The other night, T and I were watching TV, and as is often the case, there was nothing on. We have movie channels for a few months (so that we can watch Homeland on Showtime), and while flipping we stumbled on the early 90s thriller The Net. It features a young Sandra Bullock (but I swear she hasn't aged a day since) and dashing British actor Jeremy Northam (well helllllllloooooo there). T asked what else Jeremy Northam had been in. I sighed wistfully, nearly swooning as I responded, "he's Mr. Knightley." Mr. Knightley is the romantic protagonist in the film adaptation of Jane Austen's novel "Emma." That movie marked my first exposure to the world of Austen at age 12, and since that day my obsession with it has only grown stronger.
I wish I could put a finger on what it is about Austen's stories that attract me. Austenland is undeniably...stuffy? Her novels have a proclivity towards run-on sentences overflowing with monotonous flowery descriptions of things like tea and crumpets. And yet, as much as Austen's world is ruled by a strict caste system, her characters tend to rebel against what is considered "proper." I think what I love about Austen is her careful crafting of strong and independent female heroines. It was brave (even dare I say, ballsy) for her to make a career out of creating such progressive representations of women. She did so in a country (Great Britain) that would not allow women such as herself to vote until more than a hundred years after her death.
My favorite Austen novel? Hands down, Pride and Prejudice. I love stories with lots and lots of characters with storylines intersecting and chaos ensuing. The five Bennett sisters provide plenty of romance, drama, and even laughs as they navigate the delicate transition from girlhood to womanhood. Pride and Prejudice has more laughs than some of Austen's other novels. It's easy to chuckle at the overbearing Mrs. Bennett (worst prospective mother-in-law EVER) and delight in the schemes of the dastardly Wickham. Yet Pride and Prejudice also delivers some of Austen's most deeply moving passages. The letter that a tortured Darcy writes to Elizabeth is achingly romantic.
My favorite Austen film adaptation? Hands down, Pride and Prejudice. But no, not the Colin Firth version. I don't care how good Firth looks shirtless in that famous pond scene. There is no amount of partial nudity that makes a six-part 323 minute miniseries bearable. Rather, I prefer the more recent Keira Knightley version. It captures what I perceive to be Austen's intent when she wrote the novel - the laughs and tears that come from issues of family and love. I cried like a baby at one of the last scenes in the film between Elizabeth (Knightley) and her father (Donald Sutherland, British edition). I'm such a daddy's girl. It's one of my go-to movies that I find myself reaching for over and over again. You know those movies you buy, and then wonder, why did I buy that, I never feel like watching it?. This is not one of those.
The worst of Austen? Mansfield Park. I'm sorry for you Fanny lovers out there, but it is not my favorite. Fanny is weak, whiny, and obsessed with her cousin. Gross. The book and the movie are equally awful. Poor Frances O'Connor. Every movie she's in, all I can think is, "oh, there's that annoying b$#%h from Mansfield Park." Not really a career starter. This is the type of movie you only watch at 3am when you can't sleep, you're depressed, and the universal remote is out of batteries and you're too lazy to get new ones out of the garage.
New Austen-esque projects I am excited for? The book and film Austenland. The book by Shannon Hale is already out, and there is a sequel to it as well. It is about a woman obsessed with everything Austen who takes a trip to the UK for an Austen themed vacation. Predictably, romance and hijinks ensue. The film starring Keri Russell (Felicity, represent!) is currently in production. I can't wait to check out both.
The world of Austen is worth exploring, if you haven't already. To recap:
Recommended reads: Emma, Sense and Sensibility, and Pride and Prejudice. I haven't read Northanger Abbey or Persuasion, but have heard good things, especially about Persuasion. As stated earlier, skip Mansfield Park (book and film) unless you're into self-harm. There are many great works out there written for Austen fans about Austen fans. One of my favorites is Me and Mr. Darcy by Alexandra Potter. You can get through it in about a half hour, but it's a fun thirty minutes.
Recommended films: Emma (Gwyneth Paltrow version preferred to Kate Beckinsale version but both acceptable), Sense and Sensibility (Emma Thompson/Kate Winslet version), and Pride and Prejudice. Also Lost in Austen (PBS/BBC miniseries) and Becoming Jane (semi-factual autobiography of Austen), while not true film adaptations of her novels, are great movies for the devoted fan. I really wanted to like The Jane Austen Book Club, but it is god-awful. I can't put my finger on what was wrong with it, in theory it sounded awesome. It's amazing the damage a poorly written screenplay can do. If Emily Blunt could make one thing disappear off of her IMDB page, I'm guessing it's that.
Jane Austen's works have touched women for generations. Her characters continue to resonate with us. They make us laugh, cry, and most importantly, empathize. We feel a connection to them. They are our friends, our sisters. When Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice) is described as "barely tolerable" by Darcy at the ball, we feel hurt on her behalf and want to slap Darcy for being such a jerk. When Marianne (Sense and Sensibility) chases pathetically after Willoughby, we want to take her aside and give our girlfriend some tough love. And when each of the stories conclude, we cheer when the good girls finally get their well-deserved happy endings. Are Jane Austen's love stories realistic? Probably not. Have Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightley contributed to women having ridiculously inflated expectations of what men should be capable of romantically? Hell yes. And yet, who cares? There's something to be said for escapism. As Jane (Anne Hathaway) says in Becoming Jane, "My characters will have, with a little trouble, all that they desire." And we as a reader (or viewer) will have all that we desire too. So curl up with a good book, or movie, and enjoy!
Friday, December 14, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Adventures in Baby Rearing (and Breathing)
Have you guys ever seen the 80's movie Adventures in Babysitting? It's a quirky comedy starring Elisabeth Shue as Chris Parker, a responsible babysitter watching her two regular charges on what seems to be an average evening. She receives a call from a frantic friend in need of a ride home. Chris packs the kids up in the car for what was to be a quick trip to aid the friend. In typical cinematic fashion, nothing goes as planned. The trio are forced to weather a wild night punctuated by a shootout, singing in a blues club, and a fraternity party. Chris makes some questionable choices, which lead to comedic chaos. But by the time the credits roll, a happy ending is had by all. That parable sounds a lot like my life lately, except I'm not just sitting a kid, I'm raising one. Which means I am less adept at seeing the comedy in the chaos, and more likely to wallow in the drama, at least right now.
As I shared in my last post, Baby D had an exciting visit to the hospital a few weeks back. He's healthy and happy now, but it was a fairly traumatic event for a new mother such as myself. I've found myself even more worried and anxious about his well-being than I was to begin with (which was plenty). I also stated in my last post that while difficult, I was finding breastfeeding to be a rewarding experience. Well, it ceased to feel rewarding after I endured a multi-day migraine, the result of which was a dwindling milk supply and an inability to care for Baby D properly since I was unable to get off the couch and out from under my ice pack.
I made the difficult decision to move to formula feeding. After a day of feeding him formula, everything seemed to be going well. I went to make more bottles for the next day, read the side of the formula can, and gasped in horror. I realized that I had been making the bottles at double the correct concentration. Somehow, I had committed the ultimate in mental lapses. And I was convinced I had killed my child. His pediatrician assured me everything would be fine and that no lasting damage had been done. Disregarding this, I spent the next few days tied up in knots, watching Baby D for any signs of distress, fretting over every grunt (which for those of you with newborns know, is rather a frequent occurrence). Baby D was of course, just fine. So I allowed myself to breathe. For a split second.
Then this weekend I came down with a mild cold. Probably because all this stressing had weakened my immune system. Which meant of course, that should those germs spread to Baby D, he would become sick again, no doubt be hospitalized, and it would be all my fault. And I was convinced I had killed my child (are we seeing a trend here yet?). I used excess amounts of hand sanitizer, stifled every sneeze, and feared I was spreading disease just by looking at him. Well the weekend came and went, and Baby D was of course, just fine. So I allowed myself to breathe. For now.
This evening was spent with my darling son, fabulous and patient husband, and loyal canines. We had tummy time with Baby D on the floor. I marveled at his wide innocent eyes soaking up every new sight and reacting to every new sound. I delighted in watching the dogs lick his toes and keep watch over him as he napped. I giggled at his goofy faces as he let out an adorable toot (not so adorable was what inevitably followed). I sighed with happiness as I looked around the room and silently gave thanks for this wonderful gift, my family. It was a quiet moment of reflection that allowed me to realize that I am never going to be a perfect mother. The mistakes I've made recently are likely the first of many. However, I love Baby D fiercely, and will do anything and everything within my power to protect him and keep him safe in this crazy world. And that truly is enough.
I can't say I won't ever worry or feel guilty again. I can say though that I will be making a concerted effort to live in the moment, and cherish every second of this beautiful time. I will do my best to not get bogged down with the details. They say kids grow up so fast, and that infancy is over in a flash. Well then - I will give him millions of kisses every day, inhale as much of his baby smell as I can stand, take thousands of pictures and videos, and enjoy each minute. And maybe someday I'll be able to see the comedy in the chaos too.
As I shared in my last post, Baby D had an exciting visit to the hospital a few weeks back. He's healthy and happy now, but it was a fairly traumatic event for a new mother such as myself. I've found myself even more worried and anxious about his well-being than I was to begin with (which was plenty). I also stated in my last post that while difficult, I was finding breastfeeding to be a rewarding experience. Well, it ceased to feel rewarding after I endured a multi-day migraine, the result of which was a dwindling milk supply and an inability to care for Baby D properly since I was unable to get off the couch and out from under my ice pack.
I made the difficult decision to move to formula feeding. After a day of feeding him formula, everything seemed to be going well. I went to make more bottles for the next day, read the side of the formula can, and gasped in horror. I realized that I had been making the bottles at double the correct concentration. Somehow, I had committed the ultimate in mental lapses. And I was convinced I had killed my child. His pediatrician assured me everything would be fine and that no lasting damage had been done. Disregarding this, I spent the next few days tied up in knots, watching Baby D for any signs of distress, fretting over every grunt (which for those of you with newborns know, is rather a frequent occurrence). Baby D was of course, just fine. So I allowed myself to breathe. For a split second.
Then this weekend I came down with a mild cold. Probably because all this stressing had weakened my immune system. Which meant of course, that should those germs spread to Baby D, he would become sick again, no doubt be hospitalized, and it would be all my fault. And I was convinced I had killed my child (are we seeing a trend here yet?). I used excess amounts of hand sanitizer, stifled every sneeze, and feared I was spreading disease just by looking at him. Well the weekend came and went, and Baby D was of course, just fine. So I allowed myself to breathe. For now.
This evening was spent with my darling son, fabulous and patient husband, and loyal canines. We had tummy time with Baby D on the floor. I marveled at his wide innocent eyes soaking up every new sight and reacting to every new sound. I delighted in watching the dogs lick his toes and keep watch over him as he napped. I giggled at his goofy faces as he let out an adorable toot (not so adorable was what inevitably followed). I sighed with happiness as I looked around the room and silently gave thanks for this wonderful gift, my family. It was a quiet moment of reflection that allowed me to realize that I am never going to be a perfect mother. The mistakes I've made recently are likely the first of many. However, I love Baby D fiercely, and will do anything and everything within my power to protect him and keep him safe in this crazy world. And that truly is enough.
I can't say I won't ever worry or feel guilty again. I can say though that I will be making a concerted effort to live in the moment, and cherish every second of this beautiful time. I will do my best to not get bogged down with the details. They say kids grow up so fast, and that infancy is over in a flash. Well then - I will give him millions of kisses every day, inhale as much of his baby smell as I can stand, take thousands of pictures and videos, and enjoy each minute. And maybe someday I'll be able to see the comedy in the chaos too.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Becoming a Mom
One month and one day ago, our lives were forever changed. We welcomed Baby D into the world on September 4th, 2012. He weighed 7lbs, 6oz, and measured 20.5." Baby D was (and is) perfect.
If there was one thing I gleaned from watching numerous episodes of "A Baby Story" throughout my pregnancy (other than a feeling of complete terror), it was that labor seldom goes by your birth plan. Therefore, I didn't really have a set birth plan, beyond that I preferred an epidural if the situation allowed for it. Well, the situation did not allow for it, and things didn't go as planned. After a prolonged and painful failed attempt at induction, I ended up with a Caesarean section. They gave me spinal anesthesia, which worked well but was very disconcerting. You can't move anything below your waist, and I was convinced I'd be paralyzed for life. During the procedure I didn't feel much beyond a little pushing and pulling feeling in my abdomen. A few seconds later, we heard the most beautiful sound in the world - Baby D's cry. Minutes later they brought him over to me. His handsome face, that baby smell, the overwhelming emotions of protectiveness and love that swept through me...it was the single most powerful moment of my life so far. It was hard not to be able to be with him much or hold him in that first hour or so, but it was calming to know T was by his side. Seeing T instantly transform into a father was amazing. I think I fell more in love with him than ever.
My legs stayed numb for hours and hours. The nurses said it was rare for the anesthesia to last so long, which was great news for my anxiety and paranoia. When Baby D had his first blowout poo, T had to handle it all by himself. It was the first diaper he had ever changed, poor man. All I could do was watch helplessly from the bed. Trial by fire, I guess. T did a great job holding things together for us in those first 48 hours. I on the other hand was massively overtired, whacked out on pain medication, and emotionally unstable (thank you, hormones).
There was major overcrowding at the hospital post-delivery (mid-December 2011 must have been a very fertile time for ladies in the AV). They gave us the option of going home Thursday or Friday, and we chose Friday, until they informed us they'd be moving another family into our room, which was the size of a walk-in closet to begin with. You couldn't have shot us out of a cannon faster than we hightailed it out of there on Thursday night. We brought Baby D home, and spent the next few days staring at him in awe. When the doggies arrived home, they sniffed him briefly, but didn't show much interest at first. Flash forward to today, they are obsessed with him! Tess and Buster seem to know now that he is part of their family, and they consider it their calling to protect him (and lick him profusely).
My first few weeks of motherhood were everything all rolled into one: terrifying, difficult, tiring, fun, joyful, and amazing. Breastfeeding is hard, don't let anyone tell you differently. I decided to take on the challenge in spite of my concerns over how to treat my migraines while breastfeeding. I am so glad I did. Nursing times are precious moments. Baby D and I get to experience that special bond, and yes, I feel a selfish sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing I am doing something good for my baby. I certainly don't judge anyone who chooses not to breastfeed, whatever the reasoning. There may come a time when I am not able to anymore as well. I've been lucky with my migraines so far, and hope to enjoy it and maintain the breastfeeding as long as I can.
When Baby D was right around 3 weeks old, he developed a fever and rash late one night. We took him to urgent care, where they told us it was probably an allergy, and to take him to our pediatrician in the morning. The pediatrician sent us to the hospital for a work-up. They decided to admit him to the hospital, run tests, and keep him for two days until all the test results came back. This involved inserting an IV into my little angel's arm, which was possibly the worst thing I've ever gone through, and it didn't even happen to me. The nurse had a hard time getting it in, and his screams of pain pierced my heart. They also did a spinal tap. For that one I was sitting in a chair with nurses patting me sympathetically on the back. I managed to hold it together until T arrived, when I pretty much collapsed into sobs. Luckily Baby D acted quite healthy during our hospital stay, being very feisty with the nurses when they tried to take his vitals. The staff in the peds unit was top notch, and they really made a bad situation bearable for us. After all the tests thankfully came back negative and it was determined he probably had a minor virus, we were able to take Baby D home. Since our ordeal I have heard from several people who had similar experiences with their newborns. It seems it is quite common. Still, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. We left all the more grateful for Baby D's strength and good health.
We've been home from the hospital for a week now, and in some ways it was like starting all over again. There has definitely been a readjustment period with the breastfeeding, his sleep schedule, etc. I couldn't believe it when T informed me that Baby D was one month old yesterday. It truly has been a whirlwind. My first month as a mother has been the happiest of my life, even with all the struggles. I can't wait to watch my baby boy grow big and strong (but not too fast!).
If there was one thing I gleaned from watching numerous episodes of "A Baby Story" throughout my pregnancy (other than a feeling of complete terror), it was that labor seldom goes by your birth plan. Therefore, I didn't really have a set birth plan, beyond that I preferred an epidural if the situation allowed for it. Well, the situation did not allow for it, and things didn't go as planned. After a prolonged and painful failed attempt at induction, I ended up with a Caesarean section. They gave me spinal anesthesia, which worked well but was very disconcerting. You can't move anything below your waist, and I was convinced I'd be paralyzed for life. During the procedure I didn't feel much beyond a little pushing and pulling feeling in my abdomen. A few seconds later, we heard the most beautiful sound in the world - Baby D's cry. Minutes later they brought him over to me. His handsome face, that baby smell, the overwhelming emotions of protectiveness and love that swept through me...it was the single most powerful moment of my life so far. It was hard not to be able to be with him much or hold him in that first hour or so, but it was calming to know T was by his side. Seeing T instantly transform into a father was amazing. I think I fell more in love with him than ever.
My legs stayed numb for hours and hours. The nurses said it was rare for the anesthesia to last so long, which was great news for my anxiety and paranoia. When Baby D had his first blowout poo, T had to handle it all by himself. It was the first diaper he had ever changed, poor man. All I could do was watch helplessly from the bed. Trial by fire, I guess. T did a great job holding things together for us in those first 48 hours. I on the other hand was massively overtired, whacked out on pain medication, and emotionally unstable (thank you, hormones).
There was major overcrowding at the hospital post-delivery (mid-December 2011 must have been a very fertile time for ladies in the AV). They gave us the option of going home Thursday or Friday, and we chose Friday, until they informed us they'd be moving another family into our room, which was the size of a walk-in closet to begin with. You couldn't have shot us out of a cannon faster than we hightailed it out of there on Thursday night. We brought Baby D home, and spent the next few days staring at him in awe. When the doggies arrived home, they sniffed him briefly, but didn't show much interest at first. Flash forward to today, they are obsessed with him! Tess and Buster seem to know now that he is part of their family, and they consider it their calling to protect him (and lick him profusely).
My first few weeks of motherhood were everything all rolled into one: terrifying, difficult, tiring, fun, joyful, and amazing. Breastfeeding is hard, don't let anyone tell you differently. I decided to take on the challenge in spite of my concerns over how to treat my migraines while breastfeeding. I am so glad I did. Nursing times are precious moments. Baby D and I get to experience that special bond, and yes, I feel a selfish sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing I am doing something good for my baby. I certainly don't judge anyone who chooses not to breastfeed, whatever the reasoning. There may come a time when I am not able to anymore as well. I've been lucky with my migraines so far, and hope to enjoy it and maintain the breastfeeding as long as I can.
When Baby D was right around 3 weeks old, he developed a fever and rash late one night. We took him to urgent care, where they told us it was probably an allergy, and to take him to our pediatrician in the morning. The pediatrician sent us to the hospital for a work-up. They decided to admit him to the hospital, run tests, and keep him for two days until all the test results came back. This involved inserting an IV into my little angel's arm, which was possibly the worst thing I've ever gone through, and it didn't even happen to me. The nurse had a hard time getting it in, and his screams of pain pierced my heart. They also did a spinal tap. For that one I was sitting in a chair with nurses patting me sympathetically on the back. I managed to hold it together until T arrived, when I pretty much collapsed into sobs. Luckily Baby D acted quite healthy during our hospital stay, being very feisty with the nurses when they tried to take his vitals. The staff in the peds unit was top notch, and they really made a bad situation bearable for us. After all the tests thankfully came back negative and it was determined he probably had a minor virus, we were able to take Baby D home. Since our ordeal I have heard from several people who had similar experiences with their newborns. It seems it is quite common. Still, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. We left all the more grateful for Baby D's strength and good health.
We've been home from the hospital for a week now, and in some ways it was like starting all over again. There has definitely been a readjustment period with the breastfeeding, his sleep schedule, etc. I couldn't believe it when T informed me that Baby D was one month old yesterday. It truly has been a whirlwind. My first month as a mother has been the happiest of my life, even with all the struggles. I can't wait to watch my baby boy grow big and strong (but not too fast!).
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Going "Wild"
Since I am currently over 36 weeks pregnant, my recent adventures are fairly limited. I can barely tie my own shoes, let alone set out on any outdoor nature excursions. I'm aching to take the dogs hiking up in the hills behind our neighborhood, or to trek down to San Diego for a swim in the Pacific Ocean. For now though, until my body becomes my own again, I live vicariously through the adventures of characters in books. Most recently, I followed the harrowing and uplifting journey of Cheryl Strayed in her memoir "Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail."
When I heard there was a popular book out about a twenty-something woman who had hiked the Pacific Crest Trail by herself, I was fascinated. Promptly I hit "buy" on my Nook (those e-readers make it way too easy to spend money). I had never heard of the Pacific Crest Trail (or PCT) until I moved out here to the California desert. For those who don't know, it is a hiking trail that runs from the Mexican border in southern California, to the Canadian border in Washington. My husband and I have hiked a portion of it where it crosses through the Angeles National Forest near Wrightwood. It features such challenges as water supply issues, fallen trees, hungry bears, and poisonous snakes. For those willing to brave it, the PCT also offers such stunning visual rewards as Mount Hood, Crater Lake, and the Bridge of the Gods, just to name a few. To hike a substantial portion of the PCT is a major accomplishment for even a seasoned outdoorsman, and most would say to attempt it by yourself is just plain crazy. Just plain crazy is always a promising premise for a good read. One quiet afternoon, I curled up with my Nook and began to read. Very early on in Strayed's story, I soon realized that our familiarity with the PCT was only one of many things we had in common.
Strayed also hails from the great state of Minnesota. She grew up mere miles from the country town where my parents lived when they first got married. She attended two Minnesotan universities, the University of St. Thomas (my alma mater), and the University of Minnesota (where my little sister recently graduated from). Her journey on the PCT began outside of the small desert town of Mojave, California, about twenty miles from where I currently live. Our similarities end with these odd coincidences, but they helped me to establish an initial sense of personal connection with Strayed.
After suffering multiple traumas, most notably the death of her mother and the breakup of her young marriage, Strayed grew enamored with the PCT after reading about it in a hiking guide she happened upon randomly in a Minneapolis store. She became convinced that hiking the PCT was her destiny, and set off haphazardly to conquer it. As you may imagine, it didn't start out well. Strayed lacked the proper preparation, planning, and skills necessary to successfully traverse the rough trail, especially where she began in the unforgiving Mojave desert. Luckily though, she was taken in by many colorful characters, random strangers who showed her kindness and shared their knowledge. Notable among them was Ed, a lonely middle-aged man who parked his pop-up camper near the trail and served as a guardian angel for any hikers who passed through. He occupied his days by feeding his grateful flock feasts of hot dogs and baked beans, and seemed more than fulfilled by it. The quirky folks described by Strayed as she encountered them along the way really added humor and heart to the story.
When I read reviews of this book, there were many negative comments about how Strayed's telling of the story glorified her irresponsible behavior. I imagine this is in the same vein as Jon Krakauer's biography "Into the Wild." Krakauer received similar criticism as he painted an almost romanticized tale of a young man's attraction to transcendentalism. This free-spirited (and misguided) man, Christopher McCandless, abandoned his life and possessions to hike alone in Alaska's Denali Park, and eventually died from eating poisonous berries. While I see the parallels, and Strayed certainly made poor decisions, I don't think she shied away from that at all. She openly admitted her stupidity, sharing candidly about the time when she nearly fainted from dehydration due to poor planning, or when she was left with only one boot after accidentally dropping one off a cliff. Strayed told of a specific incident when she was nearly sexually assaulted by a fellow hiker. This certainly doesn't fall into the "stupidity" category, but does address the fact that she didn't think through the risks of being a female hiking alone, or take any precautions to protect herself from such an occurrence.
Strayed's focus was not on exalting her poor decision-making. Instead it was an honest and unflinching reflection on her personal journey to achieving emotional independence. She spent most of her life relying on and reacting to other's actions, especially those of the men in her life. Spending weeks in solitude on the PCT allowed her to finally establish her own voice. Strayed found emotions she had been suppressing for years flooding to the surface, and she found healing in the mountains, streams, and trees that surrounded her. Her story is moving, meaningful, and full of wit. I couldn't put it down. I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good read on a hot summer day (we've had a lot of those lately around here).
When I heard there was a popular book out about a twenty-something woman who had hiked the Pacific Crest Trail by herself, I was fascinated. Promptly I hit "buy" on my Nook (those e-readers make it way too easy to spend money). I had never heard of the Pacific Crest Trail (or PCT) until I moved out here to the California desert. For those who don't know, it is a hiking trail that runs from the Mexican border in southern California, to the Canadian border in Washington. My husband and I have hiked a portion of it where it crosses through the Angeles National Forest near Wrightwood. It features such challenges as water supply issues, fallen trees, hungry bears, and poisonous snakes. For those willing to brave it, the PCT also offers such stunning visual rewards as Mount Hood, Crater Lake, and the Bridge of the Gods, just to name a few. To hike a substantial portion of the PCT is a major accomplishment for even a seasoned outdoorsman, and most would say to attempt it by yourself is just plain crazy. Just plain crazy is always a promising premise for a good read. One quiet afternoon, I curled up with my Nook and began to read. Very early on in Strayed's story, I soon realized that our familiarity with the PCT was only one of many things we had in common.
Strayed also hails from the great state of Minnesota. She grew up mere miles from the country town where my parents lived when they first got married. She attended two Minnesotan universities, the University of St. Thomas (my alma mater), and the University of Minnesota (where my little sister recently graduated from). Her journey on the PCT began outside of the small desert town of Mojave, California, about twenty miles from where I currently live. Our similarities end with these odd coincidences, but they helped me to establish an initial sense of personal connection with Strayed.
After suffering multiple traumas, most notably the death of her mother and the breakup of her young marriage, Strayed grew enamored with the PCT after reading about it in a hiking guide she happened upon randomly in a Minneapolis store. She became convinced that hiking the PCT was her destiny, and set off haphazardly to conquer it. As you may imagine, it didn't start out well. Strayed lacked the proper preparation, planning, and skills necessary to successfully traverse the rough trail, especially where she began in the unforgiving Mojave desert. Luckily though, she was taken in by many colorful characters, random strangers who showed her kindness and shared their knowledge. Notable among them was Ed, a lonely middle-aged man who parked his pop-up camper near the trail and served as a guardian angel for any hikers who passed through. He occupied his days by feeding his grateful flock feasts of hot dogs and baked beans, and seemed more than fulfilled by it. The quirky folks described by Strayed as she encountered them along the way really added humor and heart to the story.
When I read reviews of this book, there were many negative comments about how Strayed's telling of the story glorified her irresponsible behavior. I imagine this is in the same vein as Jon Krakauer's biography "Into the Wild." Krakauer received similar criticism as he painted an almost romanticized tale of a young man's attraction to transcendentalism. This free-spirited (and misguided) man, Christopher McCandless, abandoned his life and possessions to hike alone in Alaska's Denali Park, and eventually died from eating poisonous berries. While I see the parallels, and Strayed certainly made poor decisions, I don't think she shied away from that at all. She openly admitted her stupidity, sharing candidly about the time when she nearly fainted from dehydration due to poor planning, or when she was left with only one boot after accidentally dropping one off a cliff. Strayed told of a specific incident when she was nearly sexually assaulted by a fellow hiker. This certainly doesn't fall into the "stupidity" category, but does address the fact that she didn't think through the risks of being a female hiking alone, or take any precautions to protect herself from such an occurrence.
Strayed's focus was not on exalting her poor decision-making. Instead it was an honest and unflinching reflection on her personal journey to achieving emotional independence. She spent most of her life relying on and reacting to other's actions, especially those of the men in her life. Spending weeks in solitude on the PCT allowed her to finally establish her own voice. Strayed found emotions she had been suppressing for years flooding to the surface, and she found healing in the mountains, streams, and trees that surrounded her. Her story is moving, meaningful, and full of wit. I couldn't put it down. I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good read on a hot summer day (we've had a lot of those lately around here).
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Summer TV: The Good, The Bad, and The Olympic
Summer is, on the whole, a dark period for television programming. Networks don't exert much effort into getting us to loyally tune in. They present us such vapid and nausea inducing offerings as Love In The Wild (ABC) and America's Got Talent (FOX). Finding a show with anything resembling intellectual stimulation seems a futile task. T and I have had to settle for sub-par reality offerings like American Ninja Warrior (NBC) and The Great Escape (TNT) to pass the time. They provide only limited tidbits of entertainment, but at least I don't feel like I've lost yet another piece of my soul after watching a farce of a rose ceremony (this means you The Bachelorette (ABC)). Luckily there are a few escapes from the monotony of summer media, two shows in particular along with a certain famous sporting event.
The summer shows I DVR for myself to watch (that T has very little interest in) are NY Med (ABC) and Covert Affairs (USA). NY Med documents real doctors and nurses at New York area hospitals. I have always had a morbid curiosity for everything medical, so this is right up my alley. Usually I cry at least once every episode, like when a dad and son hug before a heart transplant, etc. The most recent installment fed into my pregnancy-induced paranoia a little too much though. The first story was about a young girl who required surgery for a tumor on her heart. Watching her parents struggle through their fear over possibly losing her made me think about how much I already care and worry for the baby I'm carrying in my belly right now. And it won't ever stop, because there will always be something to be afraid of. It's just a part of loving someone. I can't imagine watching my child go through something so painful and harrowing. The other featured story was about a woman whose aorta dissected at 27 weeks pregnant, and she required a dangerous surgical repair after the baby was born. That got me googling symptoms of aortic dissection, because of course if something happens to one pregnant woman, it must happen to ALL pregnant women. Luckily both the little girl and new mom came through fine and made full recoveries. Most of the time when NY Med is on (and I'm wound up in a nervous ball with a box of Kleenex and red eyes) I am asking myself, why am I watching this? But then I go ahead and do it again next week anyway.
My second guilty summer pleasure is Covert Affairs (USA). This is probably my all-time favorite show, period. It follows CIA operative Annie Walker (Piper Perabo), as she journeys around the globe solving mysteries, stopping evildoers, and wearing really great shoes. I love that the majority of the main cast is female, yet it doesn't come off like a soap opera. It's smart, inventive, and action packed (with yes, some handsome men and romantic subplots as well). In past seasons, Oded Fehr (the royal bodyguard guy/narrator from the film The Mummy) pops up in several episodes as a Mossad (Israeli secret service) operative who aids and hinders Annie in various missions. Perabo and Fehr have undeniable chemistry and their scenes together really stand out with lively banter and humor. The next new episode airs in two weeks, and according to this week's teaser, Oded Fehr will be back. I. Am. Ridiculously. Excited.
Lastly, there are the 2012 Summer Olympic Games, which shine like a bright two week light amid the darkness of the summer TV trash brigade. Every night we park ourselves on the couch at 8, and stay up til midnight, way later than we should be awake. Each morning I wake up drowsy, cursing NBC for airing their primetime coverage so late in the Pacific time zone. But I proceed to repeat this pattern again the next night, without question. We love swimming, gymnastics, and track and field in our house. My husband is a former collegiate swimmer (and I his loyal then-girlfriend lived and breathed swim meets for two years), so we have a great love for the sport. It's also fascinating to watching swimming events with someone who can tell you what's going on from a technical standpoint, because when I watch I usually see a hog pile of Speedo-clad men streaming into a wall at seemingly the same time. I can't make heads or tails of who excelled and who screwed up until T explains it to me. Gymnastics is a favorite (mostly of mine), because I avidly watched the 1996 gold medal team as a young girl, and thought they were all amazing acrobatic princesses. I wanted to be just like them, and would practice vaulting over the couch in our basement (not recommended). I am troubled as an adult by the stunted growth/abnormal body development and bitchy personas (was it just me, or did they all seem like divas this year?) of the US athletes, but I still retain an interest in the outcomes of the events. The track and field portions haven't aired yet, but we are really looking forward to it, because the races for the fastest man and woman alive never fail to provide drama and excitement. I'll be sad to see the Olympics end, but it's probably for the best, because I'll soon have a newborn and not be able to handle these late nights anymore! I'll have to settle for Sham-Wow infomercials at 3am feedings instead.
Have you found something great to watch on TV this summer? If so, let me know about it. It's hard to find the quality shows, but they are out there. Happy viewing!
The summer shows I DVR for myself to watch (that T has very little interest in) are NY Med (ABC) and Covert Affairs (USA). NY Med documents real doctors and nurses at New York area hospitals. I have always had a morbid curiosity for everything medical, so this is right up my alley. Usually I cry at least once every episode, like when a dad and son hug before a heart transplant, etc. The most recent installment fed into my pregnancy-induced paranoia a little too much though. The first story was about a young girl who required surgery for a tumor on her heart. Watching her parents struggle through their fear over possibly losing her made me think about how much I already care and worry for the baby I'm carrying in my belly right now. And it won't ever stop, because there will always be something to be afraid of. It's just a part of loving someone. I can't imagine watching my child go through something so painful and harrowing. The other featured story was about a woman whose aorta dissected at 27 weeks pregnant, and she required a dangerous surgical repair after the baby was born. That got me googling symptoms of aortic dissection, because of course if something happens to one pregnant woman, it must happen to ALL pregnant women. Luckily both the little girl and new mom came through fine and made full recoveries. Most of the time when NY Med is on (and I'm wound up in a nervous ball with a box of Kleenex and red eyes) I am asking myself, why am I watching this? But then I go ahead and do it again next week anyway.
My second guilty summer pleasure is Covert Affairs (USA). This is probably my all-time favorite show, period. It follows CIA operative Annie Walker (Piper Perabo), as she journeys around the globe solving mysteries, stopping evildoers, and wearing really great shoes. I love that the majority of the main cast is female, yet it doesn't come off like a soap opera. It's smart, inventive, and action packed (with yes, some handsome men and romantic subplots as well). In past seasons, Oded Fehr (the royal bodyguard guy/narrator from the film The Mummy) pops up in several episodes as a Mossad (Israeli secret service) operative who aids and hinders Annie in various missions. Perabo and Fehr have undeniable chemistry and their scenes together really stand out with lively banter and humor. The next new episode airs in two weeks, and according to this week's teaser, Oded Fehr will be back. I. Am. Ridiculously. Excited.
Lastly, there are the 2012 Summer Olympic Games, which shine like a bright two week light amid the darkness of the summer TV trash brigade. Every night we park ourselves on the couch at 8, and stay up til midnight, way later than we should be awake. Each morning I wake up drowsy, cursing NBC for airing their primetime coverage so late in the Pacific time zone. But I proceed to repeat this pattern again the next night, without question. We love swimming, gymnastics, and track and field in our house. My husband is a former collegiate swimmer (and I his loyal then-girlfriend lived and breathed swim meets for two years), so we have a great love for the sport. It's also fascinating to watching swimming events with someone who can tell you what's going on from a technical standpoint, because when I watch I usually see a hog pile of Speedo-clad men streaming into a wall at seemingly the same time. I can't make heads or tails of who excelled and who screwed up until T explains it to me. Gymnastics is a favorite (mostly of mine), because I avidly watched the 1996 gold medal team as a young girl, and thought they were all amazing acrobatic princesses. I wanted to be just like them, and would practice vaulting over the couch in our basement (not recommended). I am troubled as an adult by the stunted growth/abnormal body development and bitchy personas (was it just me, or did they all seem like divas this year?) of the US athletes, but I still retain an interest in the outcomes of the events. The track and field portions haven't aired yet, but we are really looking forward to it, because the races for the fastest man and woman alive never fail to provide drama and excitement. I'll be sad to see the Olympics end, but it's probably for the best, because I'll soon have a newborn and not be able to handle these late nights anymore! I'll have to settle for Sham-Wow infomercials at 3am feedings instead.
Have you found something great to watch on TV this summer? If so, let me know about it. It's hard to find the quality shows, but they are out there. Happy viewing!
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Dark Ages...
...otherwise known as July 5th-17th in my household.
We were without home internet service for 12 days, thanks to our frenemies at AT&T. I won't go into major details, however: we were first sent a new modem that we didn't need, then a technician had to come out to the house three different times, three other times a technician was scheduled to arrive for an appointment and did not show or call, and I spent hours talking myself hoarse on the phone (alternating pleading and threatening) with customer service folks bearing strong Indian accents. Finally late on the 17th, peace was restored to my universe, and I was able to join the cyber world village once again.
How does one live without internet, you might ask? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. For the first few days it was actually a bit liberating to not be constantly tied to my email and Facebook. T and I focused on shopping for new living room furniture and putting it together (another opportunity for ample levels of frustration). We watched a lot of NCIS reruns that were saved up on our DVR. This was entertaining, except when it made me want to google random criminal trivia like what BOLO stands for (Be On the Look Out, in case you were wondering). T and I played board games together after dinner most nights, which I am glad for, because we have always enjoyed playing games together, but somewhere along the way got away from it. It was a nice change of pace. To a point.
My days obviously weren't all campy fun. The internet was out for the four or five afternoons where the temperatures climbed above 110 degrees here in the sandbox. Neither our swamp cooler or air conditioner seemed to keep up. I found myself huge and pregnant, with swollen legs and feet, sweating it out on the couch watching Maury and occasionally regressing into irrational crying jags. I was hot and uncomfortable, and all I wanted to do was buy things on Amazon...seriously was that too much to ask?! My poor husband returned from his relatively cool office building to a madwoman for a few nights there. He is a trooper.
Saturday the 14th presented a welcome respite from our technological turmoil. My good friend E hosted a baby shower for me. It was such a fun afternoon. We played with all the babies (there has been a bit of a baby boom around here lately), ate a delicious lunch spread, opened adorable baby gifts, and decorated onesies. The friendships I have gained while living in the desert have been such blessings. There is a great sense of community in this isolated hamlet, anchored by an abnormally large concentration of welcoming and kind fellow military wives. Our baby boy came away with quite the haul, and it was great to indulge in some much needed girl time.
I've found myself using the internet less since we got service back. The nesting phase of my pregnancy has arrived, and I am pretty much consumed with organization and preparations in the nursery. I'm currently 33 weeks along. Intellectually I know it's too early for him to come out, but emotionally I am getting impatient. I just want to meet him already! That impatience, combined with the anxiety I feel over not knowing when and how everything will go down, is driving me nuts. 50 days (or less?) and counting.
On a personal and unrelated note, I wanted to share how sad I feel today over the news of the tragic shooting at the movie theater in Colorado. My husband had thought about going to a midnight showing of the Batman movie, and ended up deciding not to. I heard that there were fellow military personnel among the victims in Colorado. It's horrible to think about how a split second seemingly unimportant decision like whether or not to go to a movie can change the course of your life forever. I can't wait for my husband to get home from work so I can give him a big hug and a kiss. And I will do my very best to avoid picking a fight with him over something stupid (which hormonal me does quite often). Each day, minute, and second we have with our loved ones is a gift. Nothing makes that more clear than young lives being taken so senselessly and suddenly. I'm not the most religious person in the world, but you can bet I have prayers on my heart today, and I hope you do too.
We were without home internet service for 12 days, thanks to our frenemies at AT&T. I won't go into major details, however: we were first sent a new modem that we didn't need, then a technician had to come out to the house three different times, three other times a technician was scheduled to arrive for an appointment and did not show or call, and I spent hours talking myself hoarse on the phone (alternating pleading and threatening) with customer service folks bearing strong Indian accents. Finally late on the 17th, peace was restored to my universe, and I was able to join the cyber world village once again.
How does one live without internet, you might ask? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. For the first few days it was actually a bit liberating to not be constantly tied to my email and Facebook. T and I focused on shopping for new living room furniture and putting it together (another opportunity for ample levels of frustration). We watched a lot of NCIS reruns that were saved up on our DVR. This was entertaining, except when it made me want to google random criminal trivia like what BOLO stands for (Be On the Look Out, in case you were wondering). T and I played board games together after dinner most nights, which I am glad for, because we have always enjoyed playing games together, but somewhere along the way got away from it. It was a nice change of pace. To a point.
My days obviously weren't all campy fun. The internet was out for the four or five afternoons where the temperatures climbed above 110 degrees here in the sandbox. Neither our swamp cooler or air conditioner seemed to keep up. I found myself huge and pregnant, with swollen legs and feet, sweating it out on the couch watching Maury and occasionally regressing into irrational crying jags. I was hot and uncomfortable, and all I wanted to do was buy things on Amazon...seriously was that too much to ask?! My poor husband returned from his relatively cool office building to a madwoman for a few nights there. He is a trooper.
Saturday the 14th presented a welcome respite from our technological turmoil. My good friend E hosted a baby shower for me. It was such a fun afternoon. We played with all the babies (there has been a bit of a baby boom around here lately), ate a delicious lunch spread, opened adorable baby gifts, and decorated onesies. The friendships I have gained while living in the desert have been such blessings. There is a great sense of community in this isolated hamlet, anchored by an abnormally large concentration of welcoming and kind fellow military wives. Our baby boy came away with quite the haul, and it was great to indulge in some much needed girl time.
I've found myself using the internet less since we got service back. The nesting phase of my pregnancy has arrived, and I am pretty much consumed with organization and preparations in the nursery. I'm currently 33 weeks along. Intellectually I know it's too early for him to come out, but emotionally I am getting impatient. I just want to meet him already! That impatience, combined with the anxiety I feel over not knowing when and how everything will go down, is driving me nuts. 50 days (or less?) and counting.
On a personal and unrelated note, I wanted to share how sad I feel today over the news of the tragic shooting at the movie theater in Colorado. My husband had thought about going to a midnight showing of the Batman movie, and ended up deciding not to. I heard that there were fellow military personnel among the victims in Colorado. It's horrible to think about how a split second seemingly unimportant decision like whether or not to go to a movie can change the course of your life forever. I can't wait for my husband to get home from work so I can give him a big hug and a kiss. And I will do my very best to avoid picking a fight with him over something stupid (which hormonal me does quite often). Each day, minute, and second we have with our loved ones is a gift. Nothing makes that more clear than young lives being taken so senselessly and suddenly. I'm not the most religious person in the world, but you can bet I have prayers on my heart today, and I hope you do too.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Advice for My 12-Year-Old Self
When I look back at my childhood, there are lots of pleasant memories to pick from. And for that I am lucky. You hear all these stories now in the media about children being bullied and harassed, both in person and on the internet. It seems like growing up in today's world is a lot harder than it was when I was coming of age. As I have a son-to-be growing in my belly currently, it makes me anxious to think of what the world will be like for him when he enters adolescence. I am blessed to have had an overall happy and fulfilled childhood. However, if I had to pick a difficult period of my young life, it would have been from around age 12 through the end of high school. It's an awkward phase of growth and maturation, and girls at that age can be brutal. I wouldn't go back and change anything, because my experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. However, I do often reflect on the advice and tips I would give my 12-year-old self, if I ran into her on the street (presumably in a Back to the Future spinoff).
When other teenage girls make fun of the way you dress, don't be insulted. I guarantee they won't go on in life to freelance for Vogue.
I have never really had too much of an issue with self-esteem or confidence. That said, I'm not made of stone. I still remember coming home crying (with a little PMS exacerbating everything) over comments other girls had made to me at school. They said I folded my socks the wrong way, cut my hair too short, and had bushy eyebrows (that last point is not that inaccurate...mothers: let your girls tweeze!). The fact that I wore a Catholic schoolgirl uniform from kindergarten to 12th grade minimized these comments, but didn't eliminate them.
I've never been a trendy person, and I value comfort and efficiency over style. As I grew older, I learned not to be ashamed by this, but I wish I'd accepted my own fashion identity sooner. Years later in college a roommate and I were shopping and I picked up a striped shirt I thought was cute. She said, "Oh Laura, it's so nineties - so you." And I smiled, because I knew that it was true, and I didn't care one bit. Today I love my closet and my short hair, and fold my socks however I want to without a second thought. You'll never be happy if you look in the mirror and see Hollister Barbie, because even if you look amazing, you won't be you (unless of course, you ARE Hollister Barbie, then please disregard). True happiness is self-acceptance. Come as you are and life will be much more fulfilling. That, and never underestimate the joy that comes from a pair of oversized sweatpants.
Your older brother isn't a moron, and your younger sister isn't a dweeb.
Okay, so maybe they are. However, they also possess many redeeming qualities I never gave them credit for when I was 12. I found my older brother N annoying and dismissive. We clashed quite a bit until he left for college out-of-state. Then slowly, a bond started to form. I discovered he was a good listener, and also pretty smart I hated to admit. By the time I entered college four years later, N was one of my best friends. I called him on many late nights, to confess my embarrassment over kissing a boy when I'd had a little bit too much to drink, to cry when I'd been hurt and betrayed by a close friend, or just to tell him about something funny that had happened in the quad. I'm happy to say that although we live on opposite coasts, we still share a strong relationship, though I don't call him as late anymore because he is an old man with two little daughters and resides several time zones away. It takes time to find common ground with a sibling of the opposite sex, but once you do they become very valuable allies.
At 12, I found my younger sister A bizarre and didn't think I could relate to her in any way. Her introverted personality and obsession with topics like Egyptian hieroglyphics vexed me. What I didn't recognize then was her passion for life and her independent spirit. Today A's obsession has moved on to the country of Canada. After talking for years about how much she loves it there, she is making her dreams a reality. Currently she's working at a Canadian consulate for the summer, and in the fall will be attending grad school near Winnipeg. It's a brave move, uprooting yourself and moving to a place where you have no history or links. I respect and admire A's willingness to grab life by the horns. Sibling relationships are often difficult, but it is important to remember that they are invaluable, and constantly evolving.
Your parents are neither gods nor devils.
When you're 12 they usually seem like a combination of the two. Occasionally when they don't allow you to do whatever you want to do at that very second, it seems like they are using their god-like powers for evil. I felt quite persecuted when my parents forbid me from getting my ears double pierced. I ended up doing it anyway, but that's another story for another day. The rest of the time we as children usually accept that our parents know best how things should be, and follow their leads accordingly. As I grew up, I discovered a few things. Firstly, they are flawed human beings. They sometimes act unfairly and do things the wrong way. Shocking, I know. Secondly, the "right way" that your parents teach you isn't really right or wrong, it's merely one option.
The challenge of transitioning into adulthood is morphing the lessons parents teach us with ones learned on our own, and using that combination to find our way in life and make independent decisions. Thirdly and most importantly, there are no two people in the world who have your back more than your parents. Mine have seen me through many rough trials, and even living thousands of miles away, I know they'd be here for me in a second if I called. If you look up love and loyalty in the dictionary, you'll probably find pictures of your parents, if you're as lucky as I am.
Never change yourself for a boy.
Boys really weren't on my radar yet at age 12, and my younger self would have probably scoffed at the notion that I would ever conform for a relationship. But eventually years later, it happened. You get older, see your friends getting into relationships, and start wanting one of your own. You get so caught up in the idea of having a boyfriend that you find yourself acting like a completely different person in order to be who (you think) the other person wants. It's not something I am proud to admit. I buried my country music CDs (I'm so sorry, Shania), quit the high school choir senior year (because it wasn't cool), and did a host of other things my subconscious wasn't at ease with. In the end, it didn't make anyone happy, and I wasted a lot of time on someone who was never right for me to begin with. True love doesn't come around too often, but it is totally worth waiting for. Decide what you want (and deserve) early on and don't settle for anything less. Don't change, don't negotiate, and don't conform. Make sure the person you end up with isn't just someone you can love, but someone you can call your best friend as well. When I met T, I knew he was the one.
A big reason why was I felt I could be myself around him - the good, the bad, and the ugly. I sang along with "Man, I Feel Like a Woman!" in the car on our first road trip together. I told T secrets I'd never told anyone else. I let him in fully, and he did the same for me. And in return, I have a blissful marriage with a better partner than I ever thought I deserved.
The world is a very big place.
A sixth grade classroom at a Catholic grade school with only thirty kids in it is the very definition of insular. At the time it seemed like my life operated in a very small universe, in which I was labeled by the powers that be early on as a "nerd," and a "goody-two-shoes." In retrospect, neither of those terms were completely inaccurate, but at the time they seemed a lot more offensive to my sensibilities than they do now. High school and college both provided me slightly broader social circles in which to move and develop. However, I was still resigned to my assumed future of above average academic performance, followed by a high-powered career, and eventually a marriage and kids, all occurring in a fifty mile radius of the Twin Cities metropolitan area. As it often does though, life surprised me. I met my husband, and the adventure began. Three years ago, I took the large leap of moving away from St. Paul, my home of 24 years and everything and everyone I'd ever known. Since then, I have lived in Ohio and California, driven through most of the rest of the country, made friends from every region (many with humorous accents), and am currently living in a giant sandbox. I'm a housewife who cans and composts instead of a career woman. I never had pets growing up (and never wanted them either), yet now often have a 60lb lab named Buster in my bed at night.
Life will offer you many opportunities to reinvent yourself, and discover the broader world around you. Embrace the chaos and enjoy the ride.
When other teenage girls make fun of the way you dress, don't be insulted. I guarantee they won't go on in life to freelance for Vogue.
I have never really had too much of an issue with self-esteem or confidence. That said, I'm not made of stone. I still remember coming home crying (with a little PMS exacerbating everything) over comments other girls had made to me at school. They said I folded my socks the wrong way, cut my hair too short, and had bushy eyebrows (that last point is not that inaccurate...mothers: let your girls tweeze!). The fact that I wore a Catholic schoolgirl uniform from kindergarten to 12th grade minimized these comments, but didn't eliminate them.
I've never been a trendy person, and I value comfort and efficiency over style. As I grew older, I learned not to be ashamed by this, but I wish I'd accepted my own fashion identity sooner. Years later in college a roommate and I were shopping and I picked up a striped shirt I thought was cute. She said, "Oh Laura, it's so nineties - so you." And I smiled, because I knew that it was true, and I didn't care one bit. Today I love my closet and my short hair, and fold my socks however I want to without a second thought. You'll never be happy if you look in the mirror and see Hollister Barbie, because even if you look amazing, you won't be you (unless of course, you ARE Hollister Barbie, then please disregard). True happiness is self-acceptance. Come as you are and life will be much more fulfilling. That, and never underestimate the joy that comes from a pair of oversized sweatpants.
Your older brother isn't a moron, and your younger sister isn't a dweeb.
Okay, so maybe they are. However, they also possess many redeeming qualities I never gave them credit for when I was 12. I found my older brother N annoying and dismissive. We clashed quite a bit until he left for college out-of-state. Then slowly, a bond started to form. I discovered he was a good listener, and also pretty smart I hated to admit. By the time I entered college four years later, N was one of my best friends. I called him on many late nights, to confess my embarrassment over kissing a boy when I'd had a little bit too much to drink, to cry when I'd been hurt and betrayed by a close friend, or just to tell him about something funny that had happened in the quad. I'm happy to say that although we live on opposite coasts, we still share a strong relationship, though I don't call him as late anymore because he is an old man with two little daughters and resides several time zones away. It takes time to find common ground with a sibling of the opposite sex, but once you do they become very valuable allies.
At 12, I found my younger sister A bizarre and didn't think I could relate to her in any way. Her introverted personality and obsession with topics like Egyptian hieroglyphics vexed me. What I didn't recognize then was her passion for life and her independent spirit. Today A's obsession has moved on to the country of Canada. After talking for years about how much she loves it there, she is making her dreams a reality. Currently she's working at a Canadian consulate for the summer, and in the fall will be attending grad school near Winnipeg. It's a brave move, uprooting yourself and moving to a place where you have no history or links. I respect and admire A's willingness to grab life by the horns. Sibling relationships are often difficult, but it is important to remember that they are invaluable, and constantly evolving.
Your parents are neither gods nor devils.
When you're 12 they usually seem like a combination of the two. Occasionally when they don't allow you to do whatever you want to do at that very second, it seems like they are using their god-like powers for evil. I felt quite persecuted when my parents forbid me from getting my ears double pierced. I ended up doing it anyway, but that's another story for another day. The rest of the time we as children usually accept that our parents know best how things should be, and follow their leads accordingly. As I grew up, I discovered a few things. Firstly, they are flawed human beings. They sometimes act unfairly and do things the wrong way. Shocking, I know. Secondly, the "right way" that your parents teach you isn't really right or wrong, it's merely one option.
The challenge of transitioning into adulthood is morphing the lessons parents teach us with ones learned on our own, and using that combination to find our way in life and make independent decisions. Thirdly and most importantly, there are no two people in the world who have your back more than your parents. Mine have seen me through many rough trials, and even living thousands of miles away, I know they'd be here for me in a second if I called. If you look up love and loyalty in the dictionary, you'll probably find pictures of your parents, if you're as lucky as I am.
Never change yourself for a boy.
Boys really weren't on my radar yet at age 12, and my younger self would have probably scoffed at the notion that I would ever conform for a relationship. But eventually years later, it happened. You get older, see your friends getting into relationships, and start wanting one of your own. You get so caught up in the idea of having a boyfriend that you find yourself acting like a completely different person in order to be who (you think) the other person wants. It's not something I am proud to admit. I buried my country music CDs (I'm so sorry, Shania), quit the high school choir senior year (because it wasn't cool), and did a host of other things my subconscious wasn't at ease with. In the end, it didn't make anyone happy, and I wasted a lot of time on someone who was never right for me to begin with. True love doesn't come around too often, but it is totally worth waiting for. Decide what you want (and deserve) early on and don't settle for anything less. Don't change, don't negotiate, and don't conform. Make sure the person you end up with isn't just someone you can love, but someone you can call your best friend as well. When I met T, I knew he was the one.
A big reason why was I felt I could be myself around him - the good, the bad, and the ugly. I sang along with "Man, I Feel Like a Woman!" in the car on our first road trip together. I told T secrets I'd never told anyone else. I let him in fully, and he did the same for me. And in return, I have a blissful marriage with a better partner than I ever thought I deserved.
The world is a very big place.
A sixth grade classroom at a Catholic grade school with only thirty kids in it is the very definition of insular. At the time it seemed like my life operated in a very small universe, in which I was labeled by the powers that be early on as a "nerd," and a "goody-two-shoes." In retrospect, neither of those terms were completely inaccurate, but at the time they seemed a lot more offensive to my sensibilities than they do now. High school and college both provided me slightly broader social circles in which to move and develop. However, I was still resigned to my assumed future of above average academic performance, followed by a high-powered career, and eventually a marriage and kids, all occurring in a fifty mile radius of the Twin Cities metropolitan area. As it often does though, life surprised me. I met my husband, and the adventure began. Three years ago, I took the large leap of moving away from St. Paul, my home of 24 years and everything and everyone I'd ever known. Since then, I have lived in Ohio and California, driven through most of the rest of the country, made friends from every region (many with humorous accents), and am currently living in a giant sandbox. I'm a housewife who cans and composts instead of a career woman. I never had pets growing up (and never wanted them either), yet now often have a 60lb lab named Buster in my bed at night.
Life will offer you many opportunities to reinvent yourself, and discover the broader world around you. Embrace the chaos and enjoy the ride.
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