Coming Into My Own, part 1

Mindlessly reading Us Weekly this past weekend, I saw that Katie Holmes recently said that she felt she was coming into her own. I’m not a fan of Katie's, but I am happy she extracted herself and Suri from the freaky grip of Scientology, and if coming into her own helped her do so, I say hat’s off! Despite the vacuous inspiration, I have subsequently found myself thinking a lot about the events and periods in my own life which have ushered in or facilitated growth. As if our lives are ladders we climb to reach self-actualization, the rungs represent critical junctures without which we couldn’t progress nearly as well. Some feel further apart than others, and it seems incomprehensible that we’ll reach the next in any reasonable amount of time; others are splintery and weak, the utilization of them unpleasant –even painful- and we hope to move on from then quickly though such is not always meant to be.

I thought back to college, certain my years at Northwestern were the first big watershed event that put me on the right path to really coming into my own. I was so ill-prepared academically, so incorrect about what I thought I wanted to study and be, so unready for my first big heartbreak, so unaware of how good my undergraduate years would ultimately be for me. What I was -due to youth, naivete, the amazing people who surrounded me, the foundation my parents had provided me- was open. High school was not a place or time I enjoyed much, and when I got to college, I realized how much I’d needed a new context, a chance to start over as ME rather than the girl I’d been. Although Northwestern was so tough, its challenge is what pushed me towards a greater understanding of myself and who I wanted to become. I learned not to shy from a challenge but to run with it, daring it to hold me back. I learned that cool is such an insanely arbitrary term that encompasses most anything that is sincere, well-considered, kind, and so forth. I learned that sometimes you have to fail and disappoint yourself and others to learn how to really value what’s important and get serious. I learned what truly great friends are, how amazing sisterhoods of women can be, how horrible heartbreak can feel, how invigorating it feels to be truly engaged in studies that resonate deep in your being.

And though I was still so young and unformed when I graduated, I did have a core that was crystallizing: I had a sense of what I believed, what I stood for, what I would and wouldn’t accept in relationships (both romantic and platonic), who I was. I also graduated with the first real love of my life, a man I would have married had he asked but who I am now so thankful, didn’t. Our break-up was the springboard into the next crucible of my life: my years in New York. I moved to NY suddenly and with little serious thought. I was young, newly single, desperate to get out of Chicago (away from him), and while at a conference for work, I met an executive at a NY-based education marketing firm and convinced him to hire me despite my having NO experience in marketing. He turned out to be a psychotic boss who was also an ego-maniacal, lying alcoholic, but the firm did pay my moving expenses and I was in the Big Apple.

New York is magical, but I would be lying if I said anything other than that my first year there was one of the hardest of my life. I lived with the sister of my ex (it wasn’t as weird as it sounds) and a pothead who ordered weed like it was pizza and once broke our toilet bowl in half. I still don’t know how he managed that, but I do know that running from 85th and York to 94th and 3rd to pee at a friend’s apartment seemed like a hellish eternity. The floor of our 5th story walk-up was so slanted that the freezer door flew and remained open if you shut the front door too forcefully. It was a shitty railroad-style apartment, and I set up camp in the living room with only a “curtain” separating me from the oaf-like pothead. My sense of self was shaky; looking back on that year now almost scares me. I was floundering. The confidence I’d worked so hard for in college swung around me wildly, tantalizingly close but always out of reach.  I remember trying to grab hold of so many things -anything- I thought might help ground and define me, but that year was one I just had to get through. I was on my own, but I never felt secure. A few months after starting work at the marketing firm, an undeniably toxic situation, Iknew I had to leave. With the help of a former colleague, I secured a job at Columbia and gratefully left behind the second, rotten rung of my ladder.

Columbia was a haven. My colleagues there are, to this day, some of the people who mean most to me in the world. I fully credit one with inspiring me to start Em-i-lis; without his hilarious prodding, I never would have done it, maybe never even have thought to. I credit another with showing me how to be a strong wife and partner- you can and should and must expect from your significant other just as much as you put into your relationship. Another challenged my insistence that I didn’t have some degree of disordered eating; she’d experienced it and cared enough about me to say, “hey, I see what’s going on. Stop! I’ll help in any way you need.” And on and on. Their love came at me from all angles, and I healed in so many ways.

During those years, New York became just as important to me. To this day, I still feel energized in NY in a way I don’t anywhere else in the US. My last apartment was a small studio, but it was all mine. Its rent ate up 51% of my income which no financial advisor would suggest is close to optimal, but I had to have my own space, had to know I could. I loved that apartment despite it being a 4th floor walk-up with a creepy basement. I was so flipping independent, and it was amazing.

I remember walking home one December night, tipsy as could be having just been happily out with friends. I passed a bodega with a small Christmas tree lot next door, and although I was dressed in a skirt and heels, I decided that I simply must have a mid-sized Christmas tree. Of course, I also needed a stand, so ended up dragging both back home, through the snowy streets, up all the stairs and through the heavy door. That tree signified so much, especially because –as I realized in retrospect- it never occurred to me NOT to buy it. It never crossed my mind that it might be heavy, or cumbersome, or that I was a single woman in heels schlepping it home at some late hour on a random night. That I didn’t question anything meant everything, and I think that’s when I knew that I was always going to be pretty much OK.

Despite my adoration for NY, I realized after several years that I needed to leave. This critically important third rung was wearing thin. It was hard feeling so financially strapped all the time, and I was coming to think that the city’s dating scene just wasn't conducive to meeting someone I’d want to marry (I had always wanted to be married with kids). I was starting to feel cynical, and I missed being near family. And then I met Tom.

To be continued…

Communication

Though I have learned to be less so over the years, I am, for the most part, an open book and a gal who wears her heart on her sleeve. I will make friends with a wall if we’re standing in line together, and I’ll give pretty much anyone a hug even if it comes as a surprise to him/her. In psychological parlance, I’m sure I’d be classified as an extroverted giver. I love to laugh, I can be loud, I curse a lot, I listen and help as much as I can. I like loads of different personalities. My only real beefs are BS, which I hate, and affected behavior and those who only take- that all just makes me tired.Despite all that extroversion, I’m also quite sensitive, I internalize a lot, tend to blame myself first or at least initially wonder if the fault lies with me in times of conflict with loved ones, colleagues or peers. In most situations, I feel I’ve got to be quite careful with how I say things, how I act. Back to the psych parlance: I know I’d be considered very Type A, perfectionistic, hard on myself. God, I’m such a first child.

That this was OK with T is one of the reasons I fell for him. He has always loved the whole me despite the faults and things I’ve surely had to work on. He’s never judged, never made me feel that part of my personality wasn’t OK, just helped me see that certain aspects need work and refining. Our relationship has encouraged me to be my best self, but that has come from love and support only. What a gift. What we didn’t really know was how to communicate during times of discord. We could laugh and love till the cows came home, but arguing was another matter. I’m a pleaser, he hates confrontation, and so we’d both retreat and things would fester. This is not an uncommon problem in relationships, and we sought guidance and figured out how to express ourselves and listen without (much) defensiveness or anger. Again, what a gift.

As we learned from each other, I simultaneously became more aware of how cautious I was with most others, how cautious most women are with most others in fact. That realization saddened me because it seems to suggest that there’s a wall, subconscious or very conscious, in many relationships -partners, friends, etc- that keeps some degree of real knowing and closeness at bay. If people are afraid to broach points of disagreement, disappointment or upset, doesn’t that preclude the kind of communication and resultant understanding that takes relationships to levels deeper than the surface? If we try to be perky and positive all the time, aren’t we imposing enormous burdens on ourselves while concurrently keeping others at a distance? And those of us who are parents, teachers or who work with younger individuals, what do we teach by not talking through things even when they’re tough, painful, scary?

I’ve written about this before in ways more specific to the cult of silence that makes motherhood so lonely and hard for so many women. If you don’t have anyone to confide in about all the myriad ways in which parenthood is not fun, then you’re left doubting yourself and your experiences, you’re left feeling isolated. It’s not a stretch to map this paradigm of non-communication to other relationships, like marriages, friendships, and those between parents and children.

Life is really experienced in the shades of gray that fall between the black and white bookends of time. In that regard, we should not fear respectful talk about difficult subjects and disagreements when they arise but embrace it, invite it in as an opportunity to grow closer, to enlarge our own perspectives, to learn something new, to become clearer about positions we’ve already taken, about the people we know ourselves and others to be. That is what allows true connection, and that is a gift.

-originally published on 15 January 2012

Gratitude — for health, my children, pedicures and personal growth

Round about 4:30 this afternoon, I started to feel quite on the mend. My babysitter had arrived several hours before, and I’d immediately jumped into bed and fallen asleep as she and O started playing. After I woke, I looked around my room which was in some sort of terrifying state and then organized what I could while in a seated position: folding not a few loads of laundry, finally (successfully!) throwing away half the publications that were taunting me from their “will you ever read me?” piles. I swear y’all, there is some power in writing things down. It’s like the universe now holds you accountable. As you might recall, just last night I pondered to you about my complete inability to winnow through my stacks. And then today, done! Pow! I’ve heard this directive from two people now: my friend, Caroline, and acclaimed cultural/food/cookbook writer, Monica Bhide (whom I was lucky to hear speak and inspire at last weekend’s Eat, Write Retreat). Write down your goals, what you hope and want to accomplish, and in doing so, you keep tabs on, inspire and challenge yourself. When Caroline suggested last fall that I do this on behalf of Em-i-lis, I wrote down 4 goals that seemed of various shades of possibility. Right before my family and I left for Italy in late March, I crossed #4 off the list. Did it feel good? It felt better than that, and I’m looking forward to thinking about what might constitute my next list of aspirations.

Last weekend, Monica took it a step further and pushed us to distill down to a single word, the voice/identity/sense-of-self we want to best define our work, and then assess whether or not our work and our word were complementary or missing one another. As the conference was geared towards bloggers, we were, unsurprisingly, focused on our blogs, but you could easily apply this exercise to any facet of life. My word is authentic which is what I feel (hope!) resonates throughout Em-i-lis. No bullshit, no fakiness, just honest thoughts on motherhood, things political, and loads of good food.

You might already know how much I value openness and honesty, and perhaps this is why it didn’t take me too terribly long to decide on my word. It did take me years to really get to know myself, years more to pare away the layers of identity I’d accrued but no longer wanted or which never or no longer fit. The result has been a real sense-of-self, an honest appraisal and knowledge of who I am at my innermost core. As is most all serious growth, this introduction to ME was painful at times, with loss and failure and disappointment and rejection all swirling around just daring me to stay strong and true to what I felt I believed and wanted. Other moments were blissful or terrifying or thrilling- aha! Finally! Yes! And today, that I can say I think I really know myself -with all the weaknesses and foibles and strengths and hopes and still-to-dos therein- is one of the things about which I feel most grateful. It wouldn’t have been possible without asking and answering difficult questions and it won’t continue to be thus unless I keep challenging myself.

Which brings up another sense of gratitude I feel today: a profound sense of fortune for the children I am privileged to be raising. Some of my greatest growth has come in the crucible of parenthood; its challenges bring most of us to our knees on a regular basis. It is damn difficult to base your plan for facilitating the growth of totally dependent, relatively uncivilized beings into functional, happy, productive adults on your gut instincts and some reading you might have done while pregnant. Raising kids is like trying to play Quidditch while blind, deaf and mute. Good luck catching the golden snitch, folks.

Yet for those of us lucky enough to get through each day with no major injury, insult or issue, you realize that as much as you might be teaching your little ones, they are even more so teaching you. The unconditional love a child has for his mother regardless of how bad her (my) hair looks and breath smells and how sorry she (I) is at making up stories on the fly, takes my breath away at times. We could all learn from this utter lack of care about another’s appearance, the generosity towards our weaknesses they often extend. If you weren’t already, you will probably become infinitely more patient (or need to jump aboard the anti-anxiety medication train) and totally inured to poop/pee/boogers and so forth. You’ll become an ace negotiator (or a complete pushover; I opt for the former, thank you!) and creative at all manner of distraction. Your thoughts about a good night of sleep will change dramatically and you might, during all this, become infinitely kinder to yourself even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

About 5p, I felt like my nausea was at bay enough that I just might take myself out for a pedicure (another thing for which I am enormously grateful today). Traffic was the pits on the way home, and when I got here, both boys were fast asleep. When they sleep, they sleep like mummified trees, so going in and hugging, kissing, cooing over them and fixing their blankets is not a risk. That really makes the whole experience even more enjoyable! Anyway, Jack was in his regular position: white polar bear (once named Princess; now named Polar Bear) laying atop him, face to face, quilt pulled up chest-high (this seems claustrophobic to me, but who am I to judge). And Oliver in his: tucked into the corner of his crib he calls “my special sleep spot” and from which he rarely moves, fingers often wrapped around “my ties”, the ties clasping the bumper to the crib rails.

And I just felt my heart pound with pride and joy and love for these precious little boys who often make me nuts but who just as often make me laugh and smile. Through them and my dear husband (huge feeling of gratitude for that guy), I have come into my own, a late bloomer who long sought the kind of confidence that comes through self-knowledge and who now has a real sense of what gets me up in the morning; I’m lucky to have the latter in spades!

Originally published on 8 May 2012