“Where are you headed?” the cabbie asked. “Going on vacation?” He’d just picked me up at my apartment with instructions to deliver me to JFK. This was just over two weeks ago, a sunny Friday afternoon.
“I’m going to L.A.,” I told him, “Home.”
In college, “home” was where my family lived. My dorm rooms, apartments, and communal digs were temporary; my tenure in the sleepy, beach-centric college town I loved had an expiration date. When I graduated, I continued the transient life, making stops in Cambodia, New Zealand, Japan---and finally New York City.
I’ve lived here now for three years, and frequently get asked how long I plan on staying---can I see myself settling here permanently? Or will I move back “home” in a few years?
As with most big questions in my life right now, I don’t have answers. However, I do often tell people that New York feels like “The One"; that I love its noisiness and smelliness, its history and cultural mishmash. I live here and work here. Most of my friends are here. For all intents and purposes, my life is here. And yet, it still feels a bit funny to refer to New York as home. In fact, it's a strange concept for me to think of home as anywhere other than where my parents are.
Is home defined by family, I wonder? Parents? Friends? Or is it where you work? Play? Lay your head at night? I'm not sure. I have a feeling the answer’s different for everybody.
On my recent trip to L.A., I spent ten relaxing days padding around the house, chatting with my parents, sitting around the dinner table eating meals I grew up eating. This definitely felt like home. It felt familiar. It felt safe. And while I don’t feel the same attachment to the city of Los Angeles as I do to New York, most of my family lives in L.A. And that means a lot.
In some ways, my heart aches to set down roots somewhere, to feel like I have a home of my own. In other ways, I know I have the rest of my life to feel settled. As a fellow blogger said to me over brunch recently, “You have plenty of time ahead of you to sit at home in the suburbs on a Saturday night.”
Early last week, I boarded a red-eye flight back to New York that touched down a few minutes after 5 the next morning. The sun was just rising; I’d barely slept. As I climbed into the backseat of a waiting taxi, I could only think of one thing: bed. I closed my eyes.
“This it?” the cab driver asked, squinting up at my red brick building. Twenty minutes had passed. We’d arrived. I answered “yes”, thanked him, and paid the fare.
“Have a nice day,” he said, handing me my suitcase. “And welcome home.”
I know a lot of mothers. I have a mother. I am a mother. I have watched my sister and many friends become mothers. I work with mothers. As a pediatric nurse practitioner, I have worked with teen mothers in New York City’s foster care system. I have worked with mothers on the Upper East Side. I have worked with Noe Valley moms in San Francisco. I have worked with mothers in as many family constructs as are imaginable. I can’t avoid mothers! The privilege to meet and talk with hundreds of mothers has afforded me an intimate glimpse into 21st century motherhood, and I see the emotional stress it creates.
I was asked recently by a mother if she had done irreparable damage to her son. Her son was having significant constipation despite her best and plentiful efforts, and its root cause certainly wasn’t her fault. In my experience constipation is rarely a permanent state, so even though it was not solved at that moment, it didn’t mean it couldn’t change tomorrow. Yet, while it was happening, she felt like she had really done harm, and she blamed herself for not being able to find the one key solution to solving her son’s distress. Her sentiments are ones I hear a lot: a fear that our mothering attempts aren’t good enough and potentially so egregious that they’re permanently damaging.
Like so many other aspects of our modern lives there is a message of fear being driven into the minds of our new mothers. Despite the dramatic accomplishments of 21st century women---earning the majority of higher education degrees in this country, becoming household breadwinners, and having the ultimate freedom to dress as we like, say what we feel and choose our marital partners---I still see a lot of women who were clearly confident and successful in their lives before having children subsequently become crippled by the multitude of decisions required for motherhood. Where does this fear come from?
I suspect some of this fear to trust our instincts begins during pregnancy when the process of labor looms ahead, making many women become anxious about the pain of childbirth. It’s why 84% of first-time mothers choose to have an epidural, many before even experiencing the first twinges of contractions. Or maybe it’s when women are selecting items for their baby registry, and they begin to feel materially unprepared to care for their new infant being inundated with the marketing of “essential” baby gear and products. They’re told they can’t just bring a baby home without places ready to put the baby, soothe the baby, carry the baby, bathe the baby, feed the baby, stroll the baby. The message that the baby-gear marketing gives to new mothers is that they are unequipped. Or perhaps it’s that the experience of motherhood has become overly intellectualized to the point that we can’t trust our instincts. We read competing books theorizing about how to parent (be a tiger mom or a Zen momma), how to feed, how to sleep train, how to create the perfect high achiever, all while not landing them in therapy. Or perhaps it’s that we really do live in a toxic world and even have a toxic womb and the number of chemicals, pollutants, and pesticides in our food, water and environment make raising children a terrifying endeavor.
Despite the fears and new stresses that becoming a mother puts on women, the majority of women I encounter face the challenges and do their best to navigate their way through the bumpy and unpredictable path of motherhood. I think we women, good at being task-driven and achievement-oriented, quickly realize the gravity of our new role that first time we hold our new baby in our arms. Unlike our iphones, this new tiny being didn’t come with a manual. Instead, we must decipher the needs and adapt to the powerful rhythms of our new baby that is distinct from any other.
It is true that being a mother may be the most important job we have in this life, but even if we feel insecure, we can still find personal joys in its challenges. We need not get bogged down with piling guilt on ourselves or comparing ourselves to how other mothers express motherhood. Just as we quickly learn that our baby is unique, we too, must get comfortable with creating our own style of motherhood. I love to encourage families to create their own family culture--expressed through the spices they use to cook to the way they spend their Saturday mornings. Creating family customs and routines that are personal help to build confidence and make motherhood fun.
I work fulltime so I find that the time I have with my daughter, Eloise, is really just book-ended during the week. Mornings are always rushed for us as I focus to get her ready so that my husband can take her to daycare. I try to make the rushed process fun--we might read a book while getting dressed or we make up silly songs while mixing her oatmeal “mommy stirs the water, Ella stirs the milk.” In the evenings we’re less rushed, but we still need to get a lot done in a short time. Still I try to make more time for play and cuddles. I discovered when Eloise was six months old that I could make her giggle and since then I try to do one thing every day to hear that adorable, pure laughter. Our latest game involves us pretending to chew bubblegum then popping each other’s imaginary bubbles that ends in hysteria. We get our cuddles in during the bedtime routine--three books with daddy and me and two songs just the two of us. I know I can’t be present for Eloise all day/every day, but in the time I do have with her, I try to be mindful to keep those sacred two hours each evening Eloise-focused. And of course each day that is a challenge as she’s two and meltdowns are plentiful!
The parenting decisions we make will certainly impact our children, but which ones and to what degree is unknown. The decisions that matter most are the simple ones that don't require monetary means or social status. In the long term it really doesn't matter if you have the fanciest stroller, read the latest how-to-train your baby book, or bought the current new fangled baby gear. What matters most are not things that need to be acquired but things we already possess. In our harried 21st Century lives, time with our children may be limited, but in the time we do have it's so important to do our best to be truly present, find ways to be playful, nurture with physical touch, and encourage their curiosity. Take heart in knowing that most of what our kids take away from our mothering is out of our command. Our children will grow and develop into themselves in spite of us. We are certainly going to make mistakes, ones that we can’t even anticipate yet, but why not have fun doing it? Let's roll up our sleeves, dig in and get our hands messy, and just do our best!
Emily Novak Waight is a pediatric nurse practitioner in San Francisco. She has worked with families in New York and San Francisco across a range of cultures and backgrounds. She lives with her husband and daughter, and loves to run, hike, and enjoy sunny days on her deck with her family.
I am a mom. But I occupy a funny space in the world of moms.
My wife, Lauren, gave birth to our son in June 2011, mere hours after same-sex marriage was approved by our state legislature here in New York, legitimizing our Canadian marriage just in time for the two of us to become three. For all of her pregnancy, I was there. For doctor’s appointments, doula hiring, birthing classes, and of course the birth itself, I never left her side. For some of these things, my compatriots were dads. At the special buffet room in the hospital for new parents, I joined dads filling up plates to bring to the new mothers. At the birthing classes, I tried swaddling the baby doll at the same time as all the dads. In many of these situations, it didn’t feel odd at all. I was the parent-not-giving-birth, along with many others. So what if I was the only woman in that little group?
When we came home from the hospital, though, it felt different. The world of parenting media is clearly demarcated. There are “mommy blogs” and “dad blogs.” Parenting magazines may aim to reach all parents, but their content is clearly aimed toward mothers, ignoring the prospect that a father might want to spend time reading about being a parent. At the beginning of our son’s life, most of the decisions we were making on a regular basis circled around breastfeeding, and I often felt helpless as my wife and son struggled to find their groove, but also strangely empathetic in a distinctly feminine way.
There was some commiserating I could do with other dads, but the general tone of their observations had a certain masculinity with which I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t have to go back to work immediately like many dads I know. After Lauren’s parental leave was over, I took mine (grateful to my employer for being flexible about when I took my leave, and for treating me like the equal parent I am). I spent close to three months as the primary caregiver during the day, often tooling around the mall or local parks wearing Hank in a carrier, proud as a peacock, but also feeling like I was masquerading as a mom. Being a mom felt simultaneously deeply natural and deeply odd. What was I to do with all I had heard from moms talking about the transcendence of giving birth? What was I to do with all of talk about the bonding that breastfeeding brings? Dads presumably can’t fully understand these things either, but I have never felt like dad, not for one second.
At times it felt like a performance of sorts, as though I were performing motherhood rather than inhabiting it. I do not feel this way at all about parenthood, I have felt like a parent from the second I knew the baby was coming. I prepared for it intellectually and emotionally, and I have embraced the responsibility, joy, and challenges as fully as anyone. Yet, as Mother’s Day approached, I felt a strange sensation. Lauren and I approach parenting as an equal enterprise, from being up together in the middle of the night, to coming up with elaborate schedules to share housework as best we can. Nonetheless, her role as the mom who was pregnant, gave birth, and nurses our son is so preternaturally maternal, on a day like Mother’s Day, it’s hard to know how best to carve out space for who I am as a parent.
After spending a lovely Mother’s Day having brunch, going to a park, and playing in the sunshine, I realized: she is Mommy, and I am Mama. As our son nears his first birthday, I am doing my best to reject the constraints of nomenclature and simply be Mama, and all that means. Mama is usually the first one to hear when Hank wakes up, and Mama feeds Hank dinner, and Mama and Hank watch baseball together. It is in these moments that terminology is wholly irrelevant, and family just is.
As the days are growing warmer and longer, it seems like summer is just around the corner. I'm not sure where nearly a year has gone since we moved back to Washington, but I still find myself telling people that we just moved back from Vienna. When we first returned, that statement came with a heavy heart and we've missed our life there enormously. How could we not? Vienna was a tremendous time for us - all in all, nearly three years. It's where your father and I learned to live as a married couple; it's where we launched on a million different adventures; and more importantly, it's where we embarked on our biggest adventure yet when you were born. If for no other reason than that one, we'll always be connected to that very special city.
When I first found out we were moving to Vienna, I'll admit that I wasn't exactly enthusiastic. I said it would be sleepy and slow . . . I said it would be boring and old-fashioned . . . I said I didn't speak German. I've had to eat all those words - except for that I still don't really speak German. But Vienna turned out to be such a grand dame of Europe, comforting in its own nostalgia. It is a city where historic institutions are still living institutions, where what is old is being made new again simply for the fact that it is part of daily life. As I found, it's a perfect place for people who like to get lost in memories---people like me. Here are a few of the things for you to take away from Vienna:
Every lady should know how to waltz - Dancing in Vienna is a little bit like drinking coffee in Vienna---everybody does it. And if you don't do it when you arrive, you will definitely be doing it before you leave. The balls are the most beautiful I've seen, with full orchestras and sweeping gowns. The Viennese will say that they are probably not like they used to be, but for me they are like they will never be anywhere else. Immediately, you notice that anyone Austrian seems to know what they're doing---the dance floor is orderly and elegant, swirling to the beat of the music. Learning to waltz - 1,2,3 . . . 1,2,3 . . . is a basic skill that will follow you through life as you attend awkward school events, then weddings of family, then your own wedding, and finally, the weddings of your own children and grandchildren. Even when the music is modern, these traditional steps won't fail you.
Sunday (or some day) is a day of rest - Our first day in Vienna was a Sunday. I remember because we quickly found out that everything is closed on Sunday. Apart from museums and a few central cafes, there are nearly no commercial transactions on Sundays. At first, we were panicked. What about shopping? What about groceries? What about Target runs? We learned to adjust our schedules and to love the fact that for one day a week, we were protected from having to do the commercial grind that so often consumed our weekends. We had the day to rest . . . to enjoy the outdoors . . . to sit over endless coffees in cafes and read the paper cover to cover . . . to enjoy a field trip . . . to work on photography . . . to see exhibits . . . to see a performance . . . it turns out there is so much to be discovered when you have one day all to yourself. And it makes Monday that much easier.
The beauty of the holidays are the traditions that go with them - Vienna loves Christmas . . . and New Year's . . . and Easter . . . and Summer Festivals . . . and a whole calendar of festivities. And each one comes with it own set of traditions and markets and foods and libations. Take care to notice people's tradition's for holidays---part of what makes holidays so special are the rituals that we build for them in anticipation. Don't rush right to the big finale, take the time to enjoy each step in preparation.
Always make time for live music - Is there anything more beautiful than the sound of a live orchestra? They are getting rarer in many places, but Vienna is not one of them. But it's not just home to orchestras---Vienna has smaller groups and ensembles and it seems, music students and aficionados at every turn. So much music came from Vienna that maybe it just sounds a bit better there. Live music is a wonderful thing---when you hear it, even if by a street musician on the corner, take at least a moment to appreciate it. Someone is playing so that someone else can hear.
Enjoy the arts at whatever level you can afford them - Try to make time for enjoying live art of any kind. Some of the world's most beautiful stages and museums were in Vienna and we enjoyed many performances: sometimes saving for special seats to be front and center, and sometimes, from high up in rafters for just a few euros. Dress as if you have the most expensive ticket---people spend lifetimes learning their craft well enough to perform on these stages and have their work hung on these walls. Being dressed appropriately is respectful of that. And always try to have enough for a glass of bubbly at the bar during intermission.
I think to the end of my days I won't be able to hear about Vienna without my heart skipping a beat, at least a little bit. Almost like an old flame that you never quite extinguished. We'll be headed back this summer, and the notion that we would get one more last hurrah in this city that was our home for those three fantastic years has gotten us through this past one. I know it won't be the same, but the beauty of Vienna is that it doesn't really ever change all that much. Now that's a comforting thought to be enjoyed over a piece of Sacher torte, isn't it?
The issue of marriage equality is one that's been in the news a lot lately, and therefore at the forefront of my mind. Obama's proclamation that same-sex marriage should be allowed, and then his discussion of his administration's refusal to uphold the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is a giant leap forward for both the social view of marriage equality and hopefully for the continuing fight to legalize same-sex marriage. There are two issues at the core of the marriage equality issue that stand out to me at this juncture. The first is that I believe "marriage equality" is a misnomer. The issue is not about who can have a wedding; the issue is the right to family stability. The second is that while fighting on a state-by-state levelmay be necessary at this point in the grand scheme of things, the legacy of the battle should be a federal law that prohibits states from putting the rights of their citizens up for popular vote.
While allowing same-sex couples to marry is framed as a marriage equality issue, it goes well beyond that. This is a family equality issue. There are over 900,000 same-sex couples in this country. I want to give you a statistic about how tall they would all be if we stacked them on top of each other, but that feels degrading and I don't know how tall they all are anyway. In 30 states, these couples are systematically denied rights that heterosexual couples enjoy, like hospital visitation rights, social security benefits, immigration rights, health insurance under their partners' plans, family leave to care for their partners, and rights to partners' pensions in the case of their death. I'm lucky to have found someone to whom I want to be married (and continue to want to be married, nearly 5 years after the fact) who is the opposite gender.
When I said "I do," I really meant for better and for worse so long as we both shall live. I meant that I wanted to become a family with him. Clearly, the most compelling reason for so closely intertwining my life with my husband's is that when it is time to do so, I get to delegate "the talk" with our kids to him, not so much because I don't want to do it, but because I want to laugh at him while he does it. A close second is growing old with him, and building a life with him without worrying about the structural soundness of that life if something should happen to one of us.
Happily ever after aside, I married my husband because heaven forbid anything happens to him, I want to be able to sit in his hospital room outside of visiting hours to hold his hand and whisper to him about our first date and the bike ride we took through the Vietnamese countryside on our honeymoon and about the time that he accidentally left me dead flowers for Mother's Day, but I forgave him because he spent the next fifty years showing me just how important it was to make it right. If it comes to this, I want to have the right to make the decision about when it's time to let go, and then I want to lie with him in his bed and stroke his hair (or his bald head—after all, I promised to love him no matter what) and reassure him that it will all be okay until he is gone and I am alone. And he wants the same from me, and will do the same for me, because we are two grown-ups and we love each other enough to laugh at the other person talking to an awkward teenager about condoms and responsibility and STDs.
Marriage to me, as to most people, is not about the wedding (though weddings are awesome and I cry at every single one I go to), or even about just the two people getting married. It's about the chance to start a family, to blend families, and the security of knowing that if anything happens to me or to my husband, my family, both nuclear and extended, will remain intact. If our kids are still young enough to be living at home (i.e. under 30) if something happens to one of us, marriage is our insurance that their lives will remain as stable as possible amidst the chaos of loss. Because we all know how hard it is to place a 26-year-old Humanities major in an adoptive family.
While publicly declaring our devotion to each other is important, the stability and rights that our marriage affords our family are more important. I would love my husband if we weren't married; however, I would not have hospital visitation rights, health insurance, the ability to take leave to take care of him if something happens to him, or rights to his pension to provide for our daughter if he dies. And let's not even start with the "different nomenclature for different types of families" thing, because that's just dumb. Seriously, what is the logical and legal basis there? If we're sure enough about our relationships (or our chances of being able to cash in on our wedding for our reality TV show) to get married, our relationships should all be called the same thing in the eyes of the government.
At its core, marriage equality is a civil rights issue. This week has opened discussions about whether same-sex marriage should be an issue left to states, or whether it is a federal issue. My strong conviction that marriage equality needs to be a federal issue stems from my discomfort with states putting the civil rights of a minority up for voter referendum. In each of the 28 states that have put initiatives on the ballot to amend their state's constitution as defining marriage as between a man and a woman, voters have approved the amendment. Regardless of what your view of marriage is, think about the consequences of this precedent. If you are doing something of which a majority does not approve, and you are not a suspect class (i.e. a racial or religious group) under the fourteenth amendment, your rights can be put to the whims and passions of voters in your state. Aziz Ansari has a particularly compelling point on this issue:
By default, everything that the president touches is going to be polarizing; I don't begrudge him hedging his first statements. Working incrementally to change the culture in order to change the politics is the least inflammatory move for Obama to make at this juncture. But this doesn't mean that the rest of us can't work at both state and federal levels to ensure that the rights extended to heterosexual families are also extended to LGBT families. While some argue that anti-miscegenation laws are not a viable parallel for the same-sex marriage debate, the Supreme Court ruling (Loving vs. Virginia) states:
Marriage is one of the "basic civil rights of man," fundamental to our very existence and survival.... To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State's citizens of liberty without due process of law.
At the heart of the aforementioned Fourteenth Amendment, in case you haven't caught up on the episodes of Schoolhouse Rock that you have stored on your DVR, is the Equal Protection Clause, stating that "no state shall ... deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." If this isn't relevant, I don't know what is. Marriage is a basic civil right, and under our constitution, we all have equal protection of the law (though sexual orientation is not yet one of the categories of people granted special protection under this amendment). Legislating against same-sex marriage at the state level denies to gay and lesbian families the fundamental rights afforded to straight families. Even more abhorrent is states opening marriage rights to a popular vote. Opening a vote on the rights of a minority to an impassioned majority goes against what our country stands for. Isn't it about time that we set a federal precedent that states should not be allowed to open to referendum the rights of their citizens? This is the crux of why marriage equity is, and must continue to be, a federal issue.
Granted, a federal ruling like Loving may be some years off, as only 17 states had laws on the books opposing interracial marriage when the Loving decision came down. I can see that leaving same-sex marriage to the states (while working to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act) is a powerful incremental tool for change. Public opinion of the issue is changing and continues to change---even Obama calls this a generational issue---and it is tempting to work state-by-state and hope that all states will come to their senses. But let's face it. Those last states aren't going to tip without a push from the federal government. Further, I fundamentally believe that states should be prohibited from putting the civil rights of their citizens up for a vote.* This is why I refuse to believe that pushing for same-sex marriage state-by-state is the end push. After all, legislation is about evolution---evolution of thoughts, ideas, and policy. It is about putting into writing and into law our fundamental beliefs of what is fair, what is right, and what rights and responsibilities we have as citizens of our towns, states, and country.
As a secular and democratic nation, we have built into our governmental structure a tremendous power to evolve, and to plan for evolution. At this juncture in time, we as a nation have an opportunity to decree that no minority should have their civil rights decided by the vote of a majority. This could be the legacy of the movement for marriage equity. There will no doubt be social issues that come to the forefront of American policy in the next 10, 20, 50 years and beyond. When we have seen that leaving civil rights up to state referenda nearly always leaves states on the wrong side of history (see: school integration & women's suffrage), why would we continue to let this be an option? We may not all agree on policy, but we should all be able to agree that this egregious practice needs to stop. A federal ban on civil rights referenda would be a fitting legacy for the marriage equality movement, strengthening our democracy and protecting all families' rights from the whims and passions of the majority.
*If you want to see an exceedingly handsome man who saves people from burning buildings make essentially the same point, you can watch this:
One of my dearest friends—my oldest friend from my 12 years in Brooklyn—spent many years trying to get pregnant. She did IVF, and it worked! She was pregnant! We had so much excitement for this couple. Our Brooklyn community of friends was overjoyed. We hosted a ridiculously awesome shower at my home. And all seemed to be the happiest of endings.
Until the baby was born.
Immediately upon Beatrice’s birth, the doctors knew something was not right. After several weeks, she was diagnosed with an extremely rare genetic disorder, one that was likely life threatening. The baby girl would likely not ever be able to leave the hospital ventilators, even if she lived.
This put a lump in all our throats. We were all just young professionals in Brooklyn. We spent our days hanging out with each other, visiting Coney Island or having picnics. We often crammed lots of people into a Mini Cooper and went on road trips. We sat around and talked about business ideas and our big New York dreams. We BBQed on rooftops, decorated our mid century modern apartments, worked long hours, and got together as often as we could for dessert nights. And now our friends had a 4 lb baby in an ICU incubator. It felt like the life you hear about from off in the distance—the worst-case scenarios that never seem to hit home.
We had nearly just packed up our fancy baby shower. And now we were organizing a laundry schedule for the parents. Preparing a meal drop-off rotation. Collecting quarters for hospital vending machines. Pooling funds for car services so our friends wouldn’t have to battle the subway day and night. Dropping off books to read, snacks, etc. Little children from our church practiced songs to record for the baby. And friends worked on a baby quilt. It was an operation like I’ve never seen before. People literally just poured in to help. I took it upon myself to be the hub of the operation. I had the time. I was not able to have children myself. And my heart could not have been bigger for this family and this baby. Every ounce of myself wanted to do all I could to help.
And one more thing...I needed a purpose. I needed a purpose like my life depended on it. You see, my husband of 7 years had just announced to me that he wanted to leave our marriage. And that he wanted a divorce. And that he did not have children with me. No one knew this but me. I sat there watching my life unravel before my eyes while at the same time watching my friends’ lives unravel before theirs. It was like everything that was so near and dear to us was being stripped from us. But never in my life had I been more in tune with what was left. Even with a husband that was on his way out the door, even with a baby whose life was fragile...what was left was LOVE. Love for each other. Love for this life. Love for babies. Love for friends in need. Love for what we had. Love for serving each other and fulfilling each other’s needs. Never before had I so clearly seen that love & service are the greatest healing balms of the world, even in times of the worst imaginable circumstances.
It wasn’t long before my husband made an exit and left the state. Two days later that sweet little baby passed away. Just before I received word that she died, I had the sweetest moment that I will never forget. I finally received from a tech friend the recording of all our friends’ children who were singing words of peace and comfort and joy for that baby and her parents. I was listening to it in my home, alone, and sobbing, but feeling more love and peace and comfort than I had ever felt in my life. A couple of hours later, I got the call from Bea’s parents, saying that Bea had just passed. I consider those children’s singing voices a tender mercy from God. Those voices filled my home that evening. And my heart had never been more full of love and hope and gratitude for what really matters most in this life.
Normally the presiding head of our church congregation would be in charge of the funeral. But he was out of town. And so one of his counselors, his wife (both my dear friends), and myself worked day and night to plan that funeral. We were all under 30. We had never planned a funeral before and had no idea what hoops it would take to quickly bring together a smooth event for the family. But because of the multitude of people willing to jump and help and beg for assignments, we organized a luncheon, flowers, musical numbers, speakers, an organist, car dispatchers, people to drive family to Greenwood Cemetery from the church, even water bottles for the graveside service in the blistering July heat. Women cooked day and night. Men so tenderly helped with every need. People of our church & friend community helped in every way imaginable. A 13-year boy even showed up on his skateboard the morning of the funeral to help set up chairs. The feeling of service & love that all the men, women & children felt that day is something that none of us will ever, ever forget.
At the funeral, my friend later wrote that “the baby’s grandfather gave what would be considered the eulogy. But rather than talking about the life and accomplishments of the deceased he instead expounded upon all of the service, love and charity that this beautiful little girl inspired in those who surrounded her.” She made us better people. She gave us hope for this life and all the goodness that can exist. She reminded us of what it feels like to offer love so freely and willingly. She brought us closer to what God represents. She brought us closer to whom we all have the potential to be. I will always be thankful for Bea.
To write this piece I inevitably have to go back some years and take a look at my former self. It’s like talking about a completely different person. You know when you get together with friends, have a few drinks, and reminisce on what you did and what you were like in high school? Well my story . . . my story generally blows most people's out of the water. Now, I know there are many who have more dramatic tales than mine. The stuff that happens in some people’s lives no Hollywood screen writer could ever make up. However, what I think makes mine a good one is that I came out a well-adjusted, fully-functioning, professional member of society. It could easily have gone another way.
I first started thinking about suicide when I was 10 or 11. It blows my mind to write that sentence. I come from a large loving family; I wasn’t abused by my parents; nothing extraordinarily tragic happened to me; nor was there a single event that precipitated my depression. But just like some people don’t produce enough insulin and have diabetes, I have an irregulation with serotonin and suffer from depression. And it happened when I was very young.
My depression took me and my family on quite the journey of drugs, in-patient psych wards, and reckless behavior. Most nights were a real struggle not to harm myself. And of all those countless nights where I stayed up crying and wishing it would end, there were only 3 times in the span of 7 years where I gave up on all the things that usually held me back and said “Fuck it. No more.” And each time I was always saved. I recall years later my psychologist telling me that out of all the patients he’d seen throughout the years, he thought I would be one of the few to actually kill myself.
It was a struggle to keep it together. At one point, for a brief span, I was going to individual drug therapy, group drug therapy, family drug therapy, NA meetings, and seeing my individual psychologist…every week. To say the least my dance card was booked! However, counseling, the right medication, and a large helping of my parent’s unequivocal devotion to keeping my butt on this earth were huge factors of me being here today.
But there was something else.
My middle sister by 4 years had done a program while in high school where she volunteered as a health educator for the summer in South America. She did it a few times and eventually had a significant role in leadership. By the time I was old enough to consider it my parents were well familiar with the organization. Also, at that stage I had made progress with my emotional stability and general behavior, so more trust was established.
So when I was 17 for 2 months myself and another girl worked in a remote village of 800 Zapoteca Indians in Southern Mexico. Our project was to do health education and build latrines. I worked long hours doing manual labor in a skirt. I ate beans, rice, and hot coffee with virtually every meal. I slept on a cot in the post office because the families were too poor to take on two more people in any individual home. I had immersed myself in a completely different language, culture, and comfort zone, and I thrived on it.
I can remember the exact moment when I knew this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Dusk was approaching and I sat on the hard packed mud ruins of stairs leading down to the remains of what used to be someone’s adobe home. As I sat there watching rain clouds gather over the mountain valley, I knew I would never try to take my life again. My struggle with depression hadn’t ended but I would never again have a hand in my own demise.
The conversation might begin with concerns about whether motherhood and feminism are incompatible (I mean if the newspaper of record positions motherhood and feminism on opposite ends of a spectrum, where does that leave all the mothers who happen to think women are full human beings). Maybe it turns to a question about what the “Mommy Wars” actually entail. We’re all busy, is it that we missed the latest reality show? Are there actual weapons involved? Other than the condescension and self-righteousness we’re told we wield like daggers, of course. There may even be some mutterings about whether it's healthy for motherhood to be elevated to such an exalted status. After all, not everyone dragged into the conversation is in fact a mother and no one wants to be left out of a debate that makes the cover of Time.
The problem is this is a fictional debate that serves no one well. When parenting is a battlefield, it’s difficult to use each other as resources and learn from one another’s stories. When we’re told to be on the lookout for other mothers who are judging us, it’s easy to miss all the people who are supporting us in our endeavors to strengthen our families and our communities. And when mothers are put into a special box, we lose the other parts of our identity that make us complete and well-rounded individuals.
It’s not a matter of mothers versus other mothers (this Babble piece rocks that point). We’re all doing our best with the resources and opportunities at our disposal. And it’s also not a matter of mothers versus non-mothers. In a thoughtful essay on why she hates mother’s day, Anne Lamott takes issue with the idea that mothers are somehow superior beings. Mothering isn’t an individual experience; it isn’t even a purely female experience.
The mothering that helps my children thrive on a daily basis comes from their father, their aunt who lives next door, a phenomenal nanny, a family friend who is practically a part of our family, my dear friend and business partner, and numerous grandparents, not to mention the various teachers, doctors, etc who play significant roles in my children’s health and development. That list would grow exponentially if my husband and I added all the individuals who mothered us throughout a lifetime of experiences.
On this coming Mother’s Day, I’m going to spend less time thinking about mothers and more time thinking about mothering. I’ll still write thoughtful notes to my mom, my stepmom, my mother-in-law, and my grandmas, but I’ll also do my best to thank the other mothers in my life—the best friends, the family members, and the mentors—who mothered me into the person I am today.
There’s no war here; there are enough thank yous, kind words, and lessons to spread around.
If you didn't already know the incredibly talented and just plain sparkly Erin Loechner from Design for Mankind, then maybe you recognize her from her HGTV home renovation column, or maybe it's from her brand new site Design for Minikind (it's just as smart and stylish as Design for Mankind, but for littles and their parents). In any case, Erin is one of those people who exudes warmth and positivity. She's also incredible at supporting people in becoming their best selves (case in point: resource parties), a mission we can fully get behind here at the Equals Project.
In honor of Mother's Day, and mentoring, and the bravery it takes to claim the path that's right for you, Erin is letting us share this piece she wrote for Stories I've Only Told My Mom. If you are a mom, you have a mom, or you've ever sought wisdom other women's stories, we highly recommend you download this beautiful anthology, edited by Sarah Bryden-Brown.
Stories I've Only Told My Mom
by Erin Loechner
Dear Mom,
It was Tuesday and I think I was 7. I know it was Tuesday because I was wearing my day-of-the-week underwear and we both know how dutifully I relied on my unmentionables to celebrate the passage of days.
I don’t know that I was 7 for sure. They didn’t make undergarments for that sort of thing.
I told you I wanted to be a receptionist when I grew up. I had seen a classified listing for a receptionist in the newspaper that afternoon while we snacked on Little Debbie’s Zebra Cakes (my favorite) and Walnuts Brownies (yours). I’m not sure where my sisters were -- probably playing basketball at the neighbor’s house like normal children. I liked to read newspapers and eat treats littered with high fructose corn syrup, watching you grade your students’ English essays and circle typos with a red Papermate.
You peered over your Sally Jesse Raphael style glasses and smiled. “A receptionist for whom?” you asked.
It hadn’t occurred to me that this mattered. I would be typing, talking on the phone and greeting people daily. I would be The Gatekeeper Of The Office. The Hostess Of The Lobby. The Fixer Of The Fax Machine. Every day. And I would get paid for it! $17,000 dollars. Every year. What else mattered?
“Who you work for always matters,” you answered as you corrected a 4th grader’s misspelling of the word “tomahawk.”
Do you remember saying that, Mom?
It changed my life.
I did, eventually, as you know, become a receptionist for a high profile music executive in Los Angeles. I was paid much more than $17,000 a year and was, indeed, The Gatekeeper Of The Office. But after four months of collating concert paperwork and babysitting Sharon Osbourne’s countless canines, I remembered your words.
“Who you work for always matters.”
I quit that day, Mom. Somewhere between papercuts and expense reports, I knew I wanted to live my life with integrity and do work that mattered, for someone who mattered.
Someone like myself.
Since that day, I’ve had many odd jobs as I attempted to supplement an income that could support the life I wanted to live --- inspiring creative artists, designers and writers to pursue their dreams.
As you inspired me to pursue mine.
And along the way, I never accepted a job from someone that I didn’t believe in, and in doing so, created a professional life of integrity. Your words of wisdom on that Tuesday have shaped the way I present myself as a business owner, entrepreneur and writer.
I am now, proudly, The Gatekeeper Of Encouragement. The Hostess Of My Life. The Fixer Of Un-Inspired Souls.
Thank you, Mom.
p.s. Want to know a secret? I made exactly $17,000 working for myself. Dollar for dollar.
Last year, at 37 years old, I underwent fertility treatments. After three failed rounds of intra-uterine insemination, my husband and I got incredibly lucky with a single, successful course of in-vitro fertilization. Our treasure of a baby daughter, Isadora Rose, was born on 12/28/2011.
Motherhood fits me like a glove and is something I have wanted from my first memories of childhood. I used to mother every living thing and inanimate object in my midst. I once ruined my coveted Babar and Celeste dolls after having coated their trunks in Chapstick “in case they got dry lips.” I even sustained a macerated bottom lip when my brother’s pet turtle clamped on to my mouth…you see, I had dropped him while trying to feed him and leaned in to kiss his little face in apology. You get the idea.
So it might surprise you that at age 22, I had an abortion. My circumstances at the time were likely similar to many middle-class women who make that choice. I was fresh out of college, living with two friends in Berkeley, CA. I had one of my first highly challenging social work jobs on the way to graduate school. I was also still occasionally sleeping with my ex-boyfriend from college. In my personal life, unlike my educational and professional trajectory, I was vulnerable and I was in more than a bit of denial. I had a rocky road with this ex that included a brief engagement and at least two breakups. And then it happened – I got pregnant.
Reflecting back on who I was at 22 unearths many complicated feelings. I vacillate between feeling a tremendous amount of compassion for who I was then and being harshly critical of a young woman with all the advantages to know better. Mostly, I want to tell my younger self to hang in there until the next decade when things would get infinitely less awful.
Despite my lifelong desire to have a child, I knew that at that moment, I was in no position to do so. I was not emotionally or financially ready. I did not have a reliable partner. I had dreams of furthering my education and becoming a clinical social worker. Of course, I had more resources at my disposal than most, but I understood that this was not the time for me to become a mother. Still, it was not remotely an easy decision to end the pregnancy. Growing up in a socially and politically liberal family (in which I could count on support no matter which way I chose) served to bolster my confidence, but it did not take the weight off my shoulders.
As I carefully considered my options, the reality of my situation crystallized. I asked myself the tough questions – Could a person who had been careless about birth control really be trusted to raise a child? Could a person who still had to borrow a portion of the rent from her parents support a family? Could a person who struggled to disentangle from an utterly inappropriate relationship be a model for a child? Ultimately, I decided the instrumentals were workable – I could secure another job, I could garner additional financial support, I could move home, etc. – but where I was in my emotional development made the kind of parenting I always had in mind a long-shot.
As a person who had long fantasized about bringing a child into this world, with all the attendant joys and responsibilities, I wanted to offer a baby nothing short of every opportunity. At 22, decent parenting was certainly within my grasp (in fact I had known many fantastic young, single mothers), but excellent parenting was not…I simply wasn’t there yet. This is to say nothing of what having a child would mean for my own educational and professional prospects.
The debate in this country about reproductive freedom is almost always oversimplified. Being pro-choice does not mean being cavalier about abortion. Even though abortion was the right choice for me, it is diminishing to imagine I took the decision lightly. In fact, I had the luxury of considering all angles and being intentional about my choice. So many women, because of socio-economic, religious or cultural constraints do not have the same control over their lives.
And here is the truth about my life after the abortion: The ex in question responded negatively to the pregnancy and essentially disappeared, confirming my assessment of having an unreliable partner. I applied and was accepted to my graduate school of choice. I went on to establish a successful social work career, albeit one in which I would have struggled mightily to provide for a child. And I continued to make huge mistakes in relationships until I was finally ready, at age 34, to be with the right person and to nurture a marriage.
When I discovered that I would require fertility treatments to become pregnant all those years later, I was understandably baffled and immediately reflected back to that “missed opportunity” at age 22. For the first time since, I engaged in magical thinking about the abortion: ‘I squandered my one chance at having a baby.’ In my lowest moment, I even wondered if I “deserved” another chance at a child – maybe somehow I was being punished. Mercifully, it all worked out as it should and with the full capacities of an adult woman with a career, relationship security and the emotional stability requisite for parenting, I had a child.
I have experienced painful challenges on both ends of the procreative spectrum. The choice to have an abortion was gut wrenching, particularly in light of my lifelong desire to become a mother. Later, the choice to undergo fertility treatments was heartbreaking and the process grueling. It can be argued that these were the two most critical decisions of my life. I am grateful that the power to make them ultimately rested in my hands.
Mother's Day is very much celebrated at the church I attend in Brooklyn. On those Sundays, a couple of people from the congregation are usually asked to speak on the subject of Motherhood. Last year, I was asked to speak. At the time, I don't think the person asking me realized that I had been infertile for 7 years. I am glad he didn't know, as he may never have asked me otherwise. My heart was just pounding out of my chest when I received that phone call because I was so grateful I would have the privilege to speak on a subject that is so near and dear to my heart. I accepted the assignment immediately.
Here's some of what I shared with that congregation. I couldn't hold back the tears on this one. They were tears of gratitude. They came before I even said the first word at the pulpit. I just felt so grateful that day to see how far I had come and to be able to share with everyone what motherhood has meant to me…….
Mother’s Day
May 8, 2011
I am happy to be able to speak on Mother's Day - one reason is I can stand and tell each one of you women how much I love you and admire you for all that you do.
Also, I'm just personally happy that I could feel so at peace with speaking on Mother's Day…even though I am not yet a mother. You should know that feeling this peace is a miracle to me. There were years when I did not enjoy this day and didn't even want to be near this building on Mother's Day as it was too sad for me to be around so many mothers when I couldn't be one myself. But, because of the human ability to transform & overcome our trials and become something more than we are, I am not the same woman that I was back then. I’m grateful that I can now celebrate this day, not because I am a mother, but because of what the desire for motherhood has done to my life.
Just like all of you moms who want to be the best you can be for your children, I do too. And I’ve had a long time to think about what it means to be a good mother and to be a good influence.
I’ve come to realize learning to face our trials with strength is one of the greatest things I could ever learn in my quest to be a good mother. Because if I couldn’t overcome my own trials, how on earth would I be able to teach my own children how to face theirs?
Overcoming trials is no easy feat. But doing so is a gift to the world. It’s a gift to your spouse, your children (born or unborn) and really, all humanity. It allows you to live with more character & strength. It allows you to be free of the toxicity & negativity & pain that you normally might send into the world.
Prior to figuring this out, there were a few other sources of great sadness in my life. In addition to the infertility, my former husband had been suffering for many years with some mental difficulties, a situation that brought lots of anguish and uncertainty into our home & marriage. At the time, I was barely getting by. I was reacting to my circumstances with insecurity, fear & loss of hope. But I began to realize that I was choosing to react that way – my pain wasn’t just a result of my unfortunate circumstances, it was a result of how I chose to react to my circumstances. In the face of criticism, I was letting harsh words ruin my soul & self-worth. In the face of an uncertain marriage, I was letting thoughts of losing my husband & being alone fill me with tremendous insecurity & fear. In the face of infertility, I was letting the fear of not being able to conceive bring me feelings of inadequacy. In the face of a life that was not what I had envisioned for myself, I felt a loss of purpose. I looked at other mothers’ lives with envy. And I wondered how I could ever have meaning or purpose in my life if I didn’t have a husband and a family. For years, these reactions compounded and affected me so greatly that I no longer was living with peace & happiness. I did not even have the strength nor the energy to help or think about others around me, because I thought my plate was already “so full” and I was already spread so thin because of my own unfortunate circumstances.
BUT, I was blessed to have a wake-up call. Someone pointed out to me that if this was the way I chose to live my life, I would be teaching my children to live this way as well. Once my eyes became open to the revolutionary idea that I had a choice in how I reacted to my circumstances, my long-time desire to be a good mother kicked in full force and I deliberately began practicing reacting to things in a more positive way. And I mean it when I say I practiced! I would actually look for little opportunities in my life where I could try to make changes & put this new way of life to the test.
And so, as I practiced, I worked to transform my usual fear and negative thoughts by surrendering my natural self/ego. I didn’t always know how to do this. But I realized it meant that my deepest thoughts and feelings & emotions of my heart needed to be turned around and fully aligned with a greater purpose – for me, it was surrendering to oneness with God. That meant giving up the tendency to be full of fear, frustration, anger, selfishness, pride, judgment, doubt, or worry in my day-to-day experiences and instead – and surrendering fully & completely to the attributes of love, patience, faith, kindness, forgiveness, hope & charity. Even in those awful moments! Even in the face of infertility and divorce! It is a huge sacrifice for most of us to surrender and to give up our natural selves. Even though this was a hard to do, love for my unborn children literally fueled it gave it power and made it possible. This turned out to be the greatest offering of love I have ever experienced. This choice to live my life motivated by love has transformed my life more than any other decision I’ve ever made. There is no force more powerful than love.
It didn’t come as naturally in the beginning, but little by little, I began conquering all that I had before me. If there was a reason for me to be deeply offended & hurt, I remained still and took no offense as the offender simply clearly was not at peace, which is a sad place to be in. If there was a reason for me to be angry, I responded with compassion for the pain someone else was in. If there was a reason for me to be impatient, I remained hopeful and calm and whole. If there was a reason for me to blame, I had compassion for another's state of life and forgave with no conditions, as I knew I would be fine, either way. If there was a reason to feel hopeless about my future & the loss of my marriage, I trusted that trials of this life could be for my greater good and that adversity was necessary to build true character. If there was a reason to feel insecure or humiliated by eventually being rejected by my husband or being newly divorced & single in New York City, I believed that it was my divine right to be full self worth and that I could face my single life with confidence. If there was a reason to judge, I had sympathy for another’s weaknesses. And if there was a reason to feel sorry for myself & my circumstances, instead I actually feltgrateful for the privilege of learning from this mortal experience, no matter how grim my life seemed. This time of my life was amazing and sanctifying. My existence had changed. And today I celebrate why this process began – it was because I wanted to be a good mother.
(Photo above taken by photographer Chris Lindsay in my home, 4 years ago. At the time this photo was taken, I was just barely learning how to become completely at peace with my infertility & years of a hurtful marriage. I love having this photo as a reminder of that pivotal & beautiful time in my life. My first marriage ended unexpectedly maybe a month after this photo was taken. I am now remarried to the most wonderful man ever, though we have not yet been able to have children - but we feel good things are in store.)
If you want people to look at you like you’re mad, tell them you’re moving to Indonesia. Always, always, their eyes widen a bit and their first words in response are usually painted in some deep blue shade of why.
There’s no escaping the inevitable yet ever-so-polite mention of tsunamis – sometimes with the t, even – and active volcanoes and earthquakes and vaguely specific bombings and, most enjoyably, a link to a YouTube gem of a chubby boy under three smoking like a fiend, accompanied by a pointed look at my six year old and raised eyebrows. As if I haven’t already warned Esmé against the dangers of performing shirtless around anything on fire. On camera. For free.
I really do always know what to say, though. I’ve had years of practice. First, before we moved to Oman, and then a few years later when we left for Jordan. With a slight wave of my hands and murmurs of nothing to fear but fear itself…and maybe also Dengue…we all usually swim away from the conversation safely to higher ground. Usually.
Because every once in a while, someone sweetly tries to drown me.
“Won’t you miss home?”
Home. That one word and I start to flail.
Shirtless summers catching frogs and singing Simon & Garfunkel into the box fan, thinking that making love in the afternoon sounded lovely at the age of five and differently just as at the age of now. Whiling away entire afternoons with a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and a stack of library books, never far from the hose. Or my mom. Holding tight to my best friend named Grandpa until the night my dad picked him up like he wasn’t 6’2” and the strongest man in the world anymore, carrying him outside to meet the ambulance and haplessly slow paramedics in the driveway.
Gasping, I search for shore, but all I see is the piece of red velvet hanging from my attic door the year Santa ripped his pants, which was only a few years before all of my older sisters and brothers moved out and moved on, diluting my Christmas magic with every in-law they added.
I call for help, but all I hear is the telephone. My dad’s cancer is back, and it stays until he is gone. The next thing I know, my sister calls with the same news of her own. It’ll be okay, she promised. And she promised again and again and again with the births of my first and second and third girls. And two weeks after that, there would be no more calls. She stayed as long as she possibly could.
I guess she was right. It is okay. And so am I. Some days, flooded. Most days, afloat.
Home. I can’t for the life of me picture it. It still looks like my mom and smells like Oscar de la Renta and vanilla ice cream and chlorine and lilacs and cow manure. It’s in my daughters’ chandelier smiles, unbreakable wills, and their every move. Every. Single. One. It’s when he walks in the door, and I only know this because it disappears every time he leaves. It’s in the first haircut I gave my girls after my sister’s death, biting the insides of my cheeks bloody and drowning in tears. Is it even? I wondered. Not remotely.
It’s in the eyes of someone who has lost her world, someone who’s found it, and someone who’s trying her damnedest to get it all back. It’s in Sunday meatloaf and fish fries on Fridays and fireworks on the Fourth and the agony of annual exams that leave you feeling like you’ve just dodged a bullet. And also like you’ve taken one.
It’s in the babies who made it and the ones who didn’t and the ones who live on in your dreams every night. It’s in the love that brought you to life and the love that nearly killed you and the dandelion that’s destroyed with one wish that everything gets better. At some point, you’ll settle for better.
It’s in the beginnings and endings and the to be continueds. It’s in the coming and going, but mostly in the leaving for good.
I get misty every time I read the phrase home is where the heart is. It’s almost impossible not to feel a little lost when your heart’s been broken by life.
It was a dark and stormy night—no really, it was. Our boutique creative agency YOU + ME* was in need of a retreat/vision quest/mini sabbatical/whatever you want to call it and we decided the perfect location was Salt Lake City in January. We weren’t there to seek inspiration at Sundance or on the slopes (though that would have been a solid plan following the storm that blew through town). Instead, we flew three quarters of the way across the country to attend the Altitude Summit, lovingly referred to as Alt, a design and social media conference that attracts creative powerhouses from all over the country.
If you think boondoggle when you hear conference, it might not be obvious why we expected to forge a bold new path for our business from the lobby of the Grand America Hotel. But forge we did. It was time to step away from the glare of our computer screens and into the warm glow of shiny notebooks and neon pencils. We wanted to liberate our brains from practical matters like business taxes and invoicing systems and let our minds wander toward our biggest dreams and grandest plans. Most importantly, we needed to meaningfully connect—with old pals, new friends, and each other.
Over the course of our four-day trip, we had a blast (um, as you can see), extended our wheelhouse with a few new tricks, and figured out the next step on our never-ending quest to create a business that reflects our values and leads to fulfilling personal and professional lives. We stayed up late into the night discussing the fact that our internet circles are closing, rather than widening, comparing our experiences of the world, and chatting about our desire to connect women to each other in ways that extend beyond what our houses and weddings look like, what we cook for our families, and how we conceive of and present our outer selves. We downed coffee after coffee contemplating the fact that the online world has been one in which women have been framed as tearing each other down rather than building each other up. We lamented the dearth of online content for women that acknowledges that we are more than our outfits, our homes, and our consumption habits.
From that, the Equals Project was born.
And it looks like others have been thinking along the same lines. From the growing "Things I'm Afraid to Tell You" movement among bloggers, to the focus on meaningful gatherings in Kinfolk magazine, to people sharing incredibly thoughtful stories online with the sole intention of helping other people achieve happiness, it's clear that the internet is evolving from a place where we store and showcase our (often-unattainable) goals into a place where we can be real, multi-dimensional people. As we slow down and think about what we are really consuming on the internet, it seems as if we as a society are aching for meaning and process, rather than destinations and results. We hope you will find here a collection of stories, discussions, and art from women across the country (and across the world) that compels you to think, contribute your own stories and thoughts, and most of all, to act.
We are more than what we can cook, we are more than what we can create, more than our makeup, our jewelry, our aesthetic tastes. We are people with complex ideas, and conflicting thoughts, who read, travel, discuss, do, and make. We are people who are influenced and inspired by the women who came before us, and we aspire to create something greater than the sum of our parts.
After many months of work, tellingly accompanied by more grins than swear words, it’s finally time for us to make the Equals Project a reality. We still have to pinch ourselves a little bit when we think of the talent, the stories, and the passion found among this amazing group of contributors and collaborators. And we only get more excited when we think of how the Equals Project will be interpreted in print early next year. We've also taken to jumping up and cheering on an hourly basis when we think about kicking off Equals Does, our philanthropic call to action--money is not the only tool for making a difference in the world. In a short while, we’ll be announcing our first project representing Equals Does and featuring a series of inspiring projects that share a similar spirit. If you’re interested in supporting the Equals Project, you’re in luck:
"Mommy, Baachan and Jichan will come back tomorrow, and we will all go to the playground together." We've just left my parents off at the airport; they are making the journey back to San Francisco after a week visiting us and shuttling my nearly three year old daughter around Brooklyn. She calls them by the japanese name for grandmother and grandfather. "Oh, honey," I say, "Baachan and Jichan will be back soon, but not tomorrow." "They will! Tomorrow they will come." And she leaves it at that, nodding to herself. It dawns on me: she is wishing, or more than wishing — longing — something that I haven't noticed her doing before.
I've found that one of the most unexpected things about having a child is that it brings back so vividly my experience of being a child. Though she is still so young that there have been just hints and glimmers of her inner life, through my daughter, I am starting to remember how I lived seamlessly gliding between reality and fantasy for much of my day, every day. There was the strong conviction, even though I logically knew it not to be true, that if I hoped for something with my eyes shut tight enough or felt longing strongly enough, the impossible would somehow become possible. The possibilities, as the saying goes, were endless, unconstrained by logic or physics. I could reverse time, my orthodontist would decide to override my mother's wishes and give me hot pink braces, my little plastic figurines would really spring to life at night and carry on a life of their own. My hermit crab, Zeus (yes, I was that child), would decide to crawl back into his mighty shell rather than apathetically dragging his nubby stub of a body around in little circles, a hint at the surrender he was planning. My parents would finally agree that the our new puppy, who at that point had been responsible for the destruction of not less than sixty percent of the flooring in our house, was lonely and wanted a litter of friends to play with. I hoped for smaller things, too (ants on a log, a sunny day to go to the zoo), but it was as if the things that I knew I couldn't control, and perhaps more importantly, likely wouldn't get were the things for which I felt compelled to hope with the most conviction.
Though I hope for many things as my life moves forward, I don't hope anymore with the same conviction that I did as a child. I don't throw my entire being into hoping or longing; hope at this point is often guarded, muffled by reality, translated into drive and action. I am not sure at what point hoping for hoping's sake fell out of my emotional repertoire. I remember hints of it in my adult life: sitting on my grandfather's bed after he had died and the body had been taken away, thinking about my husband the night after our first date, being pregnant with my daughter and waiting to hear the results of all of the routine tests. I'm curious about whether hope of this sort can be reintroduced, or even whether it has a place in my inner life as an adult.
These videos are so evocative of that hope in childhood. The first, Caine's Arcade, is a wonderful story both because the boy is so passionate about his arcade and because there was an adult who recognized that passion and became caught up in it. The second, a video for "Tuck the Darkness In" by the Bowerbirds, just captures that hope so profoundly.
During my first year of infertility, I remember feeling sad about my life when I heard that other friends were pregnant.
We're talking...mmm...maybe I'll cut out of this party early because I can't hide these tears any longer. No thank you, I'll just sit this 35th baby shower out. Don't you dare hand me a flower at church to carry around on Mother's Day cause I am already seconds away from busting out of this building early.
For a solid year, I was just seconds away from the deepest feelings of desperate/teary sadness, anger at the cruelty of this unfairness, inadequacy as a woman, shame that apparently something was wrong with my body, fear that I never would get pregnant, resentment that I was being left behind outside of the circle of mothers, and worry that somehow my life was not going to be worth anything if I couldn't get pregnant & have a family. WHAT A SAD WAY TO LIVE!! It was sad. Very.
Luckily, years two, three, four, five, six, seven, & eight of infertility have been a completely different experience. It has been a miracle.
I started learning that if I didn't change my overall perspective on trials, even if I DID get pregnant, I would still be pretty jacked up!! Because even with a baby in tow, inevitably there would be many other things that wouldn't go my way. It’s not like all of life’s problems would be solved by a baby (ha!) So I started to see the scary reality that if I chose to live this way, basing my happiness on perfect circumstances, that I could easily live & die and only have small glimpses of happiness, only when things happened to be lined up perfectly. I realized that was not the kind of life I wanted nor the kind of woman or mother that I wanted to be. And so, year two I became a changed woman. I changed the way I thought about my trials. And I haven’t looked back for a day since.
And one of the greatest side effects of choosing to be happy?
I don't feel the tendency to compare my life with others anymore. My life is what it is….and it is beautiful. I now get to enjoy being TRULY happy & overjoyed every time I see a little baby. And I am thrilled each & every time I hear of a friend or sister or cousin or neighbor who is pregnant. And I am amazed at the miracle of a birth every time I hear that a new little one has arrived to this beautiful life safe & sound. Babies are miracles. Getting pregnant is a miracle. Birth is a miracle. Creating a family is a miracle. What a shame that hearing of these things used to make me sad & cause me pain. They're the most beautiful things that ever happen in this life! What a privilege it is to see it unfold and to be a part of it in many ways, even if I am not yet a mother.
