A list: 40 things my children will fight over.

1. Who gets to turn the page in the book.

2. Who gets to take a bath first.

3. Who gets to take a bath second.

4. Who gets their back scratched longer at night.

5. Who gets buckled first.

6. Who gets more time with Mee Mee and Aunt Jessie.

7. Who gets to pick the TV show.

8. Who picked the last TV show.

9. Who gets the flower cup.

10. Who gets the Elsa-and-Anna-without-a-lid cup.

11. Who gets the Supergirl jammies.

12. Who gets the only Frozen jammies that we have one of (we have two of every other Frozen pair).

13. Who gets to sit on the counter.

14. Who gets to help make the macaroni and cheese.

15. Who gets the Christmas coloring book in the car.

16. Who gets Lambie.

17. Who gets to sleep with the book we read.

18. Who ate more dinner.

19. Who is a better listener.

20. Who gets to hold Noodle on a walk.

21. Who gets to cuddle with which mommy.

22. Who gets to hold the "silver remote."

23. Who is Shimmer and who is Shine.

24. Who is Zach-from-Mako-Mermaid's girlfriend.

25. Who plays the mommy and who plays the baby.

26. Who plays the dog and who plays the dog-walker.

27. Who gets the baby high chair.

28. Who gets the baby crib.

29. Who gets to hang up the phone when we do FaceTime.

30. Who gets the marker.

31. Who gets to sit at which side of the table.

32. Who gets to wear which dress.

33. Who has the better clothing/shoe choices.

34. Who gets their hair brushed first.

35. Who gets their hair brushed second.

36. Who gets the mail.

37. Who gets to climb across the back seat to their seat in the car - Maddie across Izzy's side, or Izzy across Maddie's side? Both is never okay.

38. Who gets the bird feather in the front yard.

39. Who gets to cuddle with Gina's binky - which is a crocheted blanket from when she was a little girl.

40. Who gets to pick the movie in the car. (YES. THE MOVIE IN THE CAR. THESE G.D. SPOILED CHILDREN.)

A Crushing Chore

A quickie...

Upon learning of my re-entry into this creative realm I've been avoiding, a friend of mine recommended the book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert. I'm not big on self-help books, but I will read any book about writing. It arrived yesterday. This is the back cover:

What struck me most about this is the part that says, "Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege." Over the past few years, I've been questioning why we tell stories, and more specifically, why I write.  I know why I don't write - that's simple. But when I am writing, why do I do it? And why do I always feel like it's a thing I should be doing?

For me, writing is the best way I know how to connect to other people. And I'm not talking about specific people - I'm talking about humanity. The best books I've read are books that show that other people feel the way I do, that we actually aren't hurdling through space alone and without instructions. It's that feeling that compels me to create, that urge to do that with other people and for other people. 

What makes it this crushing chore is that writing makes me vulnerable. It forces me to open myself up and dust off the stuff I ignore. I'm ignoring that stuff for a reason. It's not really working that well for me. So... I might as well just sit down and write. So that's what I'm doing.

Perfect vs. Good

"And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good."
-John Steinbeck, East of Eden

I've heard variations of this quote in different places over the past few years, and I love it every time. It's a thing I think of a lot while working, either on my own projects or on projects for which I am getting paid. And lately, it's something I've been thinking of with my kids.

When you give birth to a baby that you conceived with your own body, I imagine you see that baby as an extension of yourself. A mix of you and your partner's DNA, the baby is bound to look like one of you, and probably act like one of you. If you're a perfectionist, chances are, you're going to expect near perfection from that kid. If you did well in school and went to college and graduate school, you're going to expect the same from that kid. If you're smart, you assume your child will be smart, and "smart" might mean different things, but whatever it means, your child's intellect is a reflection of you (or so you think), so you're expecting it to be high.

Of course, not everyone thinks this way, but I'm a part of some mommy groups on Facebook, and let me tell you, a lot of people do. A lot. I think I would've been this way if I'd given birth to my children. It's reasonable. But if you are someone who grew up at odds with your parents, can you imagine how different it might have been if your parents didn't expect you to be something you're not? Imagine if they just accepted you fully for who you are, and concentrated on the strengths you have instead of identifying and trying to correct the perceived weaknesses.

Both of my children had rough starts. Both were exposed prenatally to drugs. Both had issues as infants. With Isabella, they thought she had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Her legs didn't work properly, and one of the first things I asked the social worker after meeting her if she had been tested for cerebral palsy ("I think they tested her for CP..." was the response. Yeah, this wasn't a stressful time at all.).

It seems strange to say, but coming by children this way made me re-think what success is. I grew up with a natural inclination to want to learn. I loved to read, I loved school (except for 5th grade - 5th grade sucks), I loved being good at school. I was a smart kid. It was my thing. My mother never pressured me to do well in school - I just wanted to. And I did. She was mystified. My sisters were the same way. I think we were this way because my mom respected our autonomy - she knew we weren't her, and she was pleased to let us be who we wanted to be and who we were. (My mom is pretty great.)

If I'd given birth to my kids, I don't think I would've been as good at this as my mom was. But because I came by kids the way that I did, I am focused on them being the best they can be, not the best *I* think they can be. It turns out, Isabella is a lot like me - she loves learning, she loves to read, she likes solitary, quiet activities like drawing and coloring. She is incredibly bright and curious and thoughtful. Besides her 4-year old outbursts, she tends to approach things pretty logically. I'm not worried about her. Not yet, anyway.

And then there's Maddie. She is restless and physical, and runs almost solely on emotion. She is strong-willed (read: bossy, stubborn) and has trouble coping when things don't go her way. She doesn't want to learn how to do things - she just wants to know how to do them. When she has to take time to learn, she gets annoyed. Isabella likes the journey of learning - Maddie is only interested in the destination, and fuck the journey. She is strong and coordinated - she picked up jump-roping immediately after she tried it. She is tireless on the playground. But when it comes to actually sitting down to work, she has trouble. She answers questions without thinking. She looks at words and guesses what they are instead of actually trying to figure them out. She's more interested in competing with Isabella on who gets to turn the page as opposed to what is happening in the story. She seems like she's listening to you, but can't remember what remotely what you just read or what you just explained to her.

Every single morning, I tell Maddie the same thing: "Take your time and do your best, and treat other people how you would like to be treated." Every morning. And then I kiss her and hug her and tell her I'm proud of her. So yesterday, when I picked her up from school, I asked her if she learned anything at school. Usually she says she doesn't remember. But yesterday, she said yes.

"What did you learn?"

"The golden rule."

I was excited. "What is the golden rule?"

"Treat other people how you want them to treat you."

"And who says that to you every single morning?"

"Um... nobody."

"Maddie. What do I say to you every day before you go to school?"

"Um... I don't know."

FACE PALM.

Also yesterday, I found some test scores in her backpack. Her first test scores. Yes, she's in kindergarten. She is just barely at level or under level on everything. It appears that the mark "X" is the one to worry about - and she had none of those. All check marks and circles. She is well-spoken but has trouble recognizing sight words and words that rhyme. She seems to be good at geometric concepts but has trouble with other math concepts.

It's just information. It's just letting us know where she is. She's the youngest in her class. It's natural for her to be behind the other kids. Still, there was a moment as I was looking at those scores where I thought, maybe she's just not going to be great at school. Maybe school isn't her thing. As long as she tries her hardest, and as long as we can see she's trying, that's all we can ask for. I don't want to force her to learn how to read at home - if she gets sick of trying, and I push it, she'll hate reading.

All I want is for her to be a successful human. When she's an adult, I want her to have a job she likes. I want her to value herself enough that she only dates people who treat her well. I want her to vote. I want her to care about other people. I want her to make smart, healthy decisions most of the time.

While she's growing, I want to push her but I also don't want to set her up to fail. I want to expect things from her that she can achieve, not things that are impossible for her. I want her to be proud of herself, but not complacent.

I won't demand perfection from her, but I will push her to be good. I hope I can teach her the difference.

Writing

I started and finished something last week.  It was a short story for a competition I paid $45 to enter. Participants were given a genre, character, and subject, and were charged with writing a 2500-words-or-less story in a week.

My genre was "ghost story." Even if I believed in ghosts, which I don't, I would never believe in the idea that ghosts are out to do harm to people. My instinct was to write a sad ghost story, not a scary one, but the genre description on the website specified that it should be creepy and frightening. So I wrote a ghost story.

I sort of liked my idea, but I was hating my execution. I waded through that story like it was sewage. I'm usually sort of happy with some of what I write, but at the end of this story, I had a real thought that I should just not write anymore, which spiraled into this helpful brainstorm about how I've been praised on my writing my whole life, and how it's one of the only things I think I'm good at, and maybe The Only thing other people have consistently told me I'm good at, but I just don't do it at all, I don't make time for it, and how maybe I've just been wrong about this huge part of me, that I'm actually NOT any good at writing, and...

Because I had this inkling that the idea was good, I decided to put my insecurities aside and show the story to a few people, with the hopes they might be able to offer constructive criticism. I've never been this reluctant to show people my writing. I just hated the story, and was embarrassed that this is what I'd come up with for this contest. I showed the story to other writers, and at least one of them loved it. The other ones had very positive things to say and nothing negative to say. One of them agreed that it was a draft and not a finished story, but that it was a very good, solid draft.

So, the story will live to see another draft. And I'll live to see another day as a writer, internal critic be damned.

Paris, Syria, and courage: a brain dump

I wrote most of this on the Tuesday after the Paris attacks. I spent the last few days deciding if I should edit to make it... well, better-written... but I decided not to. So here it is:

I spent at least some of Monday holding back tears. And yes, at least once it was because of the new Adele song, but mostly it was because of everything that is happening far away - Paris, Beirut, Syria. And as if that's not hard enough to stomach, I live in a privileged country full of people who don't realize their privilege, and if they do, they certainly don't want to share it. And we have the news, where people with money are given a voice, and social media, where EVERYONE is given a voice, and I'm not hearing or reading much that is making anything better.

I bet there is a word for what I'm feeling, but I don't know what it is. Despair seems insensitive, in light of the source of the feeling. Frustrated isn't adequate. Heartbroken? Maybe. Hopeless... Hopeless is close. Heartsick. Sad.

I remember the Sunday after the shooting at Sandy Hook, which Anne Lamott called "the end of the world," I went to church. To me, a belief in God doesn't mean anything unless it makes you a better person than you might otherwise be, unless it teaches you how to BE with others. The idea the pastor expressed that Sunday was that so many people were asking, "How could God let this happen?" and the answer was that God was asking the same thing: "How could YOU let this happen?"

It's on us. All of this, everything that happens on this planet, the only habitable planet as far as time can tell... it's on us. And we are fucking it up, royally.

Religion - a belief in something bigger than you - has the power to do so much good, and yet in our hands, it does exactly the opposite. THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS. After spending a lifetime believing in God and going to church, at times more frequently than others, I am presently in a tenuous relationship with religion and I guess with God. I still think a strong faith can be good, as long as the believer does good with it. (Of course, different believers think different things are good and different things are evil... so it's really just a mess.) Pray for Paris? No. We don't need more religion. We don't need more prayers. It's on YOU. It's up to YOU to make a difference.

And who can we look to? Fred Rogers' mom told him to look for the helpers. Okay. We have all of these governors in America, the land of the free and the BRAVE, saying they won't accept any Syrian refugees. Let's forget about the fact that Mary and Joseph were a Middle Eastern couple looking for shelter. Let's just not even mention that. Instead, let's look at this quote, from FDR: "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear." I tell my kids this all the time. "Being brave isn't about not being afraid. It's about being afraid but doing it anyway." This is where we need to step up. This is what my pastor was talking about. This is the stuff we have to do. It's okay to be afraid, but we have to go on anyway and do what is right.

We are so far removed from what is happening anywhere else but here. We are so LUCKY, and we forget it all the time. I almost bitched to a co-worker this morning about somebody taking up two spots in the parking lot and thereby forcing me to park 3 blocks away, and I stopped myself, because REALLY, KATIE?

So maybe this is the difference to be made, for me. Maybe I just work harder to practice a little gratitude. A little compassion. At the end of the day, we are all made of the same space dust. You and me and the guys who blew themselves up in Paris. The people escaping terror and civil war in Syria. We're all the same, just a collection of cells and codes and patterns, more alike than we are different. So maybe I just embrace my own humanity a little better. I'll work on teaching my kids to be good people. And yes, I donated and will continue to donate, but I will also try to remember: remember how lucky I am, remember how brief my time is here.

What will you do?

Donate to UNHCR here.

The Invisible String

The Invisible String is a children's book that I know we have read to Maddie but I'm not sure when. We certainly haven't read it in awhile - we don't own the book, so it's probably been over 6 months. They may have read it at school, but I think it was at the beginning of the year.  

Here's a little bit about the story from Amazon: 

"That's impossible", said twins Liza after their Mom told them they're all connected by this thing called an Invisible String. "What kind of string"? They asked with a puzzled look to which Mom replied, "An Invisible String made of love." That's where the story begins. A story that teaches of the tie that really binds. The Invisible String reaches from heart to heart. Does everybody have an Invisible String? How far does it reach, anyway? Does it ever go away?"

Maddie has been touch-and-go with drop off lately. Some days are hard. Some days are fine. Some days, she skips into the building, waving. Other days, she holds back tears. Still other days, she can't hold them back and they pour out of her.

This kindergarten thing is no joke.

Her teacher has told us that her biggest issue at school is that she's not taking her time, that she is always saying, "I miss my moms," and her day is all about just getting through it to come home. So since then, every day, I tell her to take her time and do her best, and I tell her how proud I am of her, and I remind her of how brave she is. I try to remind her of something exciting coming up, like soccer or girl scouts or pumpkin carving.

Yesterday, I was able to see her in class, helping another student who was having trouble writing his numbers. So last night, I told her how proud I was of her for being a good friend to him, for being helpful, and that it's important that we treat other people how we want to be treated. She is actually a pretty shy kid, and she is the youngest in her class, so I was impressed to see her on the way to school this morning saying hi to at least 5 kids who were also walking to school. "Hi Tyler!" "Hi Sophia!" "Hi Finn!"

She seemed to be in a good mood, so I had a good feeling about drop off. Sure enough, as I was leaving, I was about 15 paces away from her, she turned and looked at me and made a motion with her hands like she was pulling something near her heart, and she said, "Do you feel my string?"

That. Kid.

So THIS is what it feels like.

There was a time I thought I could be a stay at home mom. I fantasized about the idea of getting to spend all day with the kids I was dreaming about, teaching them everything, playing with them, taking them to farmers markets and watching them feast on fresh fruit that they craved, doing art projects with them, and taking lots of pictures of all of this and putting those photos in organized albums and showing the kids those albums on rainy days.

And then I had kids. Or... in my case, GOT kids. 

And also? It doesn't rain here.

So I haven't had even the tiniest urge to stay at home with my children since they became my children. This isn't a lack of love. In fact, it's love that makes me know I need to be away from them during the day so that I can tolerate them at night. They are beautiful, perfect girls, and I love them so much it makes my heart ache, but they are difficult and stubborn. And, it turns out, so am I. And life is incredibly difficult and isn't what you see on Pinterest or even Facebook. 

Something else I've learned about myself is I like working. And I think it's important for my kids to see me happy and fulfilled, and for me, having a career is part of that. This is also why I don't feel guilty for taking a sketch-writing class, or taking a full Saturday away from them to direct a play for an instant theatre night. I know I need to be creative in order to be happy, and I want my kids to have a happy mom. 

I was not a happy mom this morning.

This has been a big transition week for us. Isabella started at a new pre-school and Maddie started summer camp at one of the elementary schools in our new neighborhood. Isabella has taken to her pre-school like a duck to water, but the transition has been a little more difficult for Maddie. Maddie is a creature of habit and structure. Those are the things she needs for her life to make sense to her. I have started her at a daycare and then a pre-school, and I have never had any real qualms about leaving her at those places. I knew both places well, I knew how their days were structured, and I knew she would thrive there and I was right. And I love being right.

She starts kindergarten in August and I've been EXCITED for this. People have asked me if I'm "ready" for it, and I'm always like, YES, I'm ready. Are you kidding? She's going to learn how to READ and we get to shop for school supplies! This is going to be amazing! I've gotten her excited about it. Any time anyone asks her about it, she grins widely and starts jumping up and down: "I'M GOING TO KINDERGARTEN!" I didn't understand why everyone was asking me if I was ready for it, or if I was okay with it.

And then we dropped her off at her first day of summer camp. Gone were the gentle pre-school teachers who bent down to say hello to her and held her hand into the classroom. Gone were all the kids littler than her, younger than her. She was the youngest there on the first day we dropped her off and the classroom was FULL of kids of all ages, up to maybe 10. The teachers were really just monitoring their activity. We had to sort of encourage one of the teachers to take Maddie under her wing so she was okay with us leaving. They assured us that she would break off into her own class with kids her own age at 10am, and that this zoo of a classroom was only a morning and late afternoon thing.

It occurred to me that day that this would be her life now. She's a kid. She's not a baby. This is the deal. And we picked her up that day and she'd had SO MUCH FUN and she was exhausted because GUESS WHAT? THEY DON'T MAKE THEM NAP! (HASHTAG AMAZING) She couldn't tell us about any friends she'd made, but she did say she had fun, so yay! No more worrying on my part!

And then this morning happened. She had a rough morning. Which made Gina and I have a rough morning. (Oh and also, Gina and I didn't sleep well last night, and not for any fun reason, just because sleep can sometimes be an elusive bitch.) She told me she didn't want to go to summer camp because it's "too long." (That's where the lack of a nap is biting us in the ass - she's at summer camp the same amount of time she was at pre-school, but now she's not sleeping through any of it.) So when I dropped her off this morning, I hugged her and she held on tighter than usual and told me she didn't want me to leave. I finally got her to walk away from me, and Isabella and I made it all the way up the hill and almost to the car when I heard Maddie SCREAMING for me. I turned around and saw her running toward me with her arms out, screaming "MOMMY! MOMMY!" The teacher explained, "She said she didn't get to say goodbye to you." So I picked her up and held her and she cried and said she doesn't want to go to summer camp anymore, she wanted to go home, she didn't want me to leave, and on and on and on. This lasted for maybe 10 minutes. She's never been this reluctant to leave me, ever. And when I finally got her to let me leave, she walked back to the classroom with her teacher, crying for me still, and I had to walk away from her, and I was crying, and some dad said hi to me and my broken voice managed a "hi" back but I'm SURE he knew I was crying... 

And what I felt in that moment was guilt. Full mommy guilt, unlike anything I've felt before. Sure, I've felt like I'm doing the mom thing all wrong. That's not what this was. This was me feeling like she needed ME and I couldn't be there for her. This was me, for the first time, wishing I could stay home with her during the summer, wishing I could let her have a lazy summer before kindergarten, watching cartoons and playing outside and going swimming. Wishing I could let her have ME all to herself. That is all she wants. And I'll probably never be able to give that to her. I know it'll get easier. I know she just needs to get used to this new place and new friends. And I know this is what the rest of her life will be like. She'll be in new places plenty of times, and will need to use what she's been taught by US to manage those situations. 

Still - this is not an easy day.

First day of summer camp - 6/16/15

Mother's Day: Year 2

It doesn't seem like a year ago that I posted this about my first Mother's Day as a real mom. At the same time, it somehow seems like a lifetime ago, because my life has changed so dramatically since then, and nowhere moreso than in the Motherhood Department. I remember then being overwhelmed and frustrated, but joyful and thankful and most importantly: in control.

That has changed, of course. If you think parenting an 18-month-old is hard, imagine adding a 2.5 year old suddenly to the mix. It's sort of like that science experiment you did in middle school (or in my case, you saw someone do on TV) where you pour the vinegar into the volcano and it "explodes." It's that - with human beings. I think everyone's journey to motherhood is different, and everyone's experience as a mom is different, but I find that MY experience seems especially different in that there are very few - if any - people I know that became mothers in a similar way to me. And I know every mom's life is full of "shoulds" - I should feel this way, I should do this, I should think that, this should happen this way - but sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in shoulds, shoulds that I can't even say out loud, shoulds I think no one else (except Gina, of course) could possibly ever understand.

But here's what I've learned over the last year - it doesn't matter what the shoulds are, because life keeps moving forward. The girls keep growing - they keep entering and exiting developmental phases, and then sometimes entering them again. But this is how it is. This is what we have, and WE are what THEY have. I am what they have. I'm tired. I feel never-enough. I feel a million things at once and sometimes nothing at all. And the whole time, they are just here, growing and changing - emotionally, physically, mentally. They say things like, "Mommy, your nails are so beautiful," and "Come to me, mommy," and "Fuck."

Yep. I'm sure I'm doing a million things wrong, but somewhere in there, something is right.

'

Fever

Conversation with Gina yesterday in Target:

Katie (passing the baby section): I know it's only been 2 days since we've declared Isabella potty trained, but baby fever struck me the MOMENT I realized she's pretty much out of diapers. Like... it's suddenly as bad as it was when we didn't have any kids at all.

Gina: (laughing) Yeah, I get it. 

Pause.

Gina: (dead serious) But we do. Have kids. A lot. All the time.

What is this feeling?

I’m having that feeling again. A feeling which is not unfamiliar but not nearly familiar enough. It creeps up when I’m reading a particularly great book, or feeling inspired by a great article or interview, or listening to a new song I’ve just discovered that is lyrically perfect, often in its deceptive simplicity. All of those things have happened just recently, all at once: the great book is Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt – the metaphors! The word choice! The ridiculously rich main character, so complex and layered and flawed! I’m about halfway through the book and am obsessed!; the interview is the GIRLS panel last night at the Academy – envy at their youth and envy that they’re CREATING, and something that I think is pretty great at that; and the song is I Don’t Wanna Break by Christina Perri -  “I just wanna love you, don’t wanna lose me, don’t wanna lose you, if it gets harder then I don’t wanna break all alone…” sometimes a song just takes you to a time in your life and you combine the lyrics with a catchy tune and it throws you, quick and rough-like.

The overture to this was waking up one morning a few days ago before everyone in my house was awake, and the windows were open and it smelled like summer at dawn. The birds were chirping and the blue-gray light bled all over my living room, and I felt a surge of possibility.

So what is this feeling? Well. It’s this: I want to read all of the books – fiction, non-fiction, short fiction, flash-fiction, novellas. I want to read your journal. Yep, yours. I want to watch all of the movies and television shows. I want to consume all of the comic books and graphic novels. I want to see all of the paintings in all of the museums. I want to go to all of the panels, I want to be obsessed with everything that’s ever been created. I want to hear all of the music and read all of the lyrics. I want to read all of the poetry, maybe even memorize it. I want to discover all of the new bands and I want to go to the open-mic nights and I want to see all of the comics. I want to re-read all of my favorite books all at once.  I want to have lunch with you, all of you, one at at time and I want you to tell me about everything interesting that’s ever happened to you.

I want to write. I want to find stories to tell, and tell them. I want to create things people are obsessed with. I want to create things I’M obsessed with. I want to take pictures and learn photoshop and print pictures and frame them and hang them up. I want to figure out how to put into words how beautiful my girlfriend is, I want to find the right word to describe the color of her eyes. I want to write down every single word that I love, and I want to figure out how to use them in something I write. I want to learn how to construct metaphors – can that be taught? I want to blog and tumble and tweet. I want to take classes, go back to school to be all of the things I ever wanted to be – doctor, lawyer, writer, teacher, astronomer, marine biologist, actor. Filmmaker. Screenwriter. I want someone to shackle my ankles to a chair in front of a desk in a quiet room with a computer and force me to sit there for 4 hours, 6 hours, 8 hours, however long it takes until I’ve written something worth working on a second time, a “shitty first draft.”

I want to make sense of everything.

Of course, there is never time for this. Not for all of this, anyway. But there has to be time for SOME of it, right? If I could bottle this feeling, it would change my life. For now, I just let myself feel it, and let it move me to tears just a bit, and hope that if I keep reading and listening and working and writing – even just a little bit – the feeling won’t be so much of a stranger.

Brown-eyed Girl

"I want blue eyes like Isabella."

I couldn't understand what she was saying at first. Maddie always wants what Isabella has, and usually gets it because she's difficult to reason with (because THREE YEARS OLD and AUNT OF THE YEAR). We were out to dinner, and I thought she was saying blue ice, a la Walter White, but it didn't make any sense because no one had any blue ice.  No one had any blue anything - we were at a Mexican hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The Corona label was blue, but nothing else.

She pointed to Isabella's face. "No, I want blue eyes like Isabella." She asked for it as though she wanted the same kind of plate Isabella had, or the same stuffed animal, as though it was something I could easily give her, and why wouldn't I, because she had asked so politely?

I hugged her. "Oh honey, you have brown eyes. You have beautiful, perfect brown eyes."

Her lip quivered and she looked into MY eyes. "No, I want BLUE eyes like Aunt Katie and Isabella." I pointed out that Aunt Gina has brown eyes too, but that wasn't good enough for her in that moment. She cried real tears at the inability to pick her eye color. Gina suggested we ask Dr. Jordan the next time we see her if she and Isabella can switch eyes, and I said I'd pretend to switch with her right now. She (magically) calmed down.

I'm not ready for this. I'm not anywhere near ready to hear this perfect little girl complain about her body in any way. And about her eyes of all things! Arguably one of her best features. Shaped like her mother's and the color of her father's, they are large and deep and expressive.  They are the strongest indicator of her mixed ethnicity. She's all big-and-round-headed just like her mom and her aunts were when they were babies, and she's got the chubby cheeks and the ridiculous grin we all had too, but her eyes - they are what set her apart, in the best way. They are the brown eyes people write about and sings songs about. When she's an adult (like 30 or so, because she's not allowed to date before then), her partners will fall in love with those eyes.  I fell in love with those eyes the minute I met her. And no matter how big she gets, no matter how far away from me she is, whenever I see her, I'll be able to look into those eyes and remember the little girl that changed my life and made me whole.

I'd try to reach up and grab a star for her if she asked, but I'd never change her eyes to blue even if I could, no matter how much she begged. They're just too perfect as is, and I know I won't be the last to tell her.

 

Merry Christmas from the depths of my anger

Christmas Eve 2012, our first with Isabella, found me at the CVS Minute Clinic getting tested for strep throat. I remember still having the thought that I'd make it to the 11:00 church service that night. Of course I did not make it, instead downing tea and whiskey trying not to make that the Christmas of the Needley Throat. In the exhaustion of the next day's events (and feeling the stress of the past month finally lifting from me), I cried to my mom about how grateful I was that she and my dad, despite never having a ton of cash, ALWAYS found ways to give us wonderful, memorable Christmases. My first Christmas as a mom was my most exhausting one, no doubt, but the joy I felt Christmas morning was so unlike anything I'd ever known, it left me a sobbing mess.

This year, with two kids living with us, I knew Christmas would be a little more stressful, but I knew Christmas morning would come and I'd have double the high. In 2013, we officially joined All Saints Church in Pasadena, and we actually started making church part of our weekly routine in September, so for the first time since I left Ohio 13.5 yrs ago, I had a church in my new hometown to not only go to on Christmas Eve, but one where I felt HOME. Some of my favorite Christmas memories include church on Christmas Eve, and I was excited to take the girls this year.

I know all of you other moms have impeccably organized calendars, white boards full of reminders about who is to be where and when, and you rarely if ever mess up a time somewhere. I'm not that mom, despite my best efforts. So I thought the family service on Christmas Eve was at 5:30. That was the plan, to take the girls to the 5:30 service. 

All Saints is a huge church, so you have to arrive early on holidays to even get a seat. They do eventually close the doors if they reach capacity, which the do for almost every holiday service. So we got there around 4:45, armed with coloring books and snacks for the kids.

Christmas angels

Gina held our seats while I ran around with Maddie, because the best way to get her to behave is to force her into exhaustion. She eventually gets too tired to put up a fight. There weren't a lot of other kids there - turns out, the family service had been at 3pm. I didn't want to put them in the church-provided childcare that day, and neither did Gina. They go to childcare every Sunday - I wanted them with us on Christmas Eve. Most of the parishioners commented how beautiful they looked, how sweet they were, yada yada yada. They held it together really well during the service - they were super fidgety and asked a few questions out loud, and Maddie sang Happy Birthday to Jesus at a few inopportune times. I excused myself and Maddie after the sermon at some point when I felt she was too restless. We ran around a bit and came back. Overall, they were great for being 2 and 3.

As we were leaving, we got more compliments on how cute they were. We went across the street to Pasadena City Hall to check out the Christmas tree. As the kids were running around and I was trying to snap some pictures, I heard a voice behind me, loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough that I wasn't sure it was directed at me.

"You know that place you just were, All Saints? They offer childcare." 

I turned around to see a woman who was approximately 175 years old. Her son or grandson was with her and he had a look on his face like "Just go ahead and shoot me now." 

"I know," I said to her. "We wanted them in church with us."

"Well, they were very noisy." 

I'll be screwed during the zombie apocalypse because my real fight instinct takes way too long to kick in. The phrase "What I SHOULDA said was..." is all-too common in my phrase ammo. 

"Yeah, well, they're kids."

"Well, it was very distracting." 

"Well, they are parishioners too." The grandson/home health aide nodded, clearly on my side, begging me to have mercy on him. At this point she was walking away, and this is when my fight instinct finally kicked in. I yelled after her, "IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE!" She mumbled something else and it was then that I lost it. I yelled at my family to get in the f*cking car, we were going home. 

I got in the car and slammed the door and started sobbing. Gina took over with the kids and got them into their car seats while I sat helpless in the front seat with my head in my hands. "Aunt Katie, are you so sad?  What happened to Aunt Katie?" was what I heard from Maddie.  "What happened to mommy?" from Isabella.  "Some old bag was mean to mommy at church," Gina said, which made me laugh for a moment, but it did nothing to curtail the 90 minutes of utter despair I felt on the ride home and once we got home.  Christmas, my absolute favorite time of the year to be a mom, re-experiencing the magic with my children, and I was a ball of rage. All of the small stresses of the past six weeks flooded over me, and I was hit with a familiar feeling I try to ignore, that NO ONE knows what it's like to be where I am, where we are, mothers by law but not biology, trying to be just as much to those girls as their biological mothers would be if they could be, and always feeling like I'm falling short, that their tiny minds are already racking up resentment toward me because I yell at them too much, I lose my patience, I cry, I get frustrated and annoyed, I expect more from them then they are able to give, and on and on and on and on.  I was sunk, for ninety full minutes, during dinner and bath time and bed time.  

Footy jammies! Come ON!

Wine helped. Going through the motions helped - we gave them their Christmas jammies, we read "Twas the Night Before Christmas," Gina rocked Isabella as I cuddled with Maddie until I felt her fidgety little body relax and drift off.  I emerged from the depths slowly, like a hibernating animal sniffing for the first signs of spring.  I began to regret my anger, to regret allowing some million year old lady ruin my Christmas, ruin my kids' Christmas.  But the great thing about kids this young is they forget stuff like this quickly, and as we slept, Santa brought a bunch of presents, and when they woke up, Christmas happened just like it was supposed to for them, a morning full of cinnamon buns and presents and magic and "Looky! Look what I got!" As long as their Christmas is good, mine is good.  And it was lovely. 

What is still the most annoying to me is THEY WERE ACTUALLY REALLY WELL BEHAVED IN CHURCH!

No really, I'm over it.  Promise.

"Whoever you are, where ever you find yourself on the journey of faith, you are welcome here." -All Saints Church

"And he said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." -Matthew 18:3

Yes, and...

Can we just take a moment to acknowledge how perfectly gorgeous Tina Fey looked at the Emmys on Sunday?

Good gracious.

I've been spending a few minutes here and there over the last few days trying to figure out how I could justify putting this picture up here.  While I'd love to just be able to put up pretty girls on here for your viewing pleasure (and mine), I feel like I need a reason.

Not having Tina Fey on my TV every week has not made me forget about her, but I don't think about her as much as I used to, but seeing her in this form-fitting blue dress has left me with little else to think about. There is one part of Bossypants that always sticks with me and it's when she's talking about doing improv, and how one of the main rules is that no matter how the scene starts, your job as a fellow improv player is to say, "Yes, and..."  So no matter what world your partner is creating, you have to agree to it and add something to it.  I remember her talking about how this has helped her on every level of her life, from her professional to her personal life.  I re-downloaded the book on my iPad this morning so I could search for this section and find out exactly what she had to say.  It is more fitting to me now than I even remembered:

"To me, YES, AND means don't be afraid to contribute.  It's your responsibility to contribute. Always make sure you're adding something to the discussion. Your initiations are worthwhile."

This comes as I'm a little bit more than knee-deep (maybe thigh-deep) into a journey of trying to find my way back to writing, trying to figure out why it is that I write... or more appropriately, why it is that I don't write, and why it is that I want to write.  A lot of little things I've been coming across lately speak of "responsibility" - to yourself, to the world, to your artist. I'll now add this to the list.

I am certainly not one to argue with Tina Fey.

Do the right thing

Once Maddie came to stay with us full time, parenting went from a Very Manageable, Enjoyable Job to High Stress, High Stakes Career.  Isabella had been such an easy kid - very mellow and adaptable, somewhat ornery at times, but overall, a breeze.  She had a set bedtime and she rarely woke up before 6:45 in the morning.  Gina and I thought we were getting away with murder, basically - we had this cute kid who admittedly arrived with a bit of trauma but who seemed unaffected by said trauma.

Maddie alone is a tough kid - beautiful and sweet but with a temper running in her bloodline she sometimes can't control. Alone, both kids present their own challenges...toddlers are difficult, as a rule. Together, they are maniacs. They are lunatics in adorable little-girl bodies. 

Parenting two children this young is not something I would have ever avoided on purpose; however, it is also not something I was prepared for.  Would it be different if the new child that had arrived had been a newborn?  I'll never know.  And I don't have time to think about it - my life is now full to the brim with transitioning the girls to the next part of the day: asleep to awake, morning at home to morning at daycare, daycare to car, car to home, home to dinner, dinner to bath, bath to bed, mommy to Jack Daniels, and so on.  These transitions are never consistently seamless, despite our best efforts.  Our daycare provider suggested bringing something to entice them into the car so that we could avoid the screaming fits from one or both if she couldn't open the door, or shut the door, or climb over the other's car seat to get to her own, or buckle herself in (ISABELLA HELP YOU!  ISABELLA DO IT! - News flash, you'd help me a whole lot by SITTING THE EFF DOWN and letting me BUCKLE YOU IN LOVE YOU MEAN IT OKAY?).  So one day when I had a little extra time, I ran home before going to get them and I secured some pretzel sticks for them.  They are ravenous little beasts right after school and I thought maybe a small snack would help.  It turned into Isabella having some pretzel left that Maddie wanted, and Isabella wouldn't give it to her (even though she wasn't eating it), and Maddie didn't regain control of her wits until about an hour and a half later. And then there is bedtime, which admittedly is getting better (Maddie is starting to fall asleep to songs and rocking instead of Rizzoli & Isles), but it is such a process, and there are no rules, and Gina and I end the night barely awake at 10pm, wondering what we are doing wrong, if we are doing ANYTHING right, and if we are ever again going to have a life that doesn't include trying to console a 3 year old because her 2 year old cousin flushed her poop without her written permission.

It's hard.  There is yelling.  Lots of yelling.  By me, by Gina, and by them.  I don't want to yell at them, I know yelling is my temper tantrum, but it usually WORKS and it makes me feel better.  I say stuff to them, try to reason with them, in a way that makes absolutely no sense.  I ask them insane questions - "Why would you do that?" Answer: I am 3 or I am almost 2 (depending on the kid), I make no sense whatsoever, haven't you figured that out yet, you fool?  And then my favorite is when they have a case of the "MINE!s", we are both known to say something like, "You know what?  NONE OF THIS IS YOURS!  It's all MINE and I let YOU play with it, so calm down!"

We both have college degrees, you guys.

They say you should be the person you want your child to be.  I'm not there yet, and I can see it when Maddie plays with her babies and gets right in their face and says, "Stop it! Nap! Quiet!" in the sternest voice a three-year-old can muster.  I can see it when Isabella looks at her milk (HER MILK) and says, "Stop it, milk!" in her quiet, authoritative voice.  And I can see it in how they talk to each other, when Isabella tries to shut the door (there is a no-shutting-the-door rule in our house (lest fingers get caught) that is broken every six seconds), and Maddie goes up and grabs her by the arms and says, "NO, Isabella, no shutting the door!"  It's in moments like this that I know I'm just screwing them up, and they will grow up talking about their mean mommy/auntie, and by then, therapy will be like $2000 an hour.

Inevitably, the tears come.  You get to a point where you are too angry and too tired to even yell, and the tears start falling if for no other reason than your body forcing you to just CLOSE YOUR EYES for a minute.  About 30 minutes after we got them home from daycare on my 35th birthday a few weeks ago (a birthday I was NOT looking forward to), I hit my wall.  They were fighting and screaming at each other over I can't even remember what, and there was still dinner to give and a kitchen to clean and baths to administer, and I had nothing. left. and I just put my head in my hands and let the lump in my throat evolve to tears, because just like yelling, tears make me feel better.  They stopped fighting and just looked at me.  Maddie came over to me and put her hand on my arm.  "Aunt Katie, so sad?"  I said, "Yes, I'm sad."  And then, as though it were scripted in a movie, she rubbed my arm, and then leaned her head on my shoulder and said, "It's okay, Katie.  I got you.  No sad.  I got you.  Ssssh.  I got you."

I guess we're doing something right.  Maybe they can get away with bi-weekly instead of weekly therapy sessions?

Autumn and The Method

It's that time of year again. Fall! Well, not technically. But September brings all sorts of fall feelings out in people and I'm no exception.

Fall is the only time I find it hard to live in Los Angeles. Fall has always been my favorite season. Growing up in the Midwest, I used to love everything that it brought... School, football (marching band), my birthday, and the start of the Holiday Season. I love the smell of the trees changing. By the time September rolls around, you might not be ready for winter, but you're ready for a bit of crispness in the air.

In Los Angeles, September means the start of fire season. Just when you are ready for that break in the heat, the heat becomes more relentless; October is often the hottest month of the year. You start to realize that chill in the air you're waiting for isn't coming for another couple of months, and you start to long for the bitter (yes, bitter) cold that comes in January. 

You have to be a bit of a "method" actor in Los Angeles when it comes to seasons. The calendar says September, so you send the kids back to school, you watch football, you buy the pumpkin candles, you order the pumpkin spiced latte... You play the Autumn Game, and eventually, it does start to feel a little like fall, at least in your mind. You buy Halloween stuff and then you get ready for Thanksgiving, and finally the weather starts to cooperate in December, bringing the Midwest fall temperatures you had been waiting for.

And then, when the rest of the country is digging themselves out of snow, you don't feel so "left out" of the whole seasons thing. I'll take a late fall over an Ohio winter all. day. long. 

(To make the lack of cool temps a little easier on the soul, we are headed to the beach today. Fall in LA isn't that bad...)

We'll miss you, Frost.

It's Rizzoli & Isles Tuesday, which is usually a highlight of my week. The best is when I forget it's Tuesday until on my way home from work and then I remember, and then my heart! It SINGS! 

I admit my feelings for this show are extreme, and aside from the obvious reasons for my obsession...

...my true love for this show is hard to explain. I like A LOT of television, but I love this show with the fan-girl fervor of a 12 year old. I admittedly follow (and tweet to) @JaneRizzoli and @MauraIsles on twitter. THEY ARE NOT REAL PEOPLE. BUT I LOVE THEM. 

When news of Lee Thompson Young's suicide showed up in my twitter feed, I felt my face go warm and my stomach drop. Young played Jane's partner, Detective Barry Frost. 

This picture makes him seem like a serious character, but in the show, he's funny and goofy and sarcastic.  He's the Computer Guy - can hack any cell phone in Boston. He also loses his lunch repeatedly at homicide scenes, which is a running joke because, well, he's a homicide detective. 

He's not the lead, but he's a constant. Jane looks out for him like he's a little brother. And now he's gone, by all accounts, without warning - no note, just a quick self-inflicted gunshot. 

I allowed myself to be shocked but wouldn't allow myself to be sad. And then I had to tell myself (and hear some friends tell me) it's okay to be sad. In this world of connectivity with celebrities, we are all so quick to say things like "you cry for a drug addict but not for a soldier." I call bullshit. You cry when you cry. You're sad when you're sad. Sincerity is not for suckers or chumps. I think we need to remind ourselves of that.

So tonight, I mourn for his cast mates and all of his co-workers. I mourn for his mother. And I mourn for a man who everyone said had such a positive attitude and an infectious smile, but who underneath was clearly deeply unhappy. 

And I mourn selfishly for the loss of my untarnished happiness at Rizzoli & Isles Tuesdays. I hate the thought of any sadness penetrating this one little bright spot of my life. Sure, my life won't change that much. I didn't know him. I don't know Sasha Alexander or Angie Harmon (although I've had several dreams that beg to differ). But because I allow them into my living room every week (and sometimes EVERY DAY), I feel a connection to them that I refuse to belittle. I'm allowing myself to be a little sad, to say a little prayer for everyone who knew him, especially his mother. And I hope that the show can still be fun and a bright spot on my week, after everyone has had time to mourn and heal. I think it's what Frost would've wanted.

**Call the Suicide Prevention Hotline if you need help: 800-273-8255**

A little bit country...

My music tastes haven't varied much from high school.  I've maybe leaned a little more toward rock and way from pop in my advanced age, but I still love a good Justin Timberlake or Britney Spears song as much as I ever did.  I'd say my favorite band currently is Muse, but I also love most of the KROQ playlist - Imagine Dragons, Mumford & Sons, Foo Fighters, Nine Inch Nails, Vampire Weekend.  I also still love Dave Matthews Band and Indigo Girls - good lyrical guitar stuff.

But every once in a while, something happens and I just get the urge to listen to A LOT of country.  Sometimes I feel an intense dislike for the genre, but other times, something happens where I crave it. I'm there now (as of a few days ago) and I've been trying to pinpoint what it is that makes this happen, or at least what attracts me to those songs.

I think there's just something about being told a story in a song that sometimes I need.  Sometimes I need to just hear a simple tale that involves a Chevy pick-up and a girl in jean shorts and cowboy boots, or a strong man who can't dance and loves his wife.  I need to be reminded of dirt roads and bonfires and acres of land, of running barefoot in the sunshine, long summer days, hot summer nights, houses with big front porches and enormous shade trees, gravel driveways... a small world where you know the people with whom you share your town, and there's no traffic or helicopters or sirens or public transportation, and you can drive with your window down without breathing in the exhaust of 7 million other cars...

I'm sure it's all of this, but above all, it's probably the fact that sometimes, I just need a little Tami Taylor and Tyra Collette in my life.

I'm a Real Mom!

The only constant in my life has been my desire to be a mom.  It's the only thing I've always known I'd be good at. Career ideas have come and gone, but the motherhood itch has been there almost as long as I can remember.

The past few Mother's Days have been kind of difficult for me, because for several years, we were in the thick of a fertility struggle.  Mother's Day would come and I would have to remind myself to concentrate on celebrating my own mom (who is AWESOME) as opposed to dwelling on my inability to start a family of my own.

Now that I am a Real Mom, Mother's Day is surprisingly anti-climactic.  And I've been wondering why that is.  I'm starting to think maybe it's because I felt like a mom for long before Isabella came along.  I'm not sure when it started.

It could've started when I first held my first baby sister, Jessie, the summer between my 2nd and 3rd grade year.  That is definitely when I first understood that I wanted to be a mom some day.

But I think more likely, the day I really became a mom was the day Madelyn was born.  She's not my own kid, but I truly had never before felt love like that, and she completely changed my perspective on my entire life, just like any kid of my own would have done.  I also knew I'd probably be caring for her temporarily, so my body responded in flooding me with all sorts of Mommy feelings.

Some people say that fathers become fathers when they first see their baby born, but mothers become mothers the minute they conceive.  In that case, I became a mother in December 2010, after our first and only successful round of IVF.

I know for sure that a notch on my ladder to motherhood is taken up by going through a miscarriage at 12 weeks in a hospital bed.

It seems I would mark my "becoming a mom" as the day I found out that I'd be Isabella's mom, which was two days before Mother's Day last year.  But we hadn't even met her yet, and nothing was definite, and I was busy researching Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, as the social workers said there was a chance she had that.

Maybe the day I met her was the day I became a mom, but we didn't get to bring her home for another month after that.

Maybe the day we brought her home, June 15, 2012 was the day I became a mom?

Or the day we adopted her?  December 17, 2012?

Whenever it was that I became a mom, what strikes me about this Mother's Day, my first Mother's Day where the world finally recognizes me as a mom, is not necessarily what I feel... it's more what I find myself not feeling.  I don't feel hopeless, depressed, jealous, angry, bitter, or disappointed.  I feel the same way I feel every day - lucky, loved, and happy - and at moments, tired, weepy, and annoyed - and I think this is exactly how being a mom is supposed to feel.

My Coffee Date with Jennifer Carpenter

Since I left Hollywood and moved to Northeastern Los Angeles (like many non-wealthy wannabe-parents-turned-actual-parents), I don't get to see as many celebrities out and about as I used to.  Living in Los Angeles for 13 years has significantly diminished the adrenaline rush that comes with spotting a famous person living Just Like Me, but every once in a while, I'll spot a star and will get stopped in my tracks, and I'll be reminded of just how much I'm enamored with the business of making television and film.

This happened on my date with Jennifer Carpenter at Starbucks yesterday.

I haven't dated much in my life, but my date with Jen (she likes when I call her Jen) went much like any other date I imagine I'd experience.  I was caught off-guard by how HOT she was, which rendered me speechless.  She looked annoyed and completely ignored me.

That's a date, right?

Truthfully, she was walking in as I was walking out.  She wore big shades and an irritated grimace, but she looked stunning.  If I had found the words, I would've said, "Hey! You're fantastic, I love the show!" Maybe if I'd had a few drinks in me, I would've added, "What you're doing with the complexities of your character is fascinating and ridiculously fun to watch." Maybe with more than a few drinks in me, I would've continued.

"You are HOT."

On Jodie Foster

Someone I know only through facebook posted this on her page Sunday afternoon: 

"This morning I'm thinking about sincerity—how deeply seductive it is. This is particularly true in a time in which so many of our social exchanges are constrained by irony and detachment."

I haven't been able to stop thinking about this thought since then, and it's been especially loud in my mind since seeing all of the negative reaction to Jodie Foster's Golden Globes speech.  I called my friend Kathleen, whose opinion I value, and she insisted that I write about my feelings on the speech.  So here goes.

I'm downright pissed at the negative response the speech has received.  Granted, I've been a pretty big fan of Jodie's for a long time, but my anger doesn't come from me being fan.  It comes from me being compassionate.  A lot of people labeled this as Jodie's coming out speech.  Truthfully, she mentioned her partner by name in a speech at an awards luncheon in 2007, so really, among the gay community, she was out.  But unless you're gay or live in Los Angeles, you may not have heard that, so to you, this might have been her coming out speech.

People are calling her a coward, a hypocrite, a lunatic.  Her speech was rambling, people say.  Was she drunk? people are asking.  On meth?  (Because meth is hilariously fun to joke about.)  What was with her?  And what's the big deal, coming out on that stage in 2013 when being gay isn't a big deal and she should've come out a long time ago when everybody else did!  And there's the other storyline of the speech, where people are saying she's a hypocrite because she talks about valuing her privacy.  And still, there are those that talk about how that stage wasn't the time or the place to say the things she did. And on and on and on.

The piece that really got me going is this one  on Huffington Post by Deb Baer.  I feel like she's expressing a lot of what other people are saying.  "Why am I so angry? Because I'm roughly the same age as Jodie, and yet I had the courage to come out exactly 20 years ago."  OH, right.  Your life is just like hers.  You guys are the same age, so you should have the same level of courage.  Because you are the same age, you have the same life experiences and insecurities.  You deal with them exactly the same way.  You both have the American public at large interested in your private life.  

Oh wait.

You guys - everybody is different.  People come out when they are READY to come out and not a moment before.  It's not like Jodie Foster was parading around married to a man.  And even if she had been, it's no one's business BUT HERS.  Everyone is fighting their own battle.  Yes, we should all be out and proud to show America's youth that it's okay to be gay.  But we're not all there at the same time.  We don't all arrive at that place just because you think we should.  A lot of gay people don't want to "come out."  They want to just BE.  They don't want to hide who they are, but they just don't want to have to have that conversation with anyone.  Can you imagine having to have it with the whole world?  This reluctance to have that conversation oftentimes doesn't have anything to do with the fact that we are ashamed of being gay.  It's just a dumb thing to have to tell people out of context.  And for me, I don't want that to be the first thing I'm identified as.  I'm way more than that, as is every gay person everywhere.  

And then there's whole issue with her talking about how she values her privacy.  She is a successful Hollywood figure - there WILL be interest in her private life.  I'm pretty sure she wasn't saying there shouldn't be interest.  All she was saying was that she's not interested in sharing it.  "Well, she's famous, we pay money to see her movies, and she makes a lot of money, so she has to be willing to lose her privacy."  Well, no.  She has been acting since she was 3 years old.  She became famous in the '70s, before Perez Hilton, before TMZ, before Honey Boo Boo.  Do you think she had any idea what she was getting herself into?  Do you think she had any notion what fame would become?  She clearly HATES all of that.  She's allowed.  And you know what?  If you have a problem with that, don't go see her films.  Sure, she could quit acting, she could leave Hollywood... but if it's just this one thing that she hates about her career, why would she walk away from it if there is so much she loves?  Plenty of people love their job, but still complain about it.

And finally, there are the people that are saying she was incoherent, rambling, and her speech started off with an un-funny SNL joke.  I see her as someone who has taken herself so seriously her whole life, has had to do that, and someone who is maybe uptight, but someone who is older now and wants to let loose, wants to be goofy because she's at a point in her career where she can be.  Clearly, she's not great at comedy.  Can't we just look at her at someone who is maybe terrified of being this personal with millions of people, this goofy, but she's doing it anyway?  Why do we need to ridicule that?

After the response this speech has received, can you blame her for waiting this long to publicly address the gay thing?  And Deb Baer thinks she should've come out sooner so she could've saved some kids' lives.  But Deb Baer isn't really helping matters by ridiculing her for coming out "too late."  What are we teaching the kids we say we are trying to help?  That sincerity is for suckers.  That unless you are courageous at the right time, we will mock the hell out of you for telling the truth.  

Can't we just be kind to one another?  Can't we just support this woman who just did something that was difficult for her, even if we think she's silly to be that afraid of it?  Can't we just celebrate that she finally feels okay to talk about this, that she's finally comfortable enough with herself and her life to share it a little bit?  What becomes clearer to me every day that passes in my life is that above everything else, we just need to take care of one another.  

I'm starting to think maybe I should just quit the internet.