really do that as much as we should.]

We bickered all evening because quarrelsome moments tend to multiply when two people are tired and there are three little narcissists running around underfoot (and the big two above foot).  The kids spilled bathwater, we didn't have food ready for dinner, we ran out of milk, the baby didn't go to sleep quickly, the boys' bath water was too hot, the PJ's I had picked out weren't the right ones and I lost my temper when yet again naked boys were running around the house and the neighbors were shouting happy birthday downstairs and I wasn't in a birthday mood at all.

It took hours to finally communicate well and talk about the parts of the day that were frustrating because sometimes shamed hearts and weary souls take a while to unpack.  We went to bed late, but we finally reached a healthy place - either that or we both were just so exhausted that we stopped self-protecting and let honesty take over, which is almost always a good thing.  

But then my husband said that my toes were too cold to snuggle and I hate wearing socks to bed.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I've heard that some days are just like that.

Even in Australia.

(Thankfully, Wednesday was much, much better.)

Hope this helps, if and when you find yourself in your own terrible, horrible day.  They do tend to improve with the next.  Otherwise, Australia is always an option.  And if not, one can always write a halfway humorous book/blog post about it.

xo,

KD

* adapted from Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst

In defense of the Mom Resume

Dear Potential Employer,

A few months ago, a friend of mine was tasked with hiring a new member for her team (she is in a management position at a multinational company).  Her boss told her specifically to "think man, single, no kids."  While not only is that very illegal, it also represented an assumption that is factually inaccurate - that a woman, much less a woman with children or spouse, would be less committed or less able to complete the job than an equally qualified single man.

As you will soon find out - because I don't believe in hiding things - I am not only a married woman, but I also have children and have been out of the job market for the last four years, caring for our young children.  But rather than seeing this as a liability, as my friend's boss did, I want to share with you today why you not only should you hire me but also why I believe that my experience as a mother actually gives me additional qualifications that would benefit any employer.

Now, if you read my resume, you'll notice that I have excelled in past employment, that I come with excellent credentials and references, and that I haven't just sat around during my four years of stay-at-home motherhood, but rather have built my own small business in my "spare" time, which has doubled in profit every year that I've been in business.  There are many reasons, other than my experience as a mom, that you should hire me and I'd love to talk more about them.

But for the sake of this post, humor me, and we'll just talk about the experience that a *mom* brings to the table (or, if you'd prefer, you can also read from the experts, here, here, or here.)

Ability to manage people | Conflict Resolution
I have jokingly told many people, motherhood has given me a Ph.D. in advanced conflict resolution, negotiation, and the fine art of getting narcissistic people to do what they don't want to do, nicely.

If you're a mother, you are well aware of the petty differences of opinions which can threaten to derail the most mundane of operations - say grocery shopping, eating dinner, or you know, which sock to put on which foot.  If you're a mother of more than one child, you're practically a guru, when it comes to cajoling individuals to go anywhere or do anything, from the mundane of getting dressed slightly faster than a sloth - to the complex of choosing who gets the red plate for dinner between two children whose favorite color is "redder than his."  Imagine those skills applied to (mostly) rational adults.

Mothers by and large are able to lend a human, relational element to the workplace - many are more patient, better listeners, and more capable of juggling competing demands individually, while motivating peers towards common goals.  We are level-headed under pressure and often able to head off conflict before it begins, simply by listening well, while remaining clear on long and short-term goals.

Flexibility and Determination: Not Afraid of Failure
Employees who are willing to step out and dare to fail, and learn from their mistakes, lead their companies forward into uncharted territories (c.f. Forbes, HBR).  If you are a mother, you are categorically familiar with failure - whether it is trying endless strategies to get your little monkey to go the bleep to sleep, or negotiating just one more bite of broccoli, or attempting to fit one more errand in before nap time - mom's know what it's like to fail, and fail regularly.  And yet, being defeated, and not trying again is not an option for us.  We might not like failure any more than the next person, but we also know that it's just part of the game.  We intuitively know when to press in, or when to try something different - we can change direction on a dime if needed. We get creative, we learn from our mistakes, we try something different, and we never give up.  If you want an employee who is willing to think outside the box and take on any challenge - hire a mom who has had to deal with getting a three-year-old to wear shoes when they don't want to.

Humor
I have commented many times to friends, that my number one lesson learned, largely from necessity, from motherhood is to not take myself too seriously (c.f. this story, or this one, or this one). Ask any parent who has had to deal with a poop-explosion in the first hour of a 14 hour car ride, or mom whose child has cracked a full dozen eggs onto the kitchen floor while she attempts to grab a shower - or really any parent of a 2-year-old - and they will tell you that if you can't laugh at yourself, parenthood will make you explode. Moms have the ability to not take ourselves too seriously, to find the humor in hard situations, and to somehow watch that *one* episode of Daniel Tiger 20 million times without losing our minds.  Forbes cites humor as a critical part of leadership, quoting Eisenhower that "A sense of humor is part of the art of leadership, of getting along with people, of getting things done."  An employee with the ability to not take themselves too seriously handles conflict better, bears up under stressful situations well, and in general is just more enjoyable to be around.

BUT aren't moms less likely to be "all in" at work?
One of the largest concerns about hiring a mom is that they won't be 100% committed to the job - they will have limitations on their time and focus and are by nature spread thinner than most.  And also, they might leave, if they feel like their kids need them more.  This is true in some ways (arguably, it's also true for good dads, but somehow that doesn't often seem to be raised as a question... another post for another time).  However, I'd suggest four responses to that:

1.  More and more studies are finding that having balance in life helps makes for better employees.  You don't want someone who is 100% on the job all the time because they lack perspective.  You want employees who have other interests and passions and things that recharge their brains - millennial organizations and many start-ups are leading the way in this, by creating "relaxation" and "play" space at work so that employees can fuel those creative juices. Parents by nature have built in "off-the-clock" time - and while it might not be relaxing at all times (sometimes ever, let's be honest), it does break up the tunnel vision and give you additional perspectives that aren't common within the typical office setting.  Additionally, coming to work *is* our break from parenting - and parents are more likely to enthusiastically welcome the opportunity to succeed and function in a realm that does not include bodily fluids, because it is fresh, clean, and something that we're capable of mastering.

2.  Moms by nature are more effective at prioritizing what really matters and not wasting energy on what doesn't. We know that we have a limited window at work, and we are committed to making the most of it.  We are well-versed in the critical skill of picking our battles and honing in on the central task at hand.  We know that the battle over what clothes to wear is only important on certain days but not running into the street always matters.  We know that hangry temper tantrums after school sometimes fade faster when you ignore them and wait to see what's really going on, but we all know when "that" scream means we need to run to our child immediately.  Better than most, we get that some things are central, while others can be delegated.  We are efficient - because we have to be.  If you want someone who will play petty office politics, don't go with a mom.  But if you want an employee who will get the job done efficiently, without derailing on petty differences or side issues - a mom is a good bet.

3.  Moms, more than any other people group, are capable of multitasking and juggling multiple operations - we have to be level-headed under pressure because nothing can destroy you faster than a 5-year-old who can see that you are folding under the pressure of his onslaught of screamed "logic".  If we are capable of juggling putting the baby to bed, while bathing the toddler, and making the preschooler practice piano, while cleaning up dinner and preparing school lunches for the next day, all the while on the phone with the pediatrician to make sure that that rash really isn't a big deal - there is no challenge in managing a difficult client, while saying on top of the day's tasks and preparing for the upcoming conference.

4.  Yes, moms might leave, if their kids need them more, or if being home is perceived to be more desirable than being at work.  But when companies are willing to support moms with basic needs (a lactation room, flexible hours if the work is done well within those hours, adequate vacation days, good health benefits, equal pay to her male contemporaries so she can pay for childcare, and an environment where she is not ostracized) in my experience, you will find that she is every bit as committed as her male comrades, if not more.  Where women leave, often times it is because those basic needs are not being met - most of which are also needs that men will express (minus the men's lactation room).  So if I may be so audacious, if you are concerned that you will hire a mother and she won't be fully committed to your company, perhaps it is also time for some introspection as to your company policies.

Now, as you might gather from point #4 - as well as the word count - unfortunately, this is not a cover letter that I could ever fully write to a future employer - because who can be that honest and still have any hope of getting the job?  Not many, unfortunately.  But my hope is that in writing this, I will spark some pride in moms, especially moms who have been "just moms" for a period of time - that they actually do bring a lot to the table because of - not in spite of - their experience as parents.  And I hope that as a result of reading this, someone somewhere in a hiring position will reconsider the candidates that they are subconsciously eliminating because of "mom gaps" in their resume or "child limits" on their time.

Also, if you'd like to hire me, I'd be happy to discuss.

Very sincerely,
Kristen

Today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

Today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

[Disjointed, because I'm writing stream of consciousness... sorry!]

Nine months ago, Jon was diagnosed with a PMBCL tumor in his chest.  I've jokingly told him that this is his (much harder) pregnancy - no alcohol, restricted diet, pain, nausea, scans and hospitals.  And now, 9 months later, he is about to give birth to whatever comes next.

You've heard that it was said, "whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" - but I tell you, there's a long part in the middle, before you see the stronger part, where you're really not sure whether you're going to wind up stronger or destroyed.  When what would, will, make you stronger actually does really threaten to destroy you. 

Today is Jon's big PET scan - he went back for the injection about 15 minutes ago, and so I am sitting in the lobby waiting with my very large cup of coffee and empty stomach.  Today is the day when we will either hear the words "remission" or we will hear that the cancer is still there and we're moving into phase 2 of treatment.   We'll either hear that Jon is neutropenic again, or that he appears to finally have a self-generated immune system. We have hunches and guesses, longings and prayers, but really we know nothing.  And so we are waiting once again.

The middle period of waiting is hellish.

For three months, we have waited.  Life has felt normalish - we've gone camping, we've made playdates, we've had dinner parties, we've made new friends, we've gone on dates, we've felt safe enough to have real fights again, we've made plans for further out than the next day - but there's always the specter of cancer, looming in the background.

There are many days now when I feel normal - mentally healthy, sane, and able to be humorous - and then out of the blue, walking down our hill, I will hear my own screams (in my head), grieving the premature loss of my husband and my kids' daddy.  I will find myself watching Jon with the kids and begin weeping, imagining their grief were he not there.  I will irrationally panic over a child with a cough too close to my husband. 

What they don't tell you, when you begin a cancer journey, is that the aftermath of treatment is every bit as trying as the process.  That being a caregiver or family of a loved one, you might not have cancer in your body, but you have cancer.  And when life finally slows down to the waiting period - that you have to begin the process of actually healing and processing all the things you didn't have space to process when you were in the thick of treatment.  And sometimes it's really hard - fighting back the fear is a real battle - learning to live normal life again takes time.  Even small talk has to be relearned - because after something like this, it feels petty - even while it serves a worthwhile social purpose.  I'm sure that, come whatever may, I will need years of counseling to fully process all that has transpired. 

As an aside, don't even speak to me about children separated from their parents at the border - it will make me too angry.  I have witnessed first hand the trauma that occurs when children are separated from a parent and scared that they will lose that parent.  I don't have to imagine their screams because I have heard them from my own children - I still hear them in my dreams - as they were pulled away from us, scared - in a process that we were able to prepare them for, into the safe arms of loving friends and family members, to be reunited with us only days later.  My oldest son has been in counseling for months and is finally seeing healing happen - but the trauma has been real and should *never* be used as a weapon to deter anything.  I try hard to be able to honor multiple perspectives as valid, including ones that are different from my own, but on this one, no, I will not hear it. 

Kids *are* incredibly resilient, and I feel like we're finally seeing the fruit of that in our children - they are stronger now than they were before, after a process that I would never wish on anyone.  They are more aware of their emotions and feelings, they are learning kindness and generosity in ways that they wouldn't have otherwise - and they understand in a much deeper way what it means to be cared for by friends and to care for others in return.  They know that it's okay to feel sad and angry and scared, but what we do when we feel those emotions matters. 

And Jon and I, we are stronger too, even though we might not always feel it.  We have seen firsthand the kindness and generosity of our village - we have literally been carried by them, by you, more times than we can count.  Like Moses in the battle with Amalek (Ex. 17:8-13),  time and time again, our arms have been upheld in battle, when we cannot hold them up on our own anymore.  We know that we are not alone.  We are more open, more willing to share our lives with others, and more honest about what matters and what doesn't.  We understand the value of one another far more than we would have before and fight to enjoy one another even as we see our differences more plainly.  We strive to make the most of each day together, rather than put things off for a more opportune time.  We have learned that gratitude sweetens ANY circumstance and makes even the hardest situations livable.

This has been a hellish year.  But it hasn't killed us yet, so maybe it is making us stronger.

And so here we are today.  The waiting is ending.  Today is the first day of the rest of our lives. 

Does it matter, what the news is?

On one hand, yes, absolutely it matters.  We will be crushed if the cancer is still there.  Our lives will once again be raked across the coals.  Our battle will increase and our trauma to heal from will prolong. We will grieve with real grief.  In the same way that we will celebrate with real joy if the cancer is finally gone. We will laugh and jump and cry and make plans for a big party with all of you - because this is something worth celebrating!

But on the other hand, it doesn't matter.  We will live today the same way, either way.  With gratitude for one another and our communities.  In humble dependence on one another and our village.  We will keep walking forward, not backwards.  We will believe in the same God that we have believed in through this journey - and sustained by His hand, we will continue to walk forward, whether into hospital or home.  We will continue to heal and hope and long for a world in which cancer is not part of the story.  We will run with Dana Farber to see cancer annihilated (please join us on July 22nd!).

We will continue to love one another and live out our vows to one another - whether it be in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse. 

Come what may.

Onward and upward.  Further up and further in...

Season may change, winter to spring
But I love you until the end of time
Come what may, come what may
I will love you until my dying day

crazytown, babies and sadness

Jon and I watched Inside Out two nights ago (for the first time).  I cried like a baby because it's really well done and because... sadness.  And all the happy, sad and angry memories from this past year rolled before my eyes and the beauty and the ashes and the truth that sometimes letting sadness lead brings you through to deeper happiness - well, that resonated deeply.

So in the spirit of honoring sadness:

I miss being pregnant.  And I'm grieving that loss [at which point, reading this, my husband has a minor panic attack - don't worry honey, I'm not going where you think I am].

I haven't miscarried, and I'm not wrestling with infertility or longing to be able to have kids - those are griefs that run far deeper than mine, and I won't dishonor or minimize them by equating them.  If that's you today, I'm with you and for you, and where there are echos of your grief in mine, I grieve alongside you.

I'm not even pining for more kids - the three that I have presently keep me running for the hills on a daily basis as is.  Our house is crazy town, if you haven't gathered from my regular fb posts.  And I think three might be all that I can reasonably handle - if you can call what I'm doing reasonably handling.

It's not even the sensations of being pregnant, although maybe those are closer.  The kicks and wiggles and hiccups - those are beautiful - but they also disrupt precious sleep and make you achy and cranky and hormonal.  And they also lead to a (beautiful, delighted in, precious) small human that adds chaos to our aforementioned CRAY-Z-town.

It's a weird thing to explain.

I think what I miss the most is the hope - the anticipation - of something good and beautiful to come.  The knowledge that, in most healthy cases, after 9 months of waiting, you will hold that beautiful, noisy little wrinkly bundle in your arms, and you will feel... well, you'll feel all kinds of things.  But mostly, you'll feel love.  A love, a joy, and the mostly-beautiful entirely-chaos life that is hoped for will come to be... 

And that tiny human, that will be noisy and messy and disruptive and will destroy your house and insist on walking with theeeeeeeeeeeeee slowest possible gait and theeeeeee teeeeeeeeny tiniest steps, while wearing three pairs of underwear, a backwards shirt and their swimsuit on top of their clothing - that tiny human will bless you and change you and bring joy and tears and laughter and all the feels to your life in ways that you can't even imagine.  And also possibly throw literal lemons at you in the produce aisle after an epic tantrum by the cream cheese counter because today, inexplicably, you didn't need cream cheese.  Duh. *Not my little cherubs, of course...*

And yet, welcoming a brand new baby, with all that anticipation - those aren't things that I will most likely get to experience again.

When you're first diagnosed with cancer, and told that you need to undergo chemotherapy, one of the first non-diagnostic questions that that they ask you is if you are done having kids.  See chemo contains a cocktail of really strong drugs that kill lots of fast growing cells and damages many others - including, often times, sperm and eggs.  If you aren't done, thanks to the miracle of modern science and medicine, you now have the options of sperm banking or freezing your eggs so that you can continue to grow your family through other means.  Sometimes the loss of fertility is temporary and will return months, or years, after chemo stops - sorry, can't consider it a reliable form of birth control either.  Other times, it's permanent, irreversible.  It's not talked about a ton because it's private and intimate - but it's a major issue for young adults with cancer that is different from the issues you face with cancer later in life.  A private grief added on top of the more public one. 

So, told that we had cancer, we had roughly a week to decide if we wanted more kids or if we were done.  We were already pretty sure that we were done - we were already considering opting for a more permanent birth control on our own volition - so you would think it would be an easy decision, or one that I wouldn't grieve.  But I do. 

I don't know if I'm making any sense at all - sadness is a weird thing.

It's not that I lost something that I was longing for - or even that I lost something that I didn't already have - and I actually am pretty sure we don't want more kids.  I just feel robbed of the choice. 

Robbed by a bandit who has already stolen so much in this past year - and then this too.  We were pretty sure we were done having kids - and we were and are so thankful that we had chosen and been able to have them early in life, even though conventional wisdom said it would have been better to wait until we were more established in our careers.  We feel full, and thankful, for the children that we have, and the life that we have together - and mildly terrified even, of the possibility of more children because again, let me repeat...  CRAY-Z-TOWN in a teeny tiny 2 bedroom apartment.

Sadness is an odd thing.  Loss is inexplicable sometimes.  It doesn't always make sense and sometimes it makes you feel kind of silly to talk about the things that do make you feel sad.

But as I honor sadness, this is part of it too.  Cancer steals a lot of things - one of those being choices that you thought you had some measure of control over.  And that's a real loss too. 

I've debated a lot whether I actually wanted to share this post - because it does feel both intimate and a little intangible (and I don't want to be confusing, but it is...). Grief that isn't really a full grief, but it is? But as I've reflected on it, I decided to share because it is an issue faced by many young adults with cancer, and perhaps there's a way that I can share about it, since the grief isn't as shattering for me, that will create space for others for whom it is far more intimate to find spaces for their own voices.

And in the healthy, processing, moving forward sense, that sense of hope and anticipation of good life to come that comes during pregnancy - that's where I'm focusing and where I'm sensing a deeper invitation for me in the here and now.  That's what I *actually* really want right now, and what digging deeper into sadness reveals for me in this particular area.

out of the storm and into...?

So last night, Jon and I sat down to have a writing date together - because we both had things we wanted to get out - and he wrote his post "we made it!" and I wrote, well, this one...  As we read each others posts, I laughed (and cried) a little at our different ways of writing and processing - his ability to always see good, and my willingness to deal with the shadows - and then proclaimed that I couldn't post mine, because it would make Team Douthit seem a bit bipolar.  He reassured me that despite their differences, they're both true and accurate for both of us - his is true for me, I'm celebrating being done with this phase and into a more spacious place, and mine is true for him, although with different emphases which maybe he'll expand on at a different point in time.  So I'm sharing it anyhow - we're not on different pages, this isn't my story versus his, nor is one of us healthy and the other avoiding processing nor wallowing in processing.   We're writing the same story, just painting different details, in our own unique ways.

--

I watched an episode of a medical-drama TV show (which shall remain unnamed, oh the shame...) today where a young woman presented in the ER following a serious car accident, with catastrophic injuries - but when she came in, her adrenaline was so high that it kept her from being in pain or her body really feeling the impact of her injuries.  When her body finally relaxed and calmed down, only then was the full impact of her injuries known.

I have no idea whether this is medically accurate or not - Seattle Grace is never my standard for medical accuracy - but I do know that, emotionally, this is true for me.  As long as I'm running on adrenaline - as long as I don't stop moving - I don't feel the full extent of my wounds.

We finished the final round of chemo on January 31st.  Last week, we came through (hopefully) our final round of neutropenia and all it's worries, risks, and fears. Hallelujah! And as of this past Monday, Jon is back to work (in the office!) full time again.

For a few short weeks, our lives return to "normal" as we wait for the final PET scan on March 8 (results on March 9), to see if we're "done done" or if we go back into the ring for more treatment.   But we're learning to celebrate the moments of victory, even in the grey.  Done done is relative of course, because when are you ever fully free from the fear that the cancer will return?  And when are you ever fully in irreversible remission?  But for the time being, that is our marker.   So, now we're in this weird waiting, holding, celebrating, processing, new "normal" pattern.

Honestly?  It's been a lot rougher than I want to admit.  This week has been emotional - up and down and all over the map.  Celebrating, grieving, relief, exhaustion.  I've felt more fear, anxiety, and panic than I have in months.  And yet life is back to normal, right?  The risk of Jon ending up in the ER, the stresses on our children, the heavy-hitting chemicals being pumped into my husband's body, the sleepless nights - they've all gone away or greatly diminished.  And we're slowing down, returning to normal.

And all of a sudden, all of the metaphorical junk that we haven't processed or dealt with in 5-6 months - all of a sudden, it's hitting me square in the face.  My adrenaline isn't pumping - I'm not in survival mode - and now I'm feeling all the aches and anger and wounds and just.how.much we went through that I haven't felt in the need to just survive and make it through.  Now, I'm feeling... the whole breadth of emotions. [Insert cute kid pic to make sure you know that this includes happy emotions too...]

When you're in the midst of it all, you don't really think about whether or not your spouse will live or die.  You just think about what symptoms you need to mention when the doctors next round.  You think about which antibiotics he needs to remember to take, and what his core body temperature normally is.  You don't think about buying a house or moving or jobs or life goals and how far into the future you can or can't plan - you don't think about how scary this all is, you just think about making it through each day, sometimes just each hour. 

And then when you're not in survival mode any more - those bigger picture questions, fears, anxieties, memories, feelings, and longings come back..

This is like PTSD, in a form.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - with all it's flashbacks, anger, emotional numbness, hopelessness, panic/anxiety/fear, the overwhelming/debilitating reliving of a major traumatic life event or situation.  It's real, and affects you both physically and emotionally, and is worth processing with a professional and sharing with your community (both of which we're doing, don't worry).

But it is also grace, in a very weird way.  When you're in the midst of a trauma - your body, your soul, your heart, they can only handle so much.  To emotionally process all that you're going through, while you're going through it - it's too much.  So grace gives you adrenaline - gives you survival mode - until life slows down enough that you have space to breathe and process.  This onslaught of emotions, is a sign that we're actually moving into more spacious places, places with margins and air, and rest enough to feel everything - good, bad, ugly, and angry included - again.

So when people ask me how we're doing this week - I don't really know how to answer.

I've cried more times this past week than I have in months.
I've felt like a powder keg ready to explode.
It's been hard, when it's felt like it *shouldn't* be.
I'm feeling all the feels.

But at the same time, I know that this is part of the process of decelerating - of moving from the race-track-head-down-just-make-it-through-the-hour of survival mode, into the more spacious places.  It is the process of lifting up my head again - choosing to see myself fully, choosing to see my family fully, and choosing to see and to celebrate and to grieve all that has happened to us and in us these past few months - choosing to see the future, unknown as it is.  To begin to shift through the rubble.

There's space to feel again.

And now, we have a choice to make - we can

(a) jump back into the "normal" flow of life and just ignore all that has transpired in the past 5-6 months, both good and hard - this is perhaps the assumption of what most people think should happen after cancer/chemo finishes.  It has its own challenges, but it allows us to pick up the pace again, and find other sources of adrenaline rather than deal with the ugly that comes from facing the tide.

(b) dwell in the onslaught of emotions and let the anxiety/fear/stress/past/present consume us - this is perhaps the temptation, and the assumption of what many people think happens to those who have gone through cancer/chemo.  It honors the depths, but doesn't allow hope or light or life to enlarge it - and too often, it drowns you in the fears.

(c) figure out some way of unpacking and processing and celebrating and grieving and allowing that to shape us into more whole people.  This is the hard road, that has no road map, and can easily derail into either A or B - depending on your personality - but if successful, it is richer and deeper and more complex and makes us into more peaceful and whole human beings because it integrates all parts of who we are and heals wounds rather than buries them or allows them to fester.

So.  How are we?

We're slowing down.  We're feeling all the feels - highs and lows.  There is no such thing as normal, even as we are returning to normal.   We're just beginning the healing process, and that means we're kind of a mess right now, even as that is part of healing.  Even as we're still waiting on bated breath for results that tells us just how far out of (or still in) the storm we really are.

I don't really know how to end this, because it's very much still in process - so maybe just ... keep walking with us?  And thank you so much for walking with us thus far.

-KD

the complexity of hope

At the hospital, there's a harpist who plays regularly.  She's an older woman, with a sweet smile, and beautiful hands - she plays melodies that dance across the strings, light and joyful.

She's not there every day, and she's never in the same spot.  She shows up randomly, and seems to disappear just as quickly.  I see her almost every time we're here in the hospital - and yet she always catches me by surprise.

But every time I hear her, I think of hope.

I think of how it whispers into dark places, shines in silent corners, and shows up when you least expect it, like the perfume of an unseen flower.  It's strong and sweet and stands in stark contrast to the sterile halls, bright orange ER passes, weary smiles and tear-stained cheeks.  

I think of hope, and how hard it is sometimes - how elusive it feels on the hard days, and how dangerous it feels on the good.  

At each trail marker, we have been thankful to get pretty good news - prognosis is good, Jon's particular cancer is curable, the cancer was stage 1, the tumor is shrinking at the mid-point PET scan - and yet at each point, we celebrate, but can't really seem to fully exhale or feel like we're in the "safe zone."  I was explaining to a friend earlier that a cancer diagnosis is always unexpected and almost always a moment "when the worst that could happen, happens" and "when the odds are not in your favor."  Once that happens, it's very hard to fully feel like things won't fall apart on a dime again.  Numbers and odds have failed you - and there's no guarantee that those "good news" will remain.  

To hope - to expect good news and positive outcomes - it's risky.  Because it might not happen, and that totally-realistic-for-normal-people castle that you've built in the sky, like celebrating your milestone 40th birthday, it all can come crashing down just like that.  And hope dashed is devastating, crushing - almost worse than not hoping at all, because it feels like it can utterly destroy you.

But to not hope at all - to stay safely cynical and pessimistic - well, that's not to live either.  That option leads to despair, anxiety, and depression.  There is no joy in that - and it renders a life that is cloudy and gray all the time - you die, while still yet alive. 

And so we walk in a balance - hope, but restraint; optimism, tempered by your current "normal."  The juxtaposition of essential hope, intermingled with the knowledge that nothing is guaranteed.

We, Jon and I, have a lot of hope actually - I am very hopeful that we'll have many, many more years together for Jon to make inappropriate jokes about dying - but it always feels like it's breathed out in somewhat bated breath, fully aware that things can look perfect and then your world can fall apart in a day.  I've been told once you make it a few years out, it gets easier - but when you're in the thick of it, it's hard.  Even the simplest of hopes feels like it needs a qualifier. 

Please don't take this to mean we lack hope - but understand with us that it's complex, even while it is still fully hope.  

We're running a marathon, not a sprint - we celebrate each mile marker, but we still have to keep running, and so that full exhale feels elusive until we finish the race - and the "finish line" feels like it keeps moving.  The biopsy, the PET scan, the next PET scan, the next follow-up appointment, two years of remission, five years of remission, etc.

The most helpful thing that I have found for maintaining hope, through a season such as this, is incredibly simple:  it is "to not to," as our kids would say.  By that I mean, to not rely on hope *for the future*, because while much is hoped for, nothing is guaranteed. 

Rather, to practice gratitude and fullness in the present. 

There's nothing like having your world rocked to make you appreciate each moment that you do have together.  Sleeping in a hospital chair is hard - dealing with temper tantrums and meltdowns and odd side effects is not fun - but in the contrast of not being able to be with that person, even those uncomfortable moments seem sweeter.  Similarly, when all of a sudden time becomes finite - whether prognosis is good or not - you stop putting things off in the name of "sensibility."  You plan the trip, you go on the fun outing, you go in late for work, you skip the dishes, you say yes more, you hide less.  There are ways that facing your own mortality frees us from our own inhibitions. 

If I could give one piece of advice for those not affected by cancer (or life-altering illness) currently - and those who are - it would be don't put things off.

This is the only life we get. 

Hope for the future, absolutely.  Cling to hope, yes, please do.  We absolutely are too.

But live your life fully right now. 

Be grateful for the little things, each and every one of them.  Hope grows when you see that even in the crappiest of moments, there are still things for which to be thankful.  Because when you're grateful in the darkest hours, then you see, that no matter what the future holds, no matter how dark or scary, there will be good then too. 

Hope blossoms when watered with gratitude. 

Seize the moments you are given - you'll notice more of them when you're practicing gratitude - and choose to be present fully, whether in monotonous tasks that you have to do, or throwing caution to the wind and doing what you want to do "someday" today.   Celebration and mourning are opposite sides of the same coin - they are both attributes of being fully present and grateful for what you have/had.  To celebrate is to be present, as is to mourn - and both are to be grateful. 

And if you're in survival mode - and hope feels elusive, and gratitude and "seize the moments" feel like nonsense words spoken by motivational speakers - and you just need to put your head down and stumble forward, that's okay.  I can write this post now, but next week, I'm going to be right back there again with you, as we go into lock down to get Jon through neutropenia for the (hopefully) last time...  It comes and goes in waves, the drowning and breathing.

But when your head finally comes up for air, no matter how brief the breath, look around for places to be grateful - to celebrate or to mourn - no matter how little they are.  The silly joke you shared.  The ER nurse who brought you coffee.  The rain that didn't fall.  The one night without the temper tantrum.  The one stat that was good.  The harpist that plays in the hospital. 

Listen for the sweet strains of hope, sometimes made up of single notes of gratitude in the day-to-day... and hum their melodies in your head, over and over and over again, until you can still hear them, even when you're under water... 

That, my friends, is the complexity of hope (at least for me) in the storm.