30 called, they want their age back. January 26, 2012

I don’t know why I’ve had such a hard time coming to terms with turning 30. I’ve suspected for a long time my 30s would be full of more love, more financial stability, more ah-ha moments, and more parenting bliss. Along with that wish list I hoped my 30s would leave out some of the partying, unplanned pregnancies, and bounced checks my 20s included. Even with the knowledge that my 30s are going to be better, there is something terrifying about crossing that numerical threshold. Something that makes you examine every decision you’ve made in your previous 29 years of life and make a bitter beer face. It’s your own personal judgement day, and no decision will go unpunished.

30 got off to a pretty good start. 30 seemed to fit me pretty well. I thought I looked pretty good in 30 until someone informed me I was only wearing one earring.

Oops. Well, that could happen to anyone, right? Shamefully, in my 20s I actually wore one earring on purpose even. So I traced my steps back to my car, opened the car door and sat down. You know those weird days when someone puts a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong to you in your car and cleans all your junk out of it? Turns out that doesn’t actually happen. It means you’re sitting in someone else’s car, looking for your lost earring that you’re not young enough to go without.

This could also happen to someone in their 20s. Last year I not only got into someone else’s car, but I also tried to drive it off. So no biggie.

It also happens that sometimes people get on the wrong freeway entrance and drive East instead of West when they’re trying to go home. The same home they go to everyday. Usually it doesn’t happen twice, in the same day, back-to-back… But still, it happens.

And when I fell asleep before my flight even took off and slept soundly until it landed, I’m certain it had nothing to do with my age. A 9pm flight is kinda late! However I got to Spokane ready to party! Ready to celebrate this new decade of my life! Or, ready to have two drinks and pass out on my friend’s floor at 11:30.

So I tried 30 on and I’m just not sure it fits. If it does fit, it looks like a pair of beat up, dingy sweatpants.

I’m anxious for all the amazingness my 30s are bringing me, I just hope I can stay awake long enough to witness it.

(side note, by birthday was actually amazing. Thank you to all of it who made it so!!)

Welcome to the teenage years. January 23, 2012

Recently I had the opportunity to share a story as a featured storyteller for Story Story Night. You can listen to that story here.  Basically it was the true confession of one of my most horrific parenting days in a 5 year history of some pretty memorable parenting days. Afterward, MULTIPLE people came up to me and offered the same sentiments in regard to my crazy children I had just publicly described. Often times they touched my shoulder while breaking the news to me. One woman hushed her voice so the other attendees wouldn’t overhear. Whatever their mannerisms, their message was universal and clear: Just wait until they become teenagers. I nervously laughed, and thanked them for this genuine, but slightly untimely warning.

The warning wasn’t untimely because my children are only 5 and 3 and I have years to bask in toddler tantrums before moving on to the horrors of living with two teen girls. It was untimely because I am already parenting a teenager. She may be a five year old with a sweet smile and a nervous habit of repeating things back to herself in a whisper after she speaks them, but I assure you that inside there is a full blown, wildly dramatic, inconsolable teenager.

I was a teen librarian long enough to recognize the symptoms. Plus, I suffered a pretty severe case of teenagerdom myself so I’m quick to pick up on the warning signs.

Kissing on the playground: check.

Notes sent home from school: check.

Phone calls from teachers about bad attitudes: check.

She can’t officially drive yet, but she did think she’d be learning how in Kindergarten this year.

And then this weekend, worse than ANY of that, she had the nerve to say this to me.

She was mad because I said she will likely never own a DS (this is a video game thingy for you non-gamers out there). I calmly explained that video games are expensive, and we are already very lucky to have a wii that we can play fun dancing games on. I don’t think I even threw the terms “children in Africa”, “economic inequities”  or “privileged nations” in there even once, so truly it was a calm conversation. She didn’t take the news well. However, instead of throwing an enormous tantrum like she would have done in the past, she glared at me from across the room and uttered some words that by choice or chance were barely audible.

“I’m sorry Ev. When you hiss like that, I can’t actually hear you.”

“I SAID I HATE READING!”.she screamed.

Yep. Just like that. Out of nowhere my 5 year old pulls out the one phrase that will shoot barbed daggers into my skull. When she didn’t get her way, my ingenious child told a Children’s Librarian that she hates reading. She knew the power of those words and even more alarming, she knew the reaction it would get out of me.

I wish I could say I out smarted her. I wish I could report back that I had fought the “I hate reading” battle and returned to my couch victorious. I wish I could say that I didn’t blurt out something like “Evan, every time you say that a librarian somewhere dies!” followed by “OK. Maybe they don’t die,but they lose their job. Or maybe a book burns.I don’t remember anymore.  But something REALLY bad happens”. Hmmph. Do you think I could call it a draw?

I could be in trouble. Do you think I could ask her to start throwing tantrums again?

The end of an affair January 10, 2012

I started running semi-regularly last May. Which means me and running are quickly approaching our one year anniversary. We’ve actually had an on-again, off-again style relationship for many years now, but this was the first time we’d ever gotten serious. In this past 8 months I’ve ran in 4 races, including two 10Ks. I’ve learned that running partners are one of life’s most invaluable gifts, playlists can make or break me, and sweat soaked hair from a lunch time run eventually will dry, however will never look normal. Last Saturday I went for a quick run, and as I often do I found myself tired and wanting to stop after only a mile or so. Exhausted with the mentally and physically draining relationship I’ve suddenly found myself in the midst of with this philanderer known as running, I wrote the easiest breakup letter of my entire life. (In my head of course, because I would never write one of those annoying letters to an inanimate object)

“Dear Running,

I hate you.

I know that sounds harsh and that it’s possibly spoken out of frustration and heightened sensitivity, but  nonetheless, you’re awful. I’ve watched the way you are with other people. Men, women, it doesn’t even matter with your sub-par standards. I’ve seen the way you move together. I’ve witnessed how happy you make them. They smile when they’re with you. They laugh when they’re with you. As time passes your relationship with them improves and undoubtedly you take things to the next level. Longer. Faster. HILLS. SPRINTS. You’ve practically married some of my closest friends. It looks so easy and enjoyable.  Meanwhile, you cause me nothing but grief. I sit back and have to watch how fulfilling you are for other people, and wonder why you make me so miserable. Every bloody step I take with you feels like it’s ripped from my gut. Every breath I attempt in your presence feels like you’re smothering me into submission. Every distance I set off on with you feels like an endless journey. I feel like this relationship is going nowhere.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve sought professional help to shed some light on our incompatibility issues. It turns out it’s not entirely you. I’m also somewhat to blame. I’m damaged and that affects how well we work as a team. I guess I also can’t pretend that we haven’t had some good times together. Remember when we first met and I bought that cute running skirt to show off for you? Or how you helped me lose 12 lbs when I wasn’t even trying to?  You always knew how to make me feel great about myself. You also really have a way of bringing people together. I’ve found that when I’m with you and friends, or you and my boyfriend, I tend to lose myself in the moment. I forget that my children peed on the floor before I left. I block out the homework I never planned to do anyway. It’s impossible for me to safely glance at my phone while with you (since I barely survive the experience even when my eyes are working overtime) so I tune out the noise that infiltrates my typical day. I focus instead on things that matter. Like the fact that every time I breathe in, I breath out again. And every time I take one step, my back leg swings forward and I take another. Those are really the only things I’ve been able to think about when I’m with you, but sometimes they feel like the most important things in the world.

Sometimes, I actually like that we have a difficult relationship. It’s made me thankful for the things in my life that come easily to me when I experience how truly challenging a thing can be. Like loving. What if I wanted to stop loving a person two minutes into it? Or reading. What if I felt utterly worthless every time I started a sentence? You’ve certainly brought a new appreciation for the things I do with ease in my daily life.

But still, does it really have to be this hard? After all this time? Does it have to be a daily struggle and an uphill battle with very few signs of improvement? Does it have to hurt and burn and make me want to quit moving my body in any sort of way, just to experience the opposite of what you do to me?

I guess the answer is yes. For me it does have to be all of those things. I thought I was ready to give you up, but I decided to give you one final reprieve. Although I don’t particularly like you, I am committed to make this work. So I signed up for a 13.1 mile jaunt with you. I’ll tolerate you for at least that much longer, just so I can confidently say that I gave it my all.

In the meantime, I would love if we could try to work together. I do want to thank you for not making me puke in awhile. I think that’s a step in the right direction. I’d love to see some more displays of affection like that one.

Begrudgingly yours,

Meg”

What I care to share December 1, 2011

I have a blessed life.

I don’t say that because it’s Christmas time. I don’t say that because I think I’ve somehow earned the blessings I’ve been given. I say it because it’s true. I also say it, because it hasn’t always been this way.

This year I am acting as a family advocate for a single mom and her 18 month old son who are getting assistance through the Women’s and Children’s Alliance. The program is called Care2Share and it’s a social media based way to give during the Holiday Season. The concept was thought up by my amazing friends and although only in it’s second year Care2Share is helping fulfill the needs of 20 families this month.

I have to admit when I was first asked to be a family advocate I hesitated for a few minutes. It’s not because I don’t support the genuine efforts that my friends have put into this. Nor is it because I don’t want to help out families in need. I just have a hard time with Christmas. It’s a ridiculous holiday that highlights greed, consumerism, over indulgence, and all out cultural and religious ignorance. Christmas is a total sham.

However, I only thought about these things briefly before I eagerly agreed to help out in whatever way I can. It wasn’t a change of heart about Christmas that caused me to commit. It was a haunting of memories from times not so blessed that made me reevaluate my attitude toward Christmas

I have walked through those doors at the Women’s and Children’s Alliance and had to utter the most difficult words my mouth could form: “I’m fearful for my life and need some help”. I am one of the fortunate ones that never had to make that tear stained trek with children in tow. The journey was impossible enough without the weight of them.

Once I moved on in my life, found some safety and an ounce of self esteem, I started a family; the real blessings in this story.Although I had moved past that difficult and dark period in my life, living was far from easy. Pregnant at 23, single mom, still in school, unemployed, uninsured… I’ll save you the nightmare tales I could tell about the first years of my girls’ lives. What I will say is this; without my family, without my friends, without this community that I’m fortunate enough to be a part of, I would be nothing and I would have nothing to give. Nothing to give to the kids I love working with every day. Nothing to give to the staff I hope I serve as an adequate mentor for. Nothing to give to my family who has literally given me every ounce of love and support they could possibly muster. Nothing to give to this community that has not just extended a hand to help me up, but has shoved me from every direction until I had no choice but to stand on my own. Nothing to give to my precious children, who deserve a mother who is capable of giving.

We celebrate Christmas in my family. My kids believe in Santa. They ask for presents, although I try to keep them modest in their asking. We decorate a tree, we drink hot cocoa, we sing silly songs in false vibratos… we do it all. I want my children to believe in Christmas magic, but not the type of magic that we might typically associate with this holiday.The magic I want them to believe in has nothing to do with the miscalculated birth date for a religious idol. It doesn’t relate to a creepy man in a velvet suite. I want them to believe with all their hearts in the power of giving. I want them to know it’s what we do as members of a caring, committed, and fortunate society. I want them to know it’s not just something we do during the holidays, but that holidays are especially hard on those in need. I want them to know that we once were fortunate enough to be helped time and time again, and that is a debt that can never be repaid.

There is a single mom with a baby that I know nothing about, except that she had to walk through some doors, and do something that felt insurmountable. I know, firsthand, that this type of giving really does make a difference.  I know that she needs help. I know that many of you have the ability, the compassion, and the fortitude to give. Please check out these remaining items to see what you might be able to help with. The gift is much bigger than you could ever realize.

http://care2share.posterous.com/pages/family-4

I’ve hit a wall November 3, 2011

This brick wall tastes like Subway sandwiches. Stale bread, wilted vegetables, with a side of hydrogenated oil. A meager attempt at saving my children  from Type 2 diabetes while still wasting zero precious minutes on preparing, or even thinking about a meal.

This brick wall tastes like tear stained cheeks, unbrushed teeth, and utter disappointment that we’ll only read one book before bed tonight. It tastes like burned toast with a vitamin, served in the car for breakfast.

It sounds only of forced branches snapping. Muted laughter. Deflated excitement. A temper that may never be found again.

This is what this brick wall feels like.

Incomplete thoughts. Sidetracked conversations. Distracted promises.

It feels like aching eye sockets, longing for relief. Broken friendships and relationships that ended before they even began. It is the tugging of limbs in every direction, yet still having to place one foot confidently in front of the other toward the one place you don’t want to go.

It’s the feeling of my own hand being the only thing supporting the weight of my  head and the rest of the world.

It feels like streaming tears when you read the word “burnout” because you’ve forgotten that you  once were on fire.

It feels like absolute failure.

Where I like it… October 6, 2010

As many of you females have, I received the following message on Facebook from a friend:

“OK ladies here’s a game, like the bra color game which was a total sucess and we had men wondering for days what was with the colors and it made the News. Well this game has to do with your handbag, where we put our handbag the moment we get home for example “I like it on the couch”, “I like it on the kitchen counter”, “I like it on the dresser” well you get the idea. Just put your answer as your Status and nothing more than that and cut n paste this message and forward to all your FB female friends to their inbox. The bra game made it to the news. Let’s see how powerful we women really are!”

A little background info for any non-facebookers out there. Several months ago there was a onslaught of females updating their FB status with a single color. The intent was supposedly to share what your bra color was in an effort to raise awareness about breast cancer. The effect it had was apparently it made the news. Personally the effect it had on me was  it caused me to rage. I love fb. I love social networking. I adore being able to reunite, connect and share my life with people who mean a lot to me. I detest cancer as much as we all do. Especially in light of the events during this last year. However, I despise stupid campaigns that take energy away from fighting what really matters. From actually DOING something. I get cranky about people wearing pink and thinking it’s somehow making a difference. So I was down right livid that somehow people were equating updating your fb status with a single color to fighting breast cancer. You want to really make a difference?  Then donate money. Donate time. Donate energy. Real energy. Not a status update.

So now we have a new game. That’s supposedly supposed to “show how powerful we women really are”. Once again, it’s using sexual innuendos to draw attention to ourselves.  Well how about this. Do you know where I like it? I like it in the voting booth. How’s that? Do you want to really show how powerful women are? Then how about you get out and vote.  How about you encourage others to do the same. How about you donate your Facebook status to informing other women about issues that should matter to women. Health care, education, child care, etc. If we got out and voted as much as we update our status update, think how powerful THAT would make us.

http://www.idahovotes.gov/vinfo.htm

Lessons from Shimoni: Part Two August 2, 2010

My grandpa is the one who really got me thinking about what exactly it is that I brought home with me from Kenya. I was explaining to a friend the other day the changes you might make after having an experience like this. She has always wanted to do something similar, but fears she would feel pressured to make huge alterations to her life when she returned. So her question was “what do you change after experiencing all of that?!” It’s a legit question. What do you change after you realize that every single facet of your daily life is a privilege. I finally found the words I’d been looking for and explained to her “it’s not about how it changes the way you do things. It’s about the way it changes who you are”.  So here is one way that I hope Kenya has changed who I am.

When I was young I was terrified of most things. I’ve always had what I describe as an anti-need for speed. I’m completely happy keeping both feet on the ground, moving at no more than a moderate pace. I worry about everything. It must drive my loved ones mental to listen to all the things that concern me on a daily basis. In my best state it’s something to laugh about. Someone is 15 min late and I’m convinced their car broke down or they need some kind of assistance. At my worst moments, it consumes me. I can’t turn my mind off and I start worrying about everything that could ever possibly happen to anybody in all of history.

You can see how how this type of worrying would interfere with a small child being the way small children should be. I can vividly remember the day that the thought popped into my fascinated 7 yr old mind, that the very decision to eat broccoli or not eat broccoli with dinner could determine whether I lived or died. It sounds hilarious now! But at the time I was fixated on the small decisions we make in our every day lives and the effects they could have on everything we know and love.

When I was trying to learn to roller skate my incessant worrying became debilitating to the effort. I couldn’t stop fixating on the possibility that someone was going to crash into me. I would do this awkward slide my feet forward while twirling my head from side to side attempt at skating. Finally my mother came out and skated with me. She asked me why I couldn’t just look forward, and I confided in her my fear of what could happen. My mother said these words, which stuck with me to this very day, although I’ve never been exactly sure why.

“Just watch out for the people in front of you. The people behind you will do the same”.

At certain times in my life I’ve echoed those words over and over in my head, almost as a soothing mantra. Especially during times when I’m in new situations and feeling overwhelmed. It became incredibly helpful at first when I was learning how to drive, until my instructor broke the news to me that at some point I actually WAS going to have to worry about people behind me. Although I think his wording was more like “Hey Megan, they’re called rear view mirrors. Give them a try,will ya?”.

When I was in Kenya there were several instances where I had to close my eyes and chant this phrase over and over. Certainly when I rode in matatus. Also, when we spent a day snorkeling out on the ocean. It was a choppy day and we’d had a mix up earlier with the locals. I was so far out of my comfort zone that I was starting to let the anxiety gnaw away at my excitement.  I thought of my mother’s words of wisdom, and it struck me as a little strange. I’d never thought about them in this context before. I wasn’t physically moving and having to entrust the others following me. I was on a rickety boat in the middle of the ocean with guides who barely spoke my native language in a place 2500 miles away from anyone who knows me. It was a much more internal journey, and a whole new level of trust I was looking for. I needed to realize that although there was no liability waiver, no life jackets, no counting of people on the boat, no announcement of when we should get out of the water, no slight recognition of the safety precautions I was used to, they were looking out for me. In a system that works for them, and in the best way they know how.

It struck me as an incredible a-ha at the moment. That something so basic could help me finally put some of my worry behind me. That all we really need to do is watch out for the people in front of us. Everyone that crosses our path is in our peripheral of responsibility and we really do have to trust those who are behind us. Thinking back on the last year of my life, the people who have been behind me have had a much clearer view of my route. Not only could they see where I’m going, but also they have  an easier viewpoint of where I’ve already been. They told me things were going to be ok when I couldn’t believe those words to be true. They knew because they could see what I couldn’t.

And sometimes we have to change  the route we take to bring new people into our view. The ways in which you can watch out for people might not be as valuable if you stay in the same place. My skills at drawing Albatrosses and knowing the tune of True Colors are completely taken for granted in the States, but greatly appreciated in Kenya It wasn’t about me helping those in Shimoni, or even about them helping me out. It was just taking care of the people in front of us. Those that come into view at different times in our life.

Thank you to everyone behind me during these last few years. Thank you for seeing where I was going, as well as where I’ve been and looking out for me. Thank you for knowing that this was something that I should do. Thank you for helping me change my view.

Lessons from Shimoni: Part One July 7, 2010

It’s been 4 days since I’ve returned home now. In those days I’ve consumed more than enough calories to make up for feeling hungry for 2 weeks. I’ve almost scrubbed the top layer of dirt off my feet. I’ve managed to brush through my hair at least once (tricky after not bringing a brush with me to Africa), and I’ve stopped scratching most of my bug bites to the point that they ooze. Most of all I’ve spent these days thinking about what a truly remarkable experience this has been.

I stated from the beginning of this trip that I wasn’t expecting to make a difference to Kenya. What I really wanted was for Kenya to make a difference in me. I don’t mean to diminish the work that I did. I think that the work volunteers and GVI staff is doing in Shimoni is incredible and significant. I feel I made a contribution to the momentum already in place by lending an extra pair of hands, an extra mind, and an open heart to their mission. However, I didn’t set out to try to impact Kenya. I wanted to be challenged. I wanted to be educated. I wanted to be stirred.

To be honest, I don’t know what exactly I was looking for. I needed something and I knew whatever it was it wasn’t ever going to come from spending countless years within the bubble of my comfort zone.

I was certainly able to find a challenge and step out of that bubble in Africa. It was difficult not to get discouraged by the obstacles surrounding Shimoni. By our standards they are facing absolute tragedy every single day. This is a place that has an estimated 75% HIV/AIDS rate. The village has relied on fishing as a livelihood for centuries, which has caused havoc for their marine populations. They are losing 1.2% of their rainforest each year due to deforestation. And as of recently they are attempting to fight off oil companies who think there is oil to be found in their ocean. Illness, infant death, lack of food, all just a part of every day life.

The main reason I think I didn’t get lost in that murky river of pity can be attributed to a single activity we did with an after school club called “secret club”. The after school clubs are a fun way for students to practice their verbal English and writing skills. The secret club is identifiable by secret badges, secret songs, secret activities, and a whole lot of secret silliness.

On this particular day the lesson revolved around dreams. The children spent a chunk of time drawing pictures of their dreams, and then they got to share with the class. I silently watched as a class full of primarily uneducated, impoverished, malnourished children sketched images of police officers, futbol players, pilots, college professors, and much more. Suddenly the place I was in seemed far from tragic. It didn’t matter that this school doesn’t even have a proper soccer ball and instead have taped together garbage. It didn’t matter that the majority of them can’t even afford shoes. It was irrelevant that they are all struggling to grasp English, even though it has been declared Kenya’s official language. None of it mattered because they had these enormous dreams that could possibly defeat all odds and actually happen. Suddenly, the only tragic thing I could think of was that I had been getting so wrapped up in the difficulties facing Shinini, that I had missed the beauty of their dreams.

When it came my turn to talk about my own dreams I found myself a little choked up.

“I had a dream of coming to Africa’” I said. “And I’m here”.

I realize now what I saw in Africa, why I felt so compelled to make it happen. I chose one of my oldest dreams and went for it because I needed to witness first hand that dreams really do come true. That it’s ok to have a crazy wish, a wild vision, to take a leap. Because sometimes it really does happen.

I’m certain of that now. I’m certain for myself, and I’m certain for Shimoni. There was a police officer in that room. There was a professor. There was a pilot, a writer, a futbol player and so much more. I’m certain.

Thank you Shimoni for teaching me to always dream big. And thank you to my own community for showing me that dreams really are reachable. Thank you.

Pictures from Kenya July 6, 2010

You can view some of my favorite pictures from Kenya here

I will have more coming, but these were the ones I couldn’t wait to share!

Teaching with nothing June 28, 2010

I expected modest living conditions in Shimoni, knowing that it is a small village with extreme poverty. What I didn’t anticipate was that the schools would be so basic as well. There are three schools in Shimoni. A public primary/secondary school, a private Christian primary, and a private Muslim primary. We teach classes in all the schools, which adds wonderful diversity to teaching.

The first school I visited was the private Christian school, which is also the most expensive school in Shimoni. The school was literally a shack by our standards with nothing in it but a old chalkboard and desks. The students sat three people to a desk and they were so crammed into the room that they literally had to climb over each other. I soon learned that the main reason this was the “nicest” school was because it had proper walls, which means you don’t have to shout to be heard over the other classes.

The children have nothing but a notebook to write in (sometimes forced to share due to lack of $) and one extremely outdated and AWFUL text book. This sounds like a teacher’s worst nightmare, but in fact it was really challenging and fun to teach with literally nothing. There are not computers, copiers, smartboards, or even projectors. If we wanted to give the class a handout, we had to actually write a copy for each person. It meant we had to get creative on many occasions.

I somehow got dubbed an “artist” among the staff, and I ended up drawing a map of Antartica and Asia, along with images of the regional animals for those continents. It’s really the only way they can ever have a world map.

When we taught about logos, we didn’t have any actual logos to take in. Although Coca Cola is everywhere in Kenya, it’s all glass bottles so there is no removeable logos. So I started drawing. It was frustrating at times not having any resources, but really rewarding at others. It meant we had to rely on all of our individual talents and find a way to collectively pull them.

I learned a lot in Kenya, but one of the most impactful lessons was how much you can do with a little bit of imagination and a piece of chalk.