DailyDebs

On the Hunt

Is there anything more stressful than looking for a job? Probably. These are stressful times we live in. But there are few things that make you feel the professional level of insecurity like being on the job hunt. That’s the position that I am in right now. Thankfully, I am presently employed and working remotely for my old company in Austin (don’t worry, you guys, they know I’m looking for a new job). While still having a job and paycheck takes away some stress, not knowing what the next professional chapter holds puts me in a new state of anxiety. As if this wasn’t bad enough, I know how the sausage is made because I am a recruiter. The shoe is officially on the other foot.

Do you have any idea how many rejection letters I have sent to candidates? Over the course of 5 years in recruiting, it is safe to say that I have given way more bad news than good. Sometimes, I have even accidentally sent someone a rejection letter within HOURS of receiving their application. Talk about a blow to the gut! Man, what an exciting position! I hope I hear back from them soon. Oh, look! An email already… Not my finest moment, but at least they got an email! It gets harder the further along in the process they get. Once I meet them onsite, those conversations become harder and harder. A coworker once joked that I’d probably be really good at breaking up with people if I was single (Flirtation noted, coworker).
He is right, though. I am really good at rejecting people. The trick is to just hit them between the eyes immediately. “Thank you for coming here to interview last week. We got feedback from the managers today and unfortunately, they decided to move forward with another candidate at this time.” Boom. I will sometimes provide light feedback, but in reality, they stop listening after that point. It’s like at the hospital when a doctor talks to the family. According to my reliable medical source, Grey’s Anatomy, Doctors have to say the words “dead” or “died” in order to make people understand. So, I try to tell people they are “dead” to me right away.

Now, here I am. On the job hunt in a new city where my networking resources are surprisingly limited. I’ve had a few good conversations that are moving along, but I’ve also received my fair share of rejection letters as well. Some are deserved. Others are not, IMHO. This is probably the hardest I have looked for a job in 5 years and I feel that Karma is having its way with me. So, in order to restore order in the job hunting universe, I have created this insider’s guide to applying, interviewing, and accepting a job.

Applying:

1) Apply for the job you can do, not the job you want:
Oh, you’re a nurse, but you really want to make the jump to sales? That’s cute. I’m gonna go ahead and reject you while I interview ACTUAL SALES PEOPLE. I know this seems counter-intuitive to everything that Rudy taught you, but you can’t just get the things you want because you really want them. You need to show the recruiter that you have done the core functions of the job before. Maybe you don’t meet the criteria 100% but try to get as many of the tangibles as you can. You are probably going to lose out to someone who has done the job that they are looking for. If you want a career change, try to get more versatile experience at your current company before changing jobs. It shows progression and initiative. As for the nurse that wants to be in sales? Try medical devices first as an entry-level job.

2) Don’t waste your time on a cover letter:
You know how people say that recruiters and hiring managers only take 60 seconds to look at your resume, give or take? That’s entirely true. So, how many cover letters do you think they take the time to read? For me, it was practically none. Resumes at least have bullet points and a predictable template. With cover letters, I have to weed through the endless verbiage and different adjectives for “hard-working”. I actually don’t have time for that. Maybe I am just speaking for myself here, but I have never thought or heard coworkers say “Man, I like this candidate, but they didn’t write a cover letter. Guess she doesn’t want it that bad.” That is a myth. That is a fear-based myth. A good recruiter will try to sell an applicant on the company while strategically weeding them out. If I want to get a good candidate over another company, I don’t have time to read everyone’s cover letter, let alone hold it against them if they don’t submit one. So, if you’re qualified for the job, don’t waste your time.

3) But you should write a cover letter if…
A) You’re relocating and want to let the hiring manager know (because some won’t consider non-local candidates).
B) You have a gap in employment that you want to address before you get weeded out.
C) You were referred by another employee and there was nowhere to say that on an application.

4) Tailor your resume to the position:
Look, I don’t want to knock my people, but recruiters are a simple breed. We want to be spoon fed. I don’t want to guess what your obscure job title means. Trust me, of all people, I know this struggle. My start-up title is “People Operations Partner”. Do you think that companies are hiring “People Operations Partners”?? No! So the FIRST line after that is “Recruiting for…” Also, I make sure to look at the language in the job posting and tailor my experience to that language. They’re looking for a Talent Acquisition Specialist? Then I change my experience to say “Specializing in Talent Acquisition…” It’s not lying. They’re synonyms! It may be small but those changes matter. You’re just trying to get a phone call. That’s it. Do what you have to do to get on the phone and put the time into getting that conversation.

Interviewing:

1) The Recruiter screen IS the first interview:
We are the ones that get your application out of a database and in front of a manager. We are the decider. There is no getting around us (unless you’re a referral, then none of our feedback matters). You need to treat this step as though it’s the last step. So, come prepared. When I ask “did you get a chance to look at our website?” you better not say no. The only thing worse than not submitting a cover letter (kidding) is not preparing for a phone screen. Also, when I tell you what the agenda is for our call, stick to it. If I say “First, I want to tell you more about this role and then we can get into your background, don’t say “Great! Well, I started as an engineer 3 years ago….” Just, listen and do as your told. You also should feel comfort in our unique position in being one of 3 people in the company that knows what the salary range is (The CFO, the Manger, and me). This means that this is a safe place to talk about your salary expectations… but more on that later.

2) Figure out what the dress code is before you show up:
Working at a start-up, there is no dress code, especially for engineers. When I would coordinate interviews, I would make sure to tell people this. Most of the time, it doesn’t hurt to dress professional, but you also don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb. Figure out the difference between business casual and business professional. If you’re wearing a tie, don’t wear a Power tie (men are so easily intimidated by this), and if you’re wearing casual clothes, this doesn’t excuse you from looking presentable.

3) On Time is Late:
You may need to fill out additional paperwork or parking might take longer than expected, so do everyone a favor and just expect to get there 10 minutes early every time. Plus it will give you time to collect your thoughts and put your game face on.

4) Too early is super annoying:
I said 10 minutes early not 20 minutes early. 20 minutes early is obnoxious and awards you no points. Even if the interviewer is ready, they might just be the 1st person on the line-up. So now EVERYONE has to push up their schedule because you were too excited to wait in your car for a few minutes? No. Just don’t do it.

5) Have questions:
Meaningful questions. Questions that the interviewing didn’t just take 10 minutes answering. Questions that MATTER. Not questions like “what is your 401K match” when you’re talking to the manager. Not questions that make it sound like you are not in-line with the company like “why wouldn’t your competitors just do the same thing to beat you?”. Yes, those are actual questions that my candidates have asked. No, they didn’t get the job.

Accepting the Job:

1) Negotiate. ALWAYS NEGOTIATE! But…
Do it early. That first phone screen with the recruiter? That’s the time to talk about salary and overall compensation. The recruiter is there to be your advocate. If your salary range disqualifies you, that’s not the worst thing. That means you have avoided taking a job that is below what you are worth. On the other hand, the more salary information a recruiter can gather from the market, the more ammo he/she has to go back to finance and give a realistic portrayal of what the job market is. Either way, you need to know if you’re in line with the salary. As a great recruiter myself, I will be transparent with candidates and tell them that the position might be below their range and that they could be overqualified for the role. It gives the candidate the opportunity to adjust their expectations or bow out. Also, make sure you ask about ALL aspects of compensation, like 401K match, paid time off, bonus structures, commission, medical and dental benefits, parking, remote capabilities, etc. It might be uncomfortable to bring all this up, but better to know earlier than later. Also, be prepared to be transparent about your own compensation in return. Just know that we *KNOW* that you’re probably lying a little bit. That’s ok. Just don’t lie a lot. (On that note, you should remember that if your salary is funded by the state, anyone can look up what you make.)

1b) On the note of salary negotiation if you want to win someone over, make sure you emphasize that you want this job for reasons outside of the pay. If hiring managers start to feel that you’re only making a move because it might offer you a raise, they will be less likely to give in. That attitude makes you high risk for leaving because another job comes along that pays more. It also leaves a poor taste in their mouths that all that one in a million talk you gave them during the interview process was just lip service. Be grateful, but be stern about what you want and what you need.

2) Always take 24 hours:
Never accept an offer without seeing an offer letter. Also, give yourself time to look through the employment agreement before committing to anything. Even if it’s your dream job, just take the night to think it over. No one will hold it against you, especially if they are a reputable company.

3) Don’t take longer than 72 hours:
Do you have any idea how much time and effort went into finding you?? Do you understand how many bodies were left in the wake of your interview and acceptance? Some even got rejected HOURS after they applied! And you want to wait not one, not two, but THREE days? And I know why you want that time. This is not because you are going through the offer letter. It’s because you are leveraging another offer. Either that or you’re still interviewing. And yes, you have every right to do that, ok? I know that. We all know that. But it’s annoying. So, if you get a job and it’s the job that you want, don’t jinx it by waiting for something better to come along. If a job matches everything you want, make the decision and make it quickly. Good jobs are hard to find.

Another thing you should know? You cannot hide who you are. Interviews are designed to get you to talk because in talking, people reveal who they really are. You might not agree with the feedback that it sounded like you would be bored with the job, but you probably were subconsciously sending those messages through your communication. It might be hard to hear that you came off as abrasive, but it’s probably best that you’re not with a company that feels that way about you. Everyone gets nervous, and interviewers expect that, but they’re not wrong if they see something that you didn’t know you were showing.

So good luck out there, job hunters! And if you know anyone that’s hiring in the greater Columbus market, let me know 🙂

The Move

During the middle of the week, in the middle of the month of January, I stood nervously outside of my bosses door. I had a hastily written letter of resignation, which I could barely hold because my hands were shaking. I took a deep breath and walked in.

“Hey, ya have a minute?” I asked, in a vocal range on par with a 12-year-old.

“Sure! Come on in!” She replied, tilting her head.

I shut the door behind me.

“Oh no. You’re quitting, aren’t you?”

“YES!” I blurted out and immediately started crying. My entire vision of how this was going down was disappearing before my very eyes.

“It’ not you,” I said. “I love it here. Well, this job here, not here here. I’m not quitting YOU. I mean, I’m quitting this job but it’s just…”

“You’re moving to Austin,” she interrupted.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and wiped my tears, then allowed a huge smile to creep onto my face. “I’m moving to Austin.”

That’s really the moment that started it all. I didn’t have to quit my job. I didn’t even have a job waiting for me when I got here. This confused my coworkers, who kept asking me what this “exciting new opportunity” was. I would say that I had some freelancing producing jobs lined up and was talking to a few networks but was really just going to check out the city and see how things went. I did everything I could to avoid saying what they were all thinking.

It’s for a boy. She’s moving for a boy.

A month later, I loaded up my Ford Taurus with whatever would fit inside and drove away from Dayton, Ohio and toward my new life in Texas. It was cold and a storm was coming through and it felt like I was driving away from the clouds as they rolled in. When the highway sign informed me that I was exiting the city limits, I actually cried. I felt stupid for a moment but then I allowed myself to express my emotions about this move. It was a life changing event and shouldn’t be taken lightly. But then I squealed. I actually squealed. I was really doing it and I couldn’t wait for my life to change.

Now, in what feels like a blink of an eye, I’m moving again. I’m turning around and driving back to a state that 9 years ago, I couldn’t wait to leave. There might be tears but there will be no squealing.

We have been talking about moving to Ohio for years, but in the same way you would talk about contributing more to your 401K plan or finally getting your carpets steam cleaned. It’s the responsible thing to do, but is it exciting? Kids changed things big time. Being that far away from family put things into perspective. Finally, my husband had the chance to either go to school in Texas or Ohio and… what is it that Oprah says? Luck is just preparation meets opportunity. Well, this was our opportunity. Aren’t we lucky?

Do I sound bitter? I know I sound bitter. I’m trying so hard to not sound bitter. This move is just hard for me. I feel like my boyfriend is breaking up with me. Even worse, I feel like I found the love of my life and then my dad got a job overseas and we have to move. It’s like how Sandy must have felt at the beginning of Grease after she met Danny but then learned she had to move back to Australia.

It’s like that, you guys. I love it here and I don’t want to leave.

I’ve had to come to terms with this over the past few months. In between buying and selling houses, looking for new jobs, and trying to explain to my Little Man what “moving” is, I’ve decided to say YES to life. Every night is an opportunity to try something new or enjoy something old. It’s made me realize why I fell in love in the first place. It has reminded me that I didn’t just move to Austin; I lived the shit out of this city.

I’ve South Austined, Town Laked, marathoned, serviced industried, Cap City Metroed, Broken Spoked, Breakfast Tacoed, Micheladaed, Dirty Sixthed, East Sided, Green Belted, Chicken Shit Bingoed, Ego’s Karaoked, SXSWed, ACLed, Fun Fun Funed, Moon Towered, crawfish boiled, brisket BBQed, UT tailgated, Start-Uped, and Ya’lled so hard.

I also married the love of my life, bought a house, created two tiny humans, and nourished the best friendships I’ve ever had in my life. THE best. I found my people here. I don’t need to explain myself or apologize for being “weird”. I just AM with them. I’ve found the funniest, most creative, smartest, most thoughtful humans in the world here. They are a family of friends. They are the classiest ladies of classiness.

This city made me who I am today. It was both the backdrop and the main plotline to my life over the past nine years. I’m stronger, funnier, more confident, and potentially better looking because I lived here. I’m a wife and a mother because I lived here. I’m happy because I lived here. It’s not just a big part of me. It’s probably the most interesting thing about me.

When I leave, I don’t actually get to drive back in the other direction. I’m flying out with my two boys while my husband, sister, and completely incompetent moving company drive our things back to the Mid-West. I don’t even get to see the city get smaller in the rearview mirror. I haven’t even taken the time to cry. I’ll just get to the airport, get on a plane, and fly away from my home and into a new one. It seems so abrupt and unfair.

When I first moved here, I never wanted people to think that I moved here for a boy, but the truth is that I did just that. I gave up my entire life in the hopes that a relationship would work out. Thankfully, it did. Now, I’m headed back to Ohio with that same hope under the same circumstances. No job. No plan. Just following my man.

This time I’m not afraid to say it. I am moving for a boy. Not just one, but three. And while it might feel like I’m breaking up with a rockstar and settling for the librarian, I know we’re doing the right thing. I’ll find a new part of myself in Ohio and maybe rediscover something I left behind.

In the meantime… send.breakfast.tacos.

The Hipster and I

I work in downtown Austin. This is one of my favorite things about the job that I have right now. It makes me feel so much more connected to this city than when I was working in the ‘burbs of North Austin. I love walking up Congress and looking at the different food trucks, coffee shops, buildings, and people. I just feel like Mary Tyler Moore walking through the bustling streets of Minneapolis and I wanna take off my knitted cap and throw it into the air!

Until, you know, I get accosted by homeless people or, even worse, volunteers. Then I’m like, “ugh, downtown is the WORST!”

It’s an interesting mix of people. In a city filled with government jobs, tourism, start-ups, and service industry, it makes it surprisingly hard to tell who’s who. I actually find myself playing this game called “homeless or hipster”. It’s not the most PC game, alright? I know that. But I urge you to try it sometime. It’s actually really hard to tell, especially if you’re further away and can’t hear what they are saying. And the sad part is that a lot of those homeless looking people who turn out to be hipsters are actually pretty successful! What a time to be alive! That’s what’s become of Austin these days. Even hipsters are corporate now.

All of this reminds me of the very first hipster I ever knew and my spirit guide to this great city: Randi*

We actually met in 2004 during my brief habitation in Hawaii. We were in the same program at school and she was dating one of my best friends and we just clicked. We barely had anything in common, but I made her laugh and she was the most unique person I had ever met. We roamed around Honolulu for 5 months being poor and scrappy and relying on infrequent and small checks from family members to treat ourselves. It was probably the time of my life.

Fast forward 4 years and I decide to move from Ohio to Austin. Thanks to the wonders of the internet (AKA Myspace) I found out that she was living here too, of all places! She was doing a short stint here in between her time in Alaska where she worked in a tourist town. It was so typically Randi. She wasn’t even living in Anchorage, but Skagway, a lesser known tourist trap. She found a job at a bar, which was great during peak season but once the weather turned less appealing to travelers, she decided to return to the “lower 48”. A friend told her about Austin and they drove all the way down to make the move. She found a duplex on the east side that had a one bedroom loft. To bring the cost down, she got a roommate. Her roommate had a bed in the kitchen where a table should be and Randi put a mattress in the foyer. That’s right. A mattress in the foyer. The “bedroom” in the middle served a communal space. She thought this set-up was genius and she wasn’t wrong! This girl got a place on East 7th and San Marcos and paid $450 a month. FOR THE WHOLE DUPLEX. I’ll just let you marinate on that for a minute.

When I first got Texas, I stayed in Killeen while I found a place to live in Austin. I would meet up with Randi on the weekends and she would show me around town. The first Michelada I ever had was at a hole in the wall bar called Lovejoy’s on the dirty side of 6th. Long after Austin passed its smoking ban, Lovejoy’s still put out ashtrays. It was dark during the day and always smelled like fresh vomit by the bathrooms, but they made their own barley wine and when you ordered a bloody mary, they would make it in the kitchen. I’d kill to know what they were doing back there because it was the best bloody mary I have ever had in my life. (PS: If you want to picture a midwestern girl like me in a bar like that, think of Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance when she goes to the club, but before they give her an impromptu makeover).

She took me to Progress coffee, which, as it turned out, was an early sign of gentrification on the east side. Everyone was so beautiful. Imperfect and beautiful. Randi was like that too. She had no business being desirable but she just oozed this confidence that would make men overlook the fact that she rarely shaved, was missing a tooth (a canine of all teeth) and NEVER wore deodorant. Didn’t matter. She was confident and unapologetic… and SLAYED.

We went to Jackalope, where the walls hung old portraits of nude women and there was a burger stand out back that made the most delicious burgers. We made our way down Red River after a long night of drinking and indulged on Hot Dog King, a trailer between two buildings where they made their own baguettes for buns. She introduced me to crawfish when she took me to my first crawfish boil in Hyde Park. Everyone had a tattoo. I was in my best Old Navy.

She worked at Bouldin Creek (and I mean the original Bouldin Creek, back when it was on S. 1st and Elizabeth and it was just a kitchen counter). From her house on the east side into south Austin, she showed me all the ways to avoid I-35 and skip traffic. I still don’t know how we did it.

Soon, SXSW was upon us and of course, I wanted to attend. Randi took me in, gave me a bike, and we rode to a show at the Typewriter Museum. “That’s a cool place for a venue,” I said.

“No, it’s not a venue,” she corrected. “It’s a typewriter museum. This band is playing in the parking lot.”

Later, when we got home, she and her roommate bemoaned the idea of another SXSW.

“It’s taking over this city,” they complained. “I’m not even going to go to any official shows because they’re all lame. But, are you gonna do any FxFU events? I hear HUG is playing.”

Ok. HUG was like a mix between Ween and Gwar. Randi said that her initiation into Austin involved a full day of drinking at Lovejoys and watching HUG, where the lead singer brought her up on stage and covered her in oatmeal. That’s how she knew she was living in this city. This story horrified me and truly made me wonder if I knew anything about this place I was now calling home.

At the same time, my eventual sister-in-law also wanted to show me around. She and her boyfriend had SXSW wristbands and had the scoop on all the best free shows. There was also more things to see and do, like running on Town Lake and playing frisbee at Zilker Park. Plus, we had this great idea that we should get an apartment together. We went house-hunting in a very specific area of South Austin, from Riverside to Ben White between South First and Congress. We soon found a great 2 bedroom place right on S. 1st across from the first brick and mortar Torchy’s Tacos. (“Torchy’s is over rated,” she’d say. “Cisco’s is way better.”) It was perfect. I couldn’t wait to tell Randi. She was talking about moving back up to Skagway for the swell season and was hoping to find someone to sublet, but this apartment was way better than her place.

“But, I thought you were going to move in here?” she asked, sounding confused.
“Well, you’re leaving, though. I don’t even know your roommate. Plus, this house doesn’t have A.C and… I mean, don’t you get hot at night?”
“Well, the floor is really cold. Plus, you can keep the door open. Actually, it’s super entertaining because you can listen to drunk people walk home from 6th Street.”
“Well, we got a good deal on the place so…”
“What is it, like, some managed complex with a manager and a pool and stuff?”
“Uh, no.” I felt defensive. I knew she wanted me to fit into Austin but she hated the idea of me assimilating. “There’s only like 6 units. It’s really small, Super low-key and under the radar.” I didn’t need to justify this move to anyone, but I felt like I needed to let her know that I was in good hands.

“Whatever. This city is changing so much. I can’t wait to get back to Alaska. It’s just so different, you know?”

She moved a few weeks later and I never really got a proper goodbye. My parents were in town and she didn’t understand that I wanted to get dinner with them and not go to a pig roast with her at some bungalow off Airport. We were supposed to get coffee in the morning but she never called.

That’s how she rolled. That’s how all hipsters roll.

She *WAS* the girl that thought things were cool before you did. Her whole life here was being someone who was pioneering an experience before anyone else got there. Her whole life EVERYWHERE was like that.

Outside of her Myspace page, she didn’t really have an online presence. Even that got shut down shortly after the move. I have no idea where she lives today or what she is doing. She’ll probably never come back to Austin. Even if she did, what would we even talk about? She’d be so disappointed in me and how boring and predictable my life has become. Or maybe she’d be happy for me. It’s impossible to tell. But she did always make me feel like I could do more. That I was unique, too, and should never settle. That when things got too easy, it’s time to move on and carve a new path.

This week is the beginning of SXSW. It started last Friday with EDU and then Interactive. Music starts Wednesday. I walked up Congress to go to Happy Hour with an old coworker last week. We walked out of a popular bar and right next to it, there was a “secret” bar that you needed a code to get into. The bartender heard us talk about diversity initiatives at work and he moaned, assuming we were there for a panel or conference. “I hate South By,” he said.

On the way to my car, I passed a bunch of yellow balloons and signs in front of a grand opening.

“Soul Cycle…. Coming Soon!”

Yup I thought. Time to move on.

**Names have been changed to protect the hipster**

Procrastinatin…

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Oh. Right. It’s February 1st. Might be a bit too late to still be saying Happy New Year. It’s probably because I fully intended on publishing this post at the beginning of the month. Like, the actually 1st of the year. But I just didn’t get around to it. And that brings me to my New Years Resolution: No more procrastinating!

Sure, it took me 31 days to come up with that resolution, but what better time than now! That’s a thing that people who don’t procrastinate say, right? Truth be told, I don’t think I have ever made a New Years resolution and if I did, I definitely didn’t stick to it. But as I get older and time just continues to slip through my aging fingers like sand, I’m finding it more important than ever to be prompt and organized.

Also, my family is moving all the way across the country in 2 months and as it turns out, that takes a lot of planning and organization! (No, I’m not emotionally ready to talk about that yet).

So, this is the year that I stop putting stuff off! Seriously, this is it. Just gotta get a few things done first, like read more clickbait articles and refresh the old “gram (Instagram to the lay folk), but then, I’m really gonna do it.

First, can I just tell you something? This has been a LIFE-LONG struggle for me. I was the worst student ever… in grade school. I remember doing the last few math problems on the morning bus ride in 3rd grade. I always had a problem with finishing homework. I would get to the last few problems and think “meh, good enough for now” and just go back to my fun childhood. Then, I’d let it linger over my head as I woke up and got ready for school, convincing myself that I still had time to finish. Breakfast would come and go and my only chance to not get an Incomplete was in between bus stops on the way to school. This is one of the many reasons I turned out to be very bad at math.

Fast forward to 5th grade: the year of the Mayan Report. This semester-long project loomed over our heads since we entered the 2nd grade. Older classmen were always bragging about the amount of work they were doing to make themselves sound more important.

“I can’t play today because I have this rough draft of my Mayan Report to turn in. You’ll understand next year”, my sister would say.

Basically, a third of our day, almost every day, was set aside to teach us about the Mayan Indians (are we calling them Indians anymore? Please don’t social media shame me). The teacher even gave out an overview of all of the assignments due during that time and urged us to give them to our parents for oversight. Psshh. Please, woman. What my mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’d already been forging her signature on my assignment notebooks for years. So the schedule of events never went on the fridge and my parents never knew how much work I wasn’t doing.

It consumed our lives. When we weren’t watching videos from The Voyage of the Mimi, we were going to the library to do research, writing out notecards, writing drafts, revising drafts, peer reviewing drafts, and ultimately, creating the FINAL REPORT. This was probably all of 3 pages long double spaced, but it was the biggest assignment we had ever completed at the time. And I just didn’t do it.

On the bus ride home, everyone was talking about how they were just going to go home and work on the Mayan report. Me? I was gearing up for a full night of all new episodes on the TGIF line-up. Saturday, I had a full schedule of playing Sonic the Hedgehog and catching up on my RL Stine novel. Sunday was going to be when I really put my focus and effort onto it. But, Sunday came and went, as they always do and suddenly, it was Sunday night, and even though I was panic stricken and sick to my stomach with embarrassment that it wasn’t done, I still didn’t do it. I COULDN’T do it. I had waited too long and missed the window of opportunity where the nerves of not getting it done turn into adrenaline to get it done. Instead, I just went to bed and dreamed about running away and never coming back.

Showing up to school without a final report for the biggest assignment of the year was probably the most embarrassing moment of my life. And that’s saying something because if you know me or had the opportunity to hear my bridesmaids toast at my wedding, you would know that my life is pretty much one BIG embarrassing moment after another. But nothing made me feel smaller than that moment where I had to say out loud, to the teacher and in front of everyone, that I didn’t have my report. I was caught, in front of everyone, as the giant procrastinator that I was, and there was no one there to save or excuse me.

I’d love to tell you that I never behaved like that again, but most of the years that followed had similar stories of putting things off too long. I forgot to fill out a form for the Pell grant for college, so I never received that. I got bad grades on quizzes for forgetting to study. I waited too long to get a book at the bookstore and they were sold out. I waited until the day after my 25th birthday to renew my driver’s license and they made me take the road test again. There are many examples of how I made my life worse because I couldn’t quite make myself do things on time.

Why live like this? Because it’s the constant thrill of the chase. It is why people watch action movies with scenes that have a bomb ticking with a clock showing you exactly how much time is left. It wouldn’t be entertaining MacGyver dismantled the bomb with 8 seconds left. He HAS to finish at the 1-second mark or who even cares? Bottom line, there is something sickening and satisfying about actually getting something thrown together at the last minute.

So, here we are present day, and there are a million things on my to-do list. There are things that need to be done so we can focus on getting another thing done. Real estate agents need forms and documents and social security numbers. Recruiters need resumes and references. Nanny’s and daycares need to be called. A life has to be planned in a whole new city. I have to FORCE myself to do all of these things because it’s not just me anymore. My family needs a home. My kids need someone to care for them during the day. My husband needs me to get a job. And all of a sudden, I have become this hyper-organized person, checking off boxes, creating “if/then” scenarios, balancing budgets, and generally getting shit done. I’ve come a long way.

There is this one thing, though. My husband has been asking for my W2 for weeks. I have it in my purse but I keep forgetting to give it to him. He texts me and asks me to scan and email it to him. I have it right on my desk. It’s been there all day.

But first… a blog.

Onward

Very late last night, when I should have been in bed but couldn’t get myself off the couch, my son woke up from a nightmare. He’d fallen asleep on the floor of his room with the door open so I could hear him clearly as he started crying, screaming “No! No! No! No! No!” I ran to pick him off the floor, fearing that he would lash out at me in confusion, but he hugged me instantly and just kept crying.

“Shhhuusshh Shhhhuusssh. Mommy’s here. I’m right here,” I said, comforting him until his breathing slowed down. I slowly put him back in his bed and crawled in with him.

“It’s gonna be ok. It’s all gonna be ok. It will all be ok.”

I said this over and over again as I stroked his hair across his forehead and watched him fall back asleep.

“It’s all going to be ok.”

I stayed in bed longer than I needed to, realizing that I was actually the one who needed comfort, not him. Maybe his nightmare was my nightmare and if I just stayed with him until we both woke up, we’d realize it was all just a terrible dream.

Donald Trump is the next president of the United States.

Earlier that day, I was electric. My Little Man was getting ready with me in the bathroom because he loves watching me do make up and recently, he started asking for his own bag so he can do make up too. This terrifies my mother, I’m sure, but he’s actually gotten pretty good at it! Arguably better then me, sometimes!

“Today is a special day,” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, special day!”

“Today, history is going to be made,” I assured him.

“Yeah!” He had no clue what I was talking about. Clearly, I didn’t either.

This morning, he greeted me with a big hug. I started tearing up.

“Mommy’s sad?” he asked.

“Yes, mommy’s sad.”

“I’m sad too. I cry for mommy, and for daddy, and for Lauren, and for Edgar” (*two of our friends). Again, he had no idea what we were talking about but his words rang true.

We were both sad for everyone, even if I was the only one who knew why.

If you haven’t guessed it by now, I am a bleeding heart liberal. My bleeding heart is for those who have fought for equality in a society that systemically tries to keep women and minorities down. My bleeding heart comes with an understanding that the color of my skin and the life lottery of being born into the middle class give me more privilege than I will ever understand. It comes from knowing that you can’t just fight for your own special interests because a divided nation is not sustainable. It comes from a sense of social justice that has been ingrained me in since I can remember.

Today, I feel like I am a minority in this fight and I’m trying to get right with those who don’t have the same world view.

I don’t want to go back and forth about policies and emails and establishments vs outsiders and all the reasons people voted the way they did. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here to tell you why all of my bleeding heart liberals are heartbroken.

We’re not sad because our team lost. This isn’t a football game.

We aren’t sad because we didn’t see a women win the highest office in our country, though it stings.

We aren’t sad because we’re sore losers.

We’re sad because Donald Trump winning means that nearly the majority of the country gave him a pass on everything he said and did just to ensure their spot on the totem pole.

We’re sad because you heard him call Mexicans rapists and murderers and didn’t care.

We’re sad because you heard him say that we should do more stop and frisk in the inner cities (AKA black people) and you didn’t disagree.

We’re sad because you weren’t surprised to hear him say those disgusting things about women and how he treats them, then disregarded claims of the women he assaulted.

We’re sad because you judge people on food stamps because it comes out of your tax dollars while cheering him on for not paying his taxes.

We’re sad because it doesn’t bother you that gay rights and women’s rights are now in grave danger.

We’re sad because you would actually turn away a family of Syrian refugees that are trying to escape ISIS the same way that you would be.

We’re sad because you think that all of these things equate to the lesser of two evils.

So you voted for the lesser of two evils. But by doing that, you were silently agreeing that all those horrible things that he said and did are ok. And that’s what I can’t get right with.

See, this is personal to me. This election wasn’t about fiscal responsibility or trade agreements or the usual Republican platform. This election was about people and which people matter in this country. You have said that you have been angry and feeling ignored for years and we should have take your anger seriously. Can you just stop and appreciate for a second that this feeling you were having, this feeling of being overlooked and uncared for by your own government, is exactly how minorities have literally felt forever? Just think about that. You endured what others have spent centuries experiencing and you get to throw a tantrum loud enough to threaten our democracy.

So while you were out fighting for your right to return to your natural place on the totem pole, we were fighting for equality. We were fighting that Black Lives Matter and Women’s Rights are Human Rights and to love and accept our neighbors and for more gun safety so we stop killing one another. But for you, this was about seizing back control of something you felt was owed to you.

But here’s the thing, I don’t want to believe that about you.

I want to believe that you understand that Syrian refugees just want to experience the same safe feeling you have when you go to sleep at night. I want to believe that you do see that racism still exists and that Black Lives Matter BECAUSE All Lives Matter but we’ve historically done a really shitty job with Black Lives in this country. I want to believe that you aren’t afraid that your whiteness and your masculinity and your “Americaness” are at risk because the country is evolving and becoming more diverse. I don’t want to believe that you did this because you were afraid that you were losing your spot on the totem pole.

I want to believe that we didn’t just set our social progress back 50 years.

So tell me I’m wrong. Please, please, please tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that’s not why you did this. I have to believe that we agree on some of these fundamental truths. I so desperately need to hear that you hate that he said and did those things but you felt like you didn’t have a choice. I need to hear that you’re open to listen and work together with people who disagree with you and that you’re willing to open your mind and your heart to the idea that we really are a stronger nation when we are a diverse nation. That you now see how important education is. That you may have elected him but you’ll denounce the racist, sexist, xenophobic base that carried him across the finish line.

I need to know this so I can forgive this situation and move on.

But here’s what you need to know:

I also want to thank you. I have been complacent for too long. I have stood in silent solidarity when I should have been shouting and fighting and acting out. I have learned from you that stewing and trolling and commiserating isn’t enough. It’s about action. And starting now, I’m done being complacent. Soon, I will be an active participant in this democracy and I won’t do this quietly. I will stand up and be an ally to my peers who don’t have my complexion or status or heterosexuality because I still believe we are stronger together.

But tonight, I’ll grieve. I’ll cry one more time. I’ll curse Nate Silver and swear off social media for a while and then rest up.

Tomorrow… onward.

Milkin’ It

Austin is pretty hip and in this city, there are a lot of places worth waiting to get into. People line up at dawn at Franklin Barbecue just a chance at some brisket 6 hours later. To get the half-off pork chop at Perry’s Steakhouse on a Friday lunch, you should probably make a reservation weeks in advance, and if you’re not at Snooze before 10am you better be ready to awkwardly stand over people in the waiting area for the next 2 hours before your table is ready. But did you know that there is another secret spot in Austin that’s harder to get into than all three of these places combined? There is. It’s called The Wellness Room.

Ah, the Wellness Room. No, it’s not a yoga studio or some vegan bakery. It’s a place where the weary can sleep and where the restless can retreat. It comes equip with a lounge chair, a massage table if you want to lay down, soft lighting and a mini fridge. But more specifically, it is a room in my office that I have to book three times a day in order to pump breastmilk for my child.

This is not the first “wellness” room that I have had the luxury of using. In my last job, I had something similar. In order to comply with FMLA laws, my previous employer had to turn one unused office into a space where I could pump. They installed a lock on the door and gave me the only key. It had a glider rocking chair and a small table in the corner. This took up 1/10th of the space in the room, so when people would walk by it while the door was open, it would look… strange.

“Why is there a random rocking chair in that room?” guests would ask.

The nothingness that surrounded the chair did make it seem like Norman Bates mother’s office, so I can see the concern. For me, I didn’t need a whole lot. I just needed 10-15 minutes to sit, pump, and escape the reality of my working environment. I was one of three working mothers in that office and the other two had kids that were well off the teet, so that room was all mine. It was a glorious time.

Fast forward a few years and one child later, and I get to experience my second “wellness” room. It’s THE Wellness Room. Designed to improve our employee wellness, anyone can use it to relax, collect their thoughts, or even nap. (Yes, nap. I work at a place that encourages napping. Who’s got it better than me??) It’s also designed to be a place where new mothers can use to pump, which is great, but I no longer have the luxury of being the only working/breastfeeding mother. I am one of three, and that’s just for the time being. There is one woman coming off of maternity leave soon and two more that are going on leave by the end of the year. This place is bursting at the seams with b-feeding mamas. Normally, I’d be all “solidarity, sistas!” but the reality of three breastfeeding mothers all trying to use one room translates into one thing: Milk Wars.

For people who don’t breastfeed or can’t breastfeed, let me explain something to you. Most babies eat around every 3 hours. Picture your breasts like a pot on the floor collecting water that is slowly but steadily leaking from the ceiling. That pot is going to fill to the brim and need to be emptied out pretty regularly or else you are going to have a mess on your hands. So when three women all need to “empty out the pot” every three hours, that leaves very little time in the day where this room is open. Also, we all kind of need to do it around the same times of the day. Morning, lunch, and right before the end of the day. So basically, it really does rival the hottest restaurants in town.

Pumping at work isn’t like remembering to use the restroom (I say remembering because I feel like we’ve all had those days where 4pm rolls around and you realize that you haven’t peed yet.. right?). This is an EVENT on my work calendar every.single.day. And it’s not just a private one. The pumping mamas in my office have formed our own tribe. Since modesty flew out the window the second my OBGYN said “PUSH!”, I feel oddly comfortable discussing all things motherhood related to just about anyone, no matter how intimate. Thankfully for me, and any impending HR lawsuits, they feel the same way. We have even created our own “chat room” to discuss any changes that need to be made throughout the day. And boy are there changes. As much as I try to keep my schedule regular, I can’t help it if my little Meatwad is going through a growth spurt and wants to eat right before I go to work, throwing off my entire 3 hour interval schedule.

“Sorry, honey, but you’re just going to have to feed him a bottle,” I once said to my husband. “I know that I’m here and could feed him myself because he’s hungry, but if I feed him now, I won’t have enough to pump at 9:30 and the room is booked until after 11, and by then I’ll be super engorged… so bottle it is!”

Other inconveniences include things like Lunch Outings. Why, yes, going to Cedar Door for lunch DOES sound great, but can we go at 11? I have a 12:30 appointment that I REALLY CAN’T MISS IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN AND I THINK YOU DO!

Happy Hour? Sounds great! Let me just squeeze out a few ounces real quick so lil Meatwad doesn’t get too much tequila tonight, WINK!

As inconvenient as this all is, I’m grateful to be able to do it. I endured not one but TWO natural births and I can honestly say that breastfeeding is the most physically taxing thing I have ever done. Once you get used to the general discomfort (or sometimes down right PAIN) of breastfeeding, you have to get used to the mental discomfort. You are constantly tethered to this child who needs your body to eat. Leaving the house longer than 3 hours in the first few months was nearly impossible for me. He might have had extra milk stored away, which was great for him, but I had milk building up that needed to go somewhere! Me and my hand pump have been in many bathrooms, closets, and parked cars just trying to alleviate the build-up of 4 hours without a feeding. Not to mention, if there’s drinking involved, I have to “pump and dump”, which is basically like preparing a nice and delicious meal for a loved one and then promptly throwing it in the trash.

So why do I do it? Partly because I can. I know a lot of people who had major difficulties or were flat out physically incapable of being able to nurse. It feels like a privilege to have that time with the little one while I can. More logistically, formula is expensive as shit and anyone who knows me knows how frugal I am. Finally, and most importantly, calories. It burns so many calories and I’m shallow enough to keep doing it so I can eat that extra slice of pizza and justify it in the name of feeding my child.

But, all good things come to an end. And as I come to the end of my milk, I reflect fondly on my time in the Wellness Room. It was such a special time of getting to sit in a lounge chair with my feet elevated, carefully propping my phone against the ottoman to watch viral videos on my newsfeed, all while the stresses of work and life drifted away. No coworkers bothering me. No baby crying in the other room. No tiny hands trying to open the door. Just me and my pump making the most of our 30 minute reservation.

The Return

He’s back.

There I was, just getting started with my day when all of a sudden, he called. It wasn’t just that he called but that he called for the second time that morning that I knew something was up. “Hi Honey! What’s going on?” I asked, but with more intent, like “what is going on and why are you calling me again this morning” kind of way.
“Well… what are you doing for the next few hours?”
I pause. Truthfully, I was going to catch up on my Sunday Stories and eventually talk myself into working out. But I knew that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
“Uhh…. PICKING YOU UP??”
“YUP!!”
I was happy and excited and nervous and unprepared and totally caught off guard. While he had been in the states for about a week or so, we didn’t think he would be released until Friday. It was Monday. That’s five whole days earlier than anticipated, for all you right-brained folks. You would think after all this time, any day/hour/minute sooner couldn’t come soon enough, but I was too busy looking around at my un-clean home, the laundry that hadn’t been done, my hair that hadn’t been shampooed that day (pfft, who are we kidding, it was way longer than that) and an empty fridge. I had planned on having an immaculate house, a kitchen full of his favorite food, and somehow a body that was miraculously 10lbs lighter and tighter. Now, in the middle of my Monday morning routine, I had to drop everything, pack up Meatwad and make the 1.5 trip to get him.

I mean, how inconsiderate of him, right?

So, after a painfully long drive, I made my way to the gate and saw my man. In the parking lot of a training facility, we were finally reunited. Suddenly and very unceremoniously, the deployment had ended and we were jolted back into our new normal.

In the movie version of our lives, this is the beautiful ending where we drive off into the sunset in our CR-V with our two kids and stare lovingly at each other because everything is going to be JUST FINE! But this is not the movie version of our lives. This is not the end. This is the beginning. Maybe it’s even the middle. But this is NOT the end. This is the part where we try to adjust to all of the changes we have endured while we do a thorough check of ourselves, our marriage, and our sons to make sure that we didn’t damage ourselves beyond repair.

First of all, when you live apart for a year, you develop what Sex and the City fans know of as “secret single behavior”. After I got used to being the only adult in my house, I found a lot of happiness in these behaviors such as, but not limited to, working out in my underwear, eating crackers with butter on them, going to the bathroom with the door open, catching up on older versions of The Real Housewives of Orange County, and so on. I also became a crazy clean freak. A lot of this came on during the nesting phase of my pregnancy and never really left once Meatwad came home. I would vacuum everyday if I could and I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until the kitchen was pristine. Now, suddenly and with little notice, there was another person in my house and his stuff. was. everywhere. A years worth of uniforms, equipment, socks, books, mugs, and underwear lay strung across our bedroom floor and any available counter space in the den. And on top of that, I was now with another adult who was also used to going to the bathroom with the door open.

Deep Breaths. Calm Blue Oceans. Serenity Now.

Then there was shift in parenting responsibilities. The irony is not lost upon me that all year long, I complained about being a “solo” parent and the minute I get my partner back, I was struggling with letting go of responsibilities. Actually, he doesn’t get milk until dinner. If you don’t mind, he prefers to be held this way. Ya know what? Why don’t I just help him take a bath. Just sit down and relax. I’ll just do it all by myself forever and we will both be happier for it.

What was wrong with me! My husband was finally home from his deployment and our family was finally made whole again but I couldn’t just sit there and feel the way I wanted to feel. Was something wrong with us? Had I become a different person? Did we change too much? Or maybe, nothing ever lives up to the hype.

The truth is, the answer was Yes for each one of those questions. Yes, something was wrong with us. We voluntarily signed up for a deployment when our son was just a little over a year old and decided to try to get pregnant again ANYWAY. Now, “voluntarily” is putting it nicely. He could have gotten out of it if he REALLY wanted to. But when push came to shove, we said “let’s do this” because it was a good financial opportunity and it was only a year of our lives. A year of our lives.

I did become a different person. I became someone who was a lot stronger than I thought I was. I didn’t break down. I didn’t give up. I never took the easy way out of anything. I pushed through the deployment with my head down and as a result, a thick outer wall developed around me. Things stopped being really funny or really sad or really anything. Things just… were. That meant that my spectrum of feelings had gone from a 1-10 scale to a 3-5. I was as excitable as Susan Surandon at the DNC when I should have been as excited as Bill Clinton with the balloons!

We did change too much. We were both single for a year and suddenly, we were married with two kids. The Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime” has never applied to me more than it did when he came home. I was used to being home by myself and he was used to being alone too. We learned how to be resourceful on our own and not depend on others. Even the first few meals I made, I didn’t make enough food because I wasn’t used to the excess. We did change.

Finally, and most importantly, nothing lives up to the hype. Nothing in my life has ever lived up to the hype, from my wedding day to the birth of our children. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy either of these occasions, but we so are guilty of putting unreasonable expectations around feelings that we forget to actually feel them in the moment. Maybe that’s why we are constantly taking pictures so that we can go back and look at them to assign the appropriate emotion for the moment (#soblessed).

After the dust settled, the house was put back to order, and the kids were asleep, we sat down on the couch and had a moment to ourselves.

“Do you still like me the same?” I asked.

“Of course I do, honey. Do you still like me the same?”

We stopped and looked at each other and I melted into his big burly chest. “Of course I do,” I said. “But let’s not ever do that again.”

Kick Off Your Shoes!

It’s the first decision I made when we got home from the hospital with our new little Meatwad: It’s time for this to be a shoeless house.

In the weeks leading up to Meatwad’s arrival, my nesting urges made me a crazy OCD cleaner. I scrubbed before the cleaning service came over and would even tidy up after they left. I wanted the house to look perfect for my husbands arrival, but also, I wanted to return to a pristine home when we brought the little guy back from the hospital. What I got instead was a slightly lived-in home with a bit of clutter courtesy of my parents, who came to help out. Prepping myself on the way home, I promised my husband that I would take it easy, actually let people take care of me and allow my mom to worry about cooking and cleaning. That promise lasted all of 5 minutes. No sooner was the car seat carrier on the floor that I had the overwhelming urge to clean up, put things away, and throw out all of the half-eaten leftovers that were in the refrigerator. “Stop cleaning up!” my mom said, urging me to just go to sleep. “But I neeeeeeed to do this, Mom!” I could see I was upsetting her but all I could see was dust, mess, and most of all, footprints on the floor. “That’s it! We are going shoe free. It’s happening. NO MORE SHOES IN THE HOUSE!”

This declaration was something that I have been thinking about for a while. Growing up, our house was always “shoe-free”. Most people I knew did the same thing. But here in Texas, you never know! The difference is that in the midwest, most homes have carpet throughout the house. In Texas, it’s usually tile or hardwood/laminate. It takes a particularly bold person to just assume they can wear their dirty shoes on someones white or pale-colored carpet, but in Texas, you don’t think twice about walking through someone’s living room with your shoes on. The foyer is typically the same flooring as the rest of the house so there is no clear threshold where you are supposed to take off your shoes. And this leads me to my current conundrum:

How do I tell people to take off their freakin’ shoes when they come inside my house??

My husband came up with a plan for this immediately. First, it should be noted that no one likes spending money more than my husband when he is on leave from Army. I think he feels like a wrongfully imprisoned aristocrat and when he breaks loose, he just wants to buy himself all of the luxuries he was denied while in the clink. Seizing this opportunity, he went to BBOB (Bed Bath and Beyond for the lay folk) to buy a shoe rack and then to Academy Sports to buy House Shoes. “See? You just put the shoe rack by the door and then offer guests these slippers they can wear in the house!” He was so proud, but I was already getting nervous about how this would go down. Welcome, Friend! Please stow your shoes to the left. You will find a complimentary pair of slippers in this box for you to enjoy whilst in our home! Please return these upon departure! Thank you and have a wonderful day!

We were first tested about a week after the baby was born when some girlfriends came over for dinner. We had a pep talk before they arrived. “Ok, guys. We are doing this. No backing out! Everyone put your slippers on!” But even though we were strong in our no-shoe conviction, no one wanted to actually mention it to our guests. “Maybe they will just notice we aren’t wearing any shoes and they will follow suit,” my husband said optimistically. I wasn’t as convinced. My girlfriends take a lot of pride in their shoe choices and I couldn’t see them giving them up so easily.

Of course, I was right. No one took off their shoes. My mom stayed in the family room watching TV while we ate in the dining room and every time we would catch eyes, I could see what she was thinking. “Say something to them!” “No Mom!” my eyes would say back. The night ended in utter defeat as our hard work of cleaning the floors and designing our shoe display went unnoticed.

We had more guests through the week and my husband was a little more forthright but still not assertive enough. Once he said “you can put your shoes over here!” but it was usually after they had already taken a lap around the family room. Some other guests did notice eventually and would slip them off mid-visit, but never upon entry. Each visit I would tell myself to stop being so nervous and just tell people that I don’t want shoes in the house. But doesn’t that sound so…so… bitchy? “Oh, I’m sorry, but we’re not wearing shoes in the house anymore, mmk? Thanks.” It’s like when your friend becomes a vegan and can’t stop telling you about how terrible animal cruelty is all the time. How annoying, right? I’m trying to eat here!

Deep down, I know why this is hard for me and it became so obvious to me when I recently went to a girlfriends house for dinner. I took a tour of her new place, hung out in the kitchen, circled around to the bathroom a few times, and shortly after dinner got my things as I was ready to leave. That’s when I saw it: the shoe rack, all of the shoes in it, and my friend standing there, barefoot. She had a shoeless home too and I missed all the signs. I’m the big jerk that prances arounds people’s houses with my shoes on and traffics dirt and germs all over the place. How can I expect people to do the same when I can’t even face the (wo)man in the mirror?

So, just like the late great Michael Jackson, I’m starting with me. It’s shoes off from here on out. And if you’re coming over to my place anytime soon, please see yourself to the shoe rack to the right and kindly pick out a complimentary pair of house shoes.

Open up the Floodgates

Today has felt like one of the longest days of my life. In just 5 hours, I will be picking up my hunky husband from the airport and reuniting him with our Little Man while we wait to greet our little Meatwad. So far today, I have taken my dog for a walk, cleaned the house (even though I have paid a cleaning company to come over today), done yard work, reorganized my bathroom closet, gone grocery shopping and finished up some laundry. And I still have 5 hours to go. This gives me a lot of time (almost TOO much time) to think, which is probably why after 7 months of pregnant solo-parenting, I finally started crying.

Let me give you some context real quick. I normally cry at everything. Every single wedding I have ever attended, I have shed tears, including ones where I was just the date and barely knew the couple and one where I was just there to babysit the children. I have fallen down the rabbit hole of YouTube to cry to such videos as “Husband finds out he’s going to be a father” or “Dog Reunites with Dad after Deployment” or even “Fun Daddy/Daughter Dance at Wedding”. When I see people cry, I cry. I am usually a blubbering mess when it comes to everything EXCEPT my own life. I didn’t cry at my own proposal, wedding, pregnancy news, or even birth of my child. We found out we were pregnant 2 days before our 5 year anniversary and 5 days before he reported for duty. Just let that sentence sink in. If you told me that about YOUR life, my eyes would be welling up with tears. But me? Those are just the facts, man! In fact, when I have told people about my situation, they usually do start to get emotional. “Whoa, whoa, it’s ok! We’re fine! Don’t get upset!” I say, consoling them.

Here’s the thing: I don’t have pity on my situation so I get surprised when other people do. And they really try to pity me! “Really, though. How ARE you doing? I can’t even imagine how you do it,” friends will say, giving me every chance to just collapse in their arms and throw my hands up in defeat. But I don’t feel like it has been that hard. Sure, I have a really tight schedule during the week and I probably do more than I physically should and I get really lonely on nights and weekends and going grocery shopping is a pain in the ass and the stupid Internet always cuts off my phone calls with my husband and it makes me want to throw my phone into a wall… but really! I’m fine! I can handle this! I’ve been handling this! And now, it’s almost over. I have so much to be excited for. This baby should be here any day now and I managed to keep it inside of me until my husband gets home (that is, if I don’t give birth it in the next 5 hours). My emotional state has been like water: easy enough to spill over but strong enough to sinks ships. I just needed to make it to the finish line and then I can ease up. And THAT mentality is how I let my guard down.

I took my son to daycare yesterday and the teacher was so excited to see us. “Just a few days now, right?” “Yes,” I exclaim. “He comes home tomorrow!” She then tells me that Little Man talks about Dada every day and they keep telling him that he will be home soon and that Dada will be flying home in an airplane. This stops me in my tracks and makes the hair on my neck stand up. You see, he has been OBSESSED with airplanes recently. When he hears them in the sky, his eyes light up and he points up and says “Airplane! Airplane!” It’s very similar to Tattoo from Fantasy Island. But now it all makes sense. He is excited because he knows that Dada is going to be on one of those planes. I cry the entire car ride home.

Then I completed my Thank You cards for the Sprinkle my friends just held for me, holding out on the last cards for my best best friends here. I could not get through a few of them due to the ugly tears. There wasn’t enough room to write all the ways in which I am thankful for their support and trying to find a way to express that destroyed me.

This morning, when I took my son into daycare, the staff was buzzing. “It’s finally here! He’s coming home today!” Then, his teacher reaches behind a crib and presents me this:

And I die. I still can’t look at this without crying. All of those little hands!

Finally, I got a text message from the cleaning service. The woman who came over was also an Army veteran. She actually just got back not too long ago and made great accommodations to help me today. While I was out of the house she sent me this message:

And. I. Die. Something about the term “Thank him for his service.” I hear that phrase all the time and I never really take the time to appreciate the sentiment. Half the time, I get annoyed because I feel like the people who say it really have no idea what military life is all about and it just sounds so flippant to me. The other half, I don’t take it to heart because my husbands job is very low-profile and has never really put him into much danger. But today, as I sit here and think about all the ways in which people have supported our family, it overwhelms me and reduces me to tears. The phone calls, the texts, the food drop offs, the babysitter offerings, the cards, the lady from the Family Readiness Group that calls every month to check-in on my wellness, the guy at Petco that brings my dog food to the car because he knows I can’t lift it, the back rubs my friend gives me because no one else will, and all the ways that my friends look at me to let me know that I can breakdown and cry if I want to, it all just means so much to me.

So I guess what I am trying to say is, before my life gets crazy again and my postpartum hormones take over my personality, Thank You. From the bottom of my heart, Thank You.

How Far Along Are You?

I’m in the home stretch. I am so close yet so. far. from having this baby. I feel like qualifying it by weeks or even number of days doesn’t do it justice because it just doesn’t describe the level of pregnant that I am. So, here are some other ways to count how far along I am:

I am pregnant enough that I have to gain inertia just to get out of bed. I have to roll onto one side and then Alley-oop it over just to get enough momentum to get my feet on the ground. Either that or I slither out of bed and onto the the carpet, but getting up is much harder this way. It all depends on how much I have to pee.

I’m pregnant enough that I am convinced I am going to pee my pants every 2 hours and the amount of fluid that actually leaves my body is so disappointing. It’s like an old man with an inflamed prostate trying to pee, except I am still probably more uncomfortable than he is.

I am pregnant enough that a “healthy day” is when I only have lunch dessert and dinner dessert.

I am pregnant enough that my phone started auto-completing the word Kebabalicious (BEST KEBABS EVER) before I have even finished typing KEBA. My phone doesn’t even know when I’m trying to swear yet. iPhone, I am NEVER trying to say Duck, OK?! YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT!

I am pregnant enough that my muscles and joints feel like I have just done 2 hours of Crossfit when in reality, I have just been standing for 10 minutes.

I am pregnant enough that when I drop something on the ground, I moan in such a way that my coworkers think that I’m going into labor. “Are you ok?? Is it time??” “No,” I reply. “Just dropped my fork again.”

I am pregnant enough that my nose and ears have actually started gaining weight. Like, they have aged 5 years or something. How does someone’s nose get fat? Probably by doubling-down on desserts.

I am pregnant enough that for a while, I thought the bags under my eyes were because I was not getting enough mascara off my eyes at the end of the night, but it just turns out that my face just looks like this now. The bags are not from make-up. They are just from being an old mom who wakes up and pees all the time.

I am pregnant enough that when the baby moves, it’s not cute anymore. He is launching a full-blown assault on my body in there. Its like a puppy in a tight pillowcase just trying to crawl his way out. People who watch it are like “oh God! Get that thing out of there!”

I am pregnant enough that all animals in my house want to share in the warmth of my body, which now contains twice the amount of blood mass. They are like animals in the forest surrounding a passed out sleeping beauty, except instead of giving her space, they try to sleep all over her.

I’m pregnant enough that even though food is the only thing that satisfies me, it never satisfies me enough. In the 1st trimester, I would be so hungry but no clue what to eat and nothing sounded good so I would end up barely eating anything. Now, I feel entitled to do-overs. I didn’t care for that sandwich. I should just keep eating until I find what makes me feel better. Can I see the menu again, Miss?

I am pregnant enough that I mean it when I say that this is the last time I will ever be pregnant again. I’m serious! I am too old for this. I am an old woman, waddling around in flats and comfy clothes and whining about my back all the time. I’m worried that my torso will be like a cheap shirt that has been worn too many times and unlikely to go back unto its original shape. I’m worried that my backside, which was once my best ASSet (GET IT!) will always look like two flat pancakes and that my boobs are going to be next. I’m worried that I will never get my back in alignment again because my center of gravity is forever changed.

So since this is the last hurrah, I’m going to keep doubling-down on my desserts, make everyone pick up my forks when I drop them, and invest in some serious prenatal/postnatal massages because as we all know, the gravy train of positive attention is about to come to a screeching halt so I gotta get mine while I still can!