Contemplation

What is the purpose of work, of career? My mind feels heavy, burdened by the constant contemplation about why we choose to do whatever work we choose. Some of it, I believe, must tie into what we believe as individuals is our purpose for being on earth. No matter your religion or non religion, no matter your beliefs, you have likely asked yourself at one point, why am I here? Why do humans live? Some believe that current life here on earth is to prepare for, or help earn them a spot in heaven. Others believe we are stewards of the earth, here to take care of the planet and each other while we live. Still others believe all of our living is in experiencing every moment we can, as completely as we can in the present. So are our careers about working toward something else, or are they about living now? Exploration of the intricacies of various religions and belief systems would probably yield innumerable interpretations of the purpose of life. But do these belief systems drive our personal decision-making about the way we spend most of our waking hours as adults, that is, our work?

The Common Core Standards, and all of their incarnations throughout the country, have American students working for college and career readiness. The Core, and all the assessments it brings with it, is the biggest driving force in education right now. It seems to be an indication that policy makers, and possibly society at large, believe the purpose of education is to prepare students for a job, or more education- leading eventually to a job. So how does one decide what that job should be? How do we know what we should be doing for work, and therefore, how we should prepare for said work?

If school is to prepare us for work, how do we know what we should do and what the purpose of work should be?  One counter thought to the argument of The Core, the purpose of education cannot be simplified into career preparation. Education is about becoming educated, not just about subjects, but about people, places, experiences, and human interactions. If school from this perspective is to prepare us for life, shouldn’t there be more focus on living? Would not learning through experience help a person make more informed decisions about what to devote a life’s work to? Still yet, should a person always spend a whole life doing the same work?

Let us consider various purposes of work. There are probably others, but many lead back to these four:

1. People work to earn money. The money earned may be used for various purposes such as to support oneself, a family, or a cause.  With earning as the primary purpose for work, little consideration would be given to the time spent, the tasks required, or whether the work derives feelings of satisfaction or fulfillment, as long as the person doing the work thinks the salary is adequate. Little regard would be given to talent or passion unless it translated into increased earning power. It would simply be most important to consider what kind of income could be drawn from the job. Many people in this category work just because it’s a job and they can make good money doing it.
2. People work to feed and satisfy the economy. Here, people work because it is what they are supposed to do. Moms and Dads are shamed for wanting to stay home with their children, the unemployed are shamed for “living off the system,” and true retirement to a life of relaxation and leisure are reserved for those who seem to have earned it. If you are old enough or young enough to work, people expect you to work as a “productive member of society” to pay taxes and feed the economy. Working people support consumerism and consumers perpetuate a strong economy. Still, this purpose is about earning power. Many people in this category also work just because it’s a job and they need one.
3. People work to care for humanity. Caring for the earth and all its creatures, human and otherwise is at the heart of this purpose. Humanities organizations, missionaries, communal living would be extreme examples of people who make their life’s work caring for people, the earth, or animals. Additional examples might be those who work for GreenPeace, the Humane Society, Earth Charter. People who find this purpose at the heart of their work, seem to be working for something or someone beyond themselves. Their wages may not be what they wish they were, but they are enough to help sustain them as they do work they deem to be important.
4. People work to feel fulfilled. Fulfilled takes different forms for different people. Whether someone feels impassioned by their work, self-actualized, or contributory, people who work to be fulfilled would be driven less by financial rewards, and more by personal satisfaction with their work. The exception would be someone who feels fulfilled by wealth, because the true purpose would be blurred.

Of course, many people are driven by multiple purposes, or find one purpose inside another. For example, one might feel fulfilled by doing work that satisfies the economy or supports human rights. Additionally, one might be able to make a lot of money supporting one of these other purposes in various ways. Even still, some people may be driven by one or more of these purposes and find themselves unsuccessful all the way around. I think I may be one of these people. Let me explain.

I already know, while it is important for me to earn money to contribute to my family’s income, my purpose for work is not to earn money. I know this because I have at my disposal, opportunities to take positions and job opportunities in which I would earn a great deal more money than what I am earning now. Am I not driven by salary at all? I would be lying if I said no. I have a home, a car, and years of student loan payments. I need to earn money. But it is not my primary purpose for working.

The same can be said for my feelings about feeding the economy. I am what I think is a moderate consumer. I like personal electronics, but other than that I don’t have a lot of stuff. I don’t think of cars as show pieces, I don’t have much in the way of jewelry, and I don’t have a lot of stuff. Some time a few years back my husband and I started doing what my friend Helen refers to as spending money on experiences, rather than things. That’s not to say we don’t feed the economy. We still love to eat out, travel, and we spend plenty of money keeping up with the wants and needs of our teenage son. But, I don’t work to feed the economy. in fact, I wouldn’t mind at all staying home for awhile, and would in no way feel ashamed to do it.

Do I work to care for humanity? I guess in a sense, I do. On several occasions throughout my career, including last year, I chose to take a position comparatively underpaid, to work in organizations with missions in which I strongly believe. Alright, I am not working for free, and I haven’t given up any of the comforts of my everyday lifestyle, but I have chosen to work with populations in schools often cast away or aside by others. I seem to have devoted much of my life’s work to at-risk youth because I believe we need to make a difference; we need to change the relationship they have with their schools and the people in them. I have always felt pretty passionate about it, but I think the candle might be burning out. I’m not sure this purpose is driving me any longer.

This leads to the final purpose for work, to feel fulfilled. It sounds a bit selfish, doesn’t it? But what if, as human beings, we were given permission to choose work that made us feel alive, impassioned, and soulful? Self-help books preach to us all the time the possibilities of letting go and chasing what we are passionate about. Find a purpose outside ourselves and we will awaken the passion within us. Sounds great doesn’t it? I believed it, I still want to believe it. But I’m not sure I do. I’ve thought over and over again about letting go of the need to earn money, abandoning what everyone else thinks I should do, and taking a big risk. Doing something with the sole purpose of feeding my soul. My heart rate gets up, my spirit seems lifted, I know the right opportunity for this is out there.  I search high and low, around the country and throughout the world. I dig deep inside, I look up to G-d. And nothing. I’m tormented. 

I don’t know what my calling is. Or maybe I do, but I’m too focused on what I want instead of what I can do for others. Is it possible I was really good at something and now I’m not anymore? Do we have different purposes at different times in our lives? Who gets to decide what that purpose is? Do I create my own torment by overanalyzing instead of just doing? 

I really don’t know. I’m stuck in contemplation.

Gym Class: I'm not as young as I used to be.

I swore I would never join a gym, and a certainly didn’t think I would ever tell anyone I did. But the year has changed and so have the times. I’m getting older and my body is changing, so I took the plunge and signed up. I need to be clear though. This was not a New Years resolution, this has been on my mind for months and I joined at the end of December. There was an evolution to my decision, but I shall not bore anyone with the details except to acknowledge that I started this journey as much for my mental health as I did for my physical health. And it’s working. I actually feel better, and I give you my word: this is not a rationalization I am talking myself into. I really do believe that the workout is a great stress release. 

This morning, with earbuds blasting a random selection on my iPod because I have not yet succumbed to the workout playlist, I I headed upstairs to my usual workout area. It is on the second floor along the open loft-like part of the gym, and you can see just about everyone and everything going on downstairs. As I was sweating out my worries on the treadmill, I looked down and around the gym to pass the time. There are likely to be some great writing pieces born in the gym, I thought. Sure enough, here I am.

I work out at about six in the morning before I go to work, and I never thought I would be someone who would enjoy a morning workout. But boy, I do! It’s sometimes hard to get going, but once I get to the gym and get moving, it is well worth it. The gym has a mellow buzz in the morning, and there is not a lot of conversation. We all seem to have the same purpose. Get a workout, get a shower, and get to work. It never feels overcrowded or uncomfortably close. When you are on a piece of equipment, there is always at least one empty machine between you and the next person. And when you shower, get dressed, and walk out into the world at 7:45 with a workout already behind you, you feel like you can conquer the world. Let us not discount the added bonus when you are exhausted at the end of the workday, and you don’t have to feel guilty about not working out, because you already did!

I am not the typical gym goer by any means. I don’t have a body that screams “I work out!” Though perhaps several months down the line it might say “See, I’m trying!” I don’t have any of those cute workout coordinates like the young hardbodies I see at the gym. I don’t wear any make up when I go either, and my hair is last night’s rat’s nest tied up in a bun. Matching headband? No way, I have a piece of stretch fabric cut into a headband, and I use it to keep the frizz at bay as I begin to steam and sweat during my workout (Ever seen my hair? You know what I mean). As my husband and I recently concluded, we have about hit middle-age. I see a few seniors at the gym trying to keep fit or rehabbing an injury. There are quite a few twenty and thirty-something coeds (Wow, that just proved I’m middle-aged), usually adorned in said coordinates and watching each other as they move about the gym. Many of them work out in pairs, and I wonder if I would like working out with a buddy. I really like to zone out to my own music, because 90 percent of what they play at the gym sucks, but it might be fun to train with a friend too. But there I am, right in the middle. Forty-something me, just trying to get my head straight and work off a few middle-age pounds while I’m at it.

But here are some (observations) promises from this forty-something gym member:

1. I will always use those handy wipes provided in the convenient dispensers throughout the gym, to wipe my nasty sweat off the equipment when I’m finished.
2. I will never wear second-skin yoga pants/spandex workout pants that show off a thong in a darker color underneath.
3. I will never (again) drink a 7 dollar protein smoothie from the Smoothie Bar when there is a Tropical Smoothie right around the corner where the smoothies actually taste good, and cost several dollars less.
4. I will never use all the equipment the gym has to offer. I’m not interested in free weight lifting, boxing, or that machine that spans 8 feet wide with cable and has guys four times my size pressing weights down in a strained flying motion. Excuse my overly technical jargon if you’re not a gym-goer.
5. I will never post on Facebook or any other social media that “I’m heading out to the gym,” or “I really should go to the gym.” And please, if I ever post the details of my workout, like how many reps I did, please kick me in the shin next time you see me.

A 26 Sentence Story

Desperately seeking inspiration for writing, I decided I better pull out one of my writing resources to get going. I've been wanting to write for days, but have only been able to purge self-loathing drivel in my journal. Like so many times, often we are sent what we need by fate (or coincidence) when we need it. Such was the case when the Book Bub recommendations popped into my email in-box yesterday. 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder was the free offering of the day. At the time, I wasn't sure how or when I'd use it, but a free writing resource is something I never turn away. So I downloaded it to my iPad and told the others in my writing circle that it was available, with the caveat that I hadn't even given it a look yet.

Have to give credit where credit is due!

This morning I woke up determined to write. I read some articles online, reviewed a curriculum manual for a new program I'm planning to implement at work, and waited for the right topic, the right piece to hit me. It never came. I picked up an Anne Lamott book I've been reading, and surprisingly couldn't derive what I needed from it today. So I pulled out my iPad and opened Kinder's book. I flipped through the book, reviewing all the sections and perusing many of the prompts, and I posted to my group that there were 1,000, some awesome, some not. Then I put it away and did some laundry.

There was no way I was going to let Saturday go by without getting a piece of writing out. So many of the quotes by famous authors remind us that we can't wait for the right mood to hit us, we need to make time and write! It doesn't have to be good, it's just that writers write. Today I needed to write. I remembered one of the sections that appealed to me when I was looking through Kinder's book this morning. Section 4: Constrained Writing. All the prompts in this section are controlled and many of them limited the number of words or sentences you can use. Others require you to eliminate certain letters or words. Often writers don't want to be forced into narrow holes like this, but today I was determined to write and needed to be forced through that hole to get there. It worked! It inspired the brief excerpt of a story I've been wanting to tell for a long time. Maybe later it will lead to something else, but for now it's a constrained writing piece.

Prompt #123: 
The alphabet game! Write a story about anything. It must be 26 sentences long. Each sentence starts with the next letter in the alphabet.

“Are you serious? But why?”

“Can we talk about this another time?”

“Don’t you ever talk to her?” Each question I fired insensitively was met with an impatient silence. “Fine, I'm sorry.” Giving in was temporary, and I would soon try again. How is it possible a kid his age hadn’t talked to his mom in more than five years? It was a question to which I wanted answers, and one way or another I needed to find out what the story was. Just be patient, I thought to myself. Keep pressing him you'll push him away.

“Let’s go to the movies tomorrow," he said. "My parents are driving me nuts and I need to get out of the house.” 

“No, there’s a football game tomorrow night and you know I have to cheer.” 

“Oh,” he fell off with pathetic disappointment. 

“Please tell me about your mom,” I gently pressed.

“Quit asking, will you?," he snapped at her. "Really, I can’t explain it in a way that makes sense! She gave up custody when I was twelve, and I’ve lived with my dad ever since.” That day he broke the silence for the first time in his life, to me.

“Uh… I’m sorry.” Vilifying his mom in my head, I was already beginning to pass judgment. What kind of mother doesn’t fight for her kid? Ex-girlfriend is what I was about to become, so I quit before it was too late. “You wanna pick me up after the game tomorrow?”

Zero response meant maybe it was already too late, but deep inside I knew he was smiling on the other end of the phone.

I'm not really happy with my treatment of the X or the Z, but  the more I thought about it, the more convoluted other options started to sound.

Because I'm a Teacher

I just had to write tonight. My work life has been a bit rough lately. The everyday of my life has driven me into an exhaustive state I don't remember feeling since I finished grad school a year and a half ago. I have faced challenges that have made me feel weak and unsure of myself. Some of the challenges have been self imposed, others have sort of happened to me. Can I say that? Can I acknowledge there are things out of my control?

As for the self-imposed, I accepted two course assignments in my adjunct role at the local university this fall. This, a mere 4 months into my new role as the lead academic administrator of a local private school for at-risk girls. Though I have been an adjunct for almost 5 years now, most of my work at the university has been during the summer. In years past, I was teaching in public school and enjoyed summers off. The adjunct work didn't interfere with anything, except maybe vacation plans. This year, I was asked to take a fall course- one I have taught countless times- and thought sure, why not? After all, I worked full time and went to grad school for years and somehow managed to complete my doctorate. How hard could it be to work and teach a course with which I was intimately familiar?

Less than a week before classes started, I was asked to teach another. This one was a graduate level class. How could I say no? I asked if I could trade the undergrad class for the grad class and teach just one class. Some flattery and my ambition convinced me I could and should take both. It's good money and one of the classes is small, I was told. So in true character (my mom always said I was at my best when I had too much on my plate), I took them both and trudged through a semester at a new job with a few more than 40 college students between the two classes. I'm tired just thinking about it. Time off wasn't really time off, and weekends grading papers reminded me of hours of lost leisure time while I worked on my dissertation. One class probably would have been ok, but two really did me in.

At work, things like staffing issues and the challenges that come when you work with at risk youth can be beyond our control. Small agencies feel the pains of even one person who lets the others down. Each of these incidences has a much stronger ripple effect than they do in a larger organization. Everyone feels it. Don't get me wrong, we get the positive accomplishments, celebrations, and successes in the same way. But boy do the growing pains hurt.

It was brought to my attention recently by someone for whom I have a great deal of respect, that I am a perfectionist and a bit of a control freak. I always jokingly referred to myself as Type-A, and my family members endearingly jab at me for it. But in the workplace things are different. I'm Type-A on steroids if you will. You see, I don't want my name or reputation on anything sub par. I believe in what I do, I am passionate about education. I studied curriculum and instruction because I believe at the heart of everything in school, is the instructional practice of the teacher. The standards and the curriculum, they have their role, though I think an overemphasized one. But that's another blog post. What matters most is the relationship between teacher and student, and the experiences created by teachers during instruction. If I am the Academic Manager, I expect the instruction to be top notch. I am not discounting the variables out of school that we can't control, I am referring only to the time we have with our students during the school day. This is why when my English teacher quit, I would not hire a teacher just because I need one... even though at times I have felt desperate. The right person usually comes through the door if you are patient.

But what that means for me is until I find said person, I am the best one to temporarily fill the role, as I am the only one available who is qualified. Meet the current substitute for English class. If I was not in administration right now, I would more than likely be teaching Language Arts or English. So although I knew there would be stress to fulfill my regular job responsibilities, I was excited to spend some time teaching English- I'm a teacher first, right? Well that depends who you ask. It's funny how the students reacted to me. Lots of heavy sighs, groans, and eye rolls as they entered the room sent the message loud and clear, I had my work cut out for me. One student even said it wasn't a real class because there was no teacher. Can you imagine? This is an eleventh grade student who clearly was not making the connection that to become an administrator meant you had to be a teacher first (at least for a little while- in my case about 15 years).

This was perhaps the challenge that exhausted me the most this week, and likely will continue to until I find the right person to teach English. I spent the week trying to convince middle and high school students that I'm a teacher! I tried to engage them in discussion about their assignments, work with them in groups, and facilitate lessons, only to be shut down. Full disclosure: I was completely defeated, deflated, bull dozed, and insulted. I relished the opportunity to spend time with them and be their teacher rather than just cave in to warm body syndrome. I cried last week. A lot. I felt like a new teacher. I was consumed by the stress of all the above mentioned things, but I think most of all, my feelings were hurt. I have never in all my roles at all the schools I've worked at, been someone the kids didn't want to see or interact with. I tried straight up lessons, I tried to get creative. They tried to get me to leave them alone. It was disheartening to say the least, and I gave up. I was bailed out by others who offered to take the classes. I let them. I'm not proud of myself, but I needed to get away from the feeling I felt.

So now it's Sunday night and I'm getting ready to go back and try again tomorrow. One more week until winter break. I rested a lot this weekend. I talked through what was going on with my family. I've regrouped. I talked to my best teacher-friend writing buddies who all teach English/Language Arts. They gave me ideas and some great resources, and I've got a plan. I don't know if it's going to work, but I'm going to give it a try. I'm not going to let them get to me. I'm going to prove to them that I care, that I want them to learn. They're not going to scare me away that easy. Because I am a teacher, that's why.

Why We Didn't Have More Children

Sometimes you think you are over something and you are not. Really, it is your brain trying to convince your heart that everything is alright. Or it might be the well-meaning loved ones in your life trying to soothe you and help you cope, who convince you it is all okay. It may even be the insensitive or cruel people who somehow believe your pain is unwarranted, who insist you should just get over it. But what if you pretend, you go through the motions, you lie to people and say you are okay and act like you are over it, but you're not? What if on a given day when you haven't given it a recent thought, you turn on the TV, open Facebook, or pull up an email, and Bam! It smacks you right in the face as if to say, "Yeah right. You thought you were over it? Wrong!"

My husband and I have been a couple since we were teenagers. We married after dating for about 7 years. It would surprise few to know we were sexually active before we got married (judge if you must, but really?). I am sure our son can even deduce that. We were generally responsible about our sexual activity; birth control, regular doctor's visits, and monogamy. We always, or at least I always prided myself with our peers, our son, and even the youth I worked with over the years, on the fact that we only got pregnant once, and we planned it. We proved it was possible to be sexually active and responsible.

In November 1997, after almost two years of marriage, my husband and I decided we were ready to try to start a family. I was relieved to be off birth control, and we agreed to just let things happen. No counting days. No ovulation kits. Just good old fashioned marital intimacy whenever the mood hit us. We carried on like we always did, just without contraception. As women usually do, I knew my cycle, and though I wasn't counting days, taking my temperature, or scheduling interludes with my husband, I did anticipate the time of each month when the question would be answered. Are we having a baby? There was little frustration or anxiety, I knew these things took time. I tried to resist the urge to take a pregnancy test, knowing if I waited just a couple of days I would either get my period or not.

For the first few months I did. Then one day in March I just got a feeling. This is going to be it. I just know it. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I thought I could feel myself getting pregnant as some women insist they can. It was just a feeling, probably caused more by hoping than knowing. I picked up a test from Walgreens a few days before I was expecting my period and went out of town for a couple of days on a trip for work. I made a deal with myself that if my cycle didn't start while I was away, I would take the test as soon as I returned.

It didn't. So I did. And I was.

Four months after casually trying to conceive, I was pregnant with our first child. First. I can say first while telling the story in past tense, because that's what Jacob was to us when he was born, our first baby. Pregnancy was amazing. I loved the way I felt. I enjoyed watching my belly swell, and the wonder of a growing life inside me. I experienced a little morning (ok, all day) sickness early on and sciatica towards the end, but I had a healthy pregnancy and I loved being pregnant. On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, 1998, he was born. Our son Jacob came into our lives as perfect as any healthy new born baby can be. When I went to my OB for my six week check up, she swiftly asked, "So, you ready for another one?" It was her way of leading into the discussion of going back on birth control because the months following childbirth are often a woman's most fertile. Ever heard of Irish twins?

After getting over the fact that I was physically unable to nurse, I loved being a mom. I felt comfortable in my role, and I had a great deal of support. My own mother told me I was much calmer and more confident than she ever remembered being, and my friends seemed to think I was relaxed and down to earth in my parenting. I matured as a woman and developed a sense of self-assuredness. I knew I was a good mom. So it was only natural that within about 3 years I was ready to grow our family. My husband and I decided to try and get pregnant again. Though we hadn't set concrete plans, we were pretty sure two children for a family of four was what we wanted. I had already stopped taking birth control and now we would like the first time with Jacob, let nature take its course. We continued to nurture a healthy, intimate relationship and expected within a few months, another baby would be on the way. 

Not this time.

By the end of the year, I was starting to feel frustrated. Plenty of sex. No baby. My annual exam was normal and I talked to my doctor who encouraged me to use an ovulation calendar to track my cycle. I was in good physical health and i wasn't quite thirty. There was no reason to believe there was any problem. "You're just not hitting it," she would say referring to my ovulation window. Meanwhile, well-meaning people in our lives were starting to drop hints- some subtle, some not so much. They would say playfully,

When are you guys going to have another baby? 

Jacob wants a brother or sister to play with.

How about a little girl?

We could only respond with a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged shoulders. After while it took everything in me not to cry on the spot. Smiling and saying, "We're trying," made me feel violated and inadequate. It was difficult enough to deal with our inability to conceive, but comments from other people just made matters worse. For months we continued the same routine. I would start numbering the calendar the day I got my period. I questioned whether to begin at the sign of early spotting or when true flow began. I thought maybe I was counting wrong and that's why we weren't conceiving. We tried every recommended pattern of sexual activity to increase the probability of conception, and still nothing. Every 28 days I would get a lump in my throat when I had signs of PMS, and by day 30 I was crying with the start of my period. Alone in my bathroom trying to hide my sadness from my husband, and everyone else. I just couldn't understand why nothing was happening.

By now Jacob was getting ready to start kindergarten and we experienced some stressful events in our family, followed by some changes in our careers. We stopped worrying so much about it because maybe it wasn't the right time anyway- at least that's what I told myself. Continuing with a healthy marriage and sex life, and a lack of focus on trying to conceive we carried on with our lives. I worried despondently that this was it, there would be no more babies. This is when the guilt started. I worried about Jacob being "an only." My parents wanted more grandchildren. My husband would love to have a Daddy's Little Girl. And what about me? Had I swaddled my last newborn, changed my last diaper, snuggled my last baby? I was starting to mourn the loss of something I never had... a second child.  These feelings would lead to even more guilt. How dare I feel sorry for myself. Some women can't have any children at all. Shame on me. Isn't Jacob enough? Guilt about guilt can be a heavy burden to carry.

A couple more years went by, all the while we kept trying. (I haven't been on birth control since around 2000). More changes brought a move, some financial challenges, and a little boy who wanted a sibling. Every purchase of a car, our home, furniture, was done with the consideration, what if we have another baby? In 2007, I started to realize that Jacob's tenth birthday would be the following year. It was now or never. If I didn't get pregnant by the time he was ten, my husband and I agreed it would be too many years between them and it might be time to give up.

By now I was working at a local elementary school where the big joke was if you don't want a baby, don't drink the water! Baby showers were as common as faculty meetings, and we were always celebrating another teacher's pregnancy. Maybe this will be it, I wished secretly and desperately. We decided to go full force in our effort. That meant check-ups for both of us. Him for healthy sperm count and activity, me for possible Fallopian tube leakage. While I was waiting in the doctor's office to discuss the results, I picked up a magazine from the table in front of me. You know the one with stacks and stacks of scattered magazines. I picked up the parenting magazine with the cutest baby on the cover, and while I was skimming the table of contents I came across an article titled: Why Can't We Have Another Baby? My heart rate increased slightly as I turned the pages one by one, trying to locate the article.I was scared I would find all the answers I was looking for.

Turns out there's something called secondary infertility; a couple's inability to conceive a baby, even though they've had at least one child in the past. According to the article and several others I have read since, secondary infertility (SI) affects anywhere from 1 to over 3 million couples. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. For many, SI is caused by age or other health factors, but for others it is unexplained. My doctor confirmed mine and my husband's test results as normal, with no indication that conception should be a problem. Essentially, we were experiencing unexplained SI and we could keep trying or start considering interventions. We talked about it quite a bit, my husband and I. Neither of us is a big fan of pharmaceuticals, and we agreed I wouldn't take fertility aiding drugs such as Clomid. This was a personal choice for which I would never criticize someone else, one way or the other. We briefly discussed invitro fertilization and ruled that out too because the financial drain with no guarantees, and the likelihood of multiples beyond what we were prepared for. We came to the decision that risking the financial stability of the family we had was not something we were prepared for, and for us it would have been a financial risk.  So with that, it was over.

As with many couples, it was a more emotional corner to turn for me, than it was for my husband. Though he would have been equally excited for another baby as I would have been, I think he had already begun to let go of the possibility. I said it out loud, and we agreed we were okay. But inside I was heartbroken. Each of my best friends from childhood had now birthed three children. Women all around me- family, coworkers, friends were all having babies. I was dealing with the shame and guilt I had over the jealousy and hurt I felt with each announcement, trying to be happy for them, wanting to cry for me. I started to worry and still do, about my son being alone when my husband and I die. It sounds foolish, I know. I expect he will be married with a loving family of his own by then. But the thought still saddens me. With all the love and support of my husband and my friends, no one besides my sister will feel what I feel on the day I lose one of my parents.

Over time, the sting has somewhat subsided. The ache has dulled. My husband encourages me to anticipate the next stage in our lives when we watch our son become an adult and build a family of his own. A time to enjoy some freedom again. We marvel at our ability if we choose, to re-settle down as seniors wherever Jacob lands because there is no split loyalty to another child. We feel lucky to be able to afford most anything to Jacob, in time and finances, because we only have one child. He is an amazing and loving kid who makes us feel proud and fulfilled as parents.

But every now and then, a pregnant friend, the baby of a colleague, my niece and my nephews, all remind me of my latent desire for another baby. There's a little sadness deep inside me that few understand. And now, my first child 16-years-old next month is clearly my last, and I am making peace with that. As my husband once said to me in so many words, and as I shared with the family, friends, and the congregation at Jacob's Bar-Mitzvah, maybe G-d recognized that we made such a perfect baby the first time that it became clear we couldn't possibly make another one so well. So G-d just stopped here, with Jacob. I like that theory, and I'm sticking with it.

Nothing Like an Old Friend

This piece was started on September 27, 2014 and completed October 25, 2014.

We're on a road trip. A short one; only a couple of hours from the west coast to the east. We're flashing back to a time in our lives when our hair was a lot bigger, and our waistlines a little smaller. A time when we needed the rock and roll that flushed through our veins as much as we needed air to breathe, and the raw passion of teenage love fueled and energized us. It is all about the 80's today. Pop, rock, and other Decade of Excess has-beens trying to hold onto the last bits of fame living in the memories of middle-aged fans, nostalgic for a visit to their own younger days. We're off to the 80's in the Park Festival in Melbourne. But for us, this time, it's not just about the music. The more interesting story lies in the company with which we will be sharing the concert experience. It's a sort of double date, I suppose, which further adds to the sense of nostalgia. Cue the blurry-edged fade and flashback music...

It was the summer of 1989, after my sophomore year of high school. Several of my friends were leaving for camp, savoring the last year or two of childhood afforded young teenagers whose parents had means. My friend Dalia and I both needed summer work. We had earned our drivers licenses that spring, and gas, movie money, and cheerleading expenses wouldn't come easy. There was really no question about how or where to find a job. Unlike today, seasonal jobs for high school kids were in abundance in the 80's, and in sunny Hollywood, Florida there was only one place you could get a job that allowed for as much time to socialize as it did work. The local water park, Six Flags Atlantis, was the hangout for teenagers working and playing through the stifling hot summer months. Free admission with a guest on your days off, peers who ran the rides, and a semi-star-studded summer concert series at night, meant it was the ideal summer gig. We signed up to be lifeguards, the top dog position in the park (as opposed, to food service or customer service). They trained us, gave us suits and lifeguard tank tops, and we were official. I could probably write a short novel about the escapades of the days at Atlantis, but this is not the time, nor my purpose here.

One of several slides I operated as an Atlantis lifeguard.

June and July were filled with teenage fun and drama. We became friends with lots of local kids from neighboring towns and high schools. There was one girl in particular, Michelle, who we started to hang out with regularly. She and one of the guys we worked with, Rob, seemed to be developing a love connection. I found myself doing a lot of go-between. Picture cheesy high school stuff like, "She thinks you're cute," and "Why don't you ask her out?" One thing led to another and they started dating.

Meanwhile, Dalia and I met up with two guys who were visiting from Chicago and staying at their parents' vacation home for a couple of weeks. They had been frequenting the park quite a bit, and we hung out and talked on our breaks. We hung out a couple of nights after work, and then they left town never to be heard from again. I thought I really liked the guy (young and foolish) so I was feeling bummed that my summer crush was gone. Michelle and Rob on the other hand, were in full summer fling mode. It wasn't long before they were trying to find a friend for me. After all, I had been their Chuck Woolery. 

One day in late July, or maybe the first couple of days in August, I traded a shift with someone so Michelle, Rob, and I had the same day off. At their urging, we made plans to go to the park for fun. Remember free admission was one of the perks of working there. Rob would be meeting us there with a friend who they really wanted to introduce me to, and in a weak moment I agreed. I remember it as clear as day...

The two of them, Rob and his friend, were sitting at a table under one of the snack huts, chowing down unapologetically on chili cheese fries, an Atlantis favorite. I was so distracted by how gross I thought it was (still do- don't like chili), I didn't have time to feel self-conscious about the fact I was being introduced to a guy while wearing a bathing suit. To be honest, I wasn't blown away. I don't remember initial thoughts about his looks, again the chili cheese fries were in the way. He was a pretty typical looking kid of the time, sporting a summer tan and an 80's mullet. He was tall and skinny, and nice enough I guess, because I agreed to go with them all to the movies that night. We hung out for awhile, went down some of the slides, and I went home to change. My second thoughts about the double date were swayed away by my mom, who in true mom fashion said, "Go, it's a free movie."

Rob, Michelle, and Paul, picked me up that night and somehow I agreed (or maybe I didn't) to see whichever installment of the Friday the 13th series was out that summer. I remember being on one end and Michelle on the other, with the guys sitting in the middle. I was so annoyed that we couldn't talk to each other and I knew the guys planned it that way. The movie was unmemorable, except for a scene that showed boobs and made me feel extremely uncomfortable next to a guy I barely knew. The details of the rest of the night could go on and on, but this much history is enough to set the stage. In short, at the end of the evening, Paul and I sat in Michelle's driveway talking while Rob and Michelle were making out. We got impatient and had curfew, so I drove Paul home and we sat in his driveway, and talked well into the night. He kissed me. I went home. Paul worked for his dad who owned a sprinkler business, but visited me at Atlantis whenever he could. We started dating, and for the most part never stopped. In 1996, we got married. 

Why the trip down memory lane?

Soon after that summer ended, so did Michelle and Rob's fling. Paul and Rob, friends since they were kids, started going separate ways. Rob was a year ahead in school, so he was off to college in Melbourne. There were visits during breaks, and Rob accompanied one of my friends without a boyfriend to homecoming. But within about a year, Paul went off to school in North Carolina, Rob started dating a girl from his old high school, and the friendship started to fade. There was no blowout, no fight, just an organic fork in the road to which they each went in different directions.

Rob married Paula, his high school friend turned girlfriend in 1994 or 1995. We didn't attend; don't recall receiving an invitation. But we knew they were somewhere in Melbourne. So in 1995, when we got engaged, we tried to track them down and invite them to our wedding. No one really remembers, but I think I recall finding an address we were unsure of and sending an invitation. We got married in 1996, and they did not attend our wedding either. So with no particularly hard feelings, like many childhood relationships, this one faded into the memory book.

In August of this year, Paul saw on Facebook that a good friend from high school was killed in a motorcycle accident. Paul was really struck by the news of his friend Auburn's death. They hadn't seen each other in quite some time, but they shared a bachelor pad in the mid 90's, and he and Paul connected on Facebook a couple of years ago and maintained casual contact, as many do on FB. He always remembered Auburn a caring and kind-hearted person, and news of his death was heartbreaking, sort of surreal. Rob had introduced Paul to Auburn back in high school, and Paul knew that Auburn and Rob had been close buddies, best men in each other's weddings. He got to wondering if Rob knew about the accident, but wasn't sure how to contact him. After several attempts over the years to find him on Facebook, he had been unsuccessful. But Rob's sister had connected with Paul on FB awhile back, and he sent her a message. She confirmed they knew about Auburn, and sent Paul Rob's number, urging him to call.

Paul reached out to Rob, and the two talked for awhile, some quick catch up, and even quicker plans. Within a couple of hours, after not having seen each other for over 20 years, they decided to road trip up to Pennsylvania, where Auburn and his wife had been living, so they could attend the funeral together. Two long-lost friends, one van, and 24 hours each way to catch up on 20+ years. The guys picked up right where they left off at 18-years-old. Oh to be a fly on the wall in that van...

They shared grief over the loss of their friend, and their remorse over the loss of contact with one another. They shared the memories of an entire childhood. Both still married to their high school girlfriends, both loving husbands and devoted fathers, they discovered that while so much had changed, so much had not. Rob was a soccer player, and now his kids play soccer and he coaches. Paul was a swimmer, and now his son was a swimmer. They were both Boy Scouts, and now leaders in their sons' troops. They stilled enjoyed talking about a shared love of music and their high school shenanigans. They discovered they still had as much in common as they always did, maybe even more now. It was as if the friendship picked up right where it left off, but with more maturity and appreciation for it. Both men really enjoyed the road trip, felt good about being there together, to remember and to celebrate the life of their friend. It's as though the rekindling of their friendship was honoring the memory and the spirit of the friend they had just lost.

Paul and Rob agreed to keep in touch, and now, a month later, the two will unite their families and introduce their kids, who are near the ages they were when they shared a childhood friendship. Life has a strange way of bringing people together. Now Auburn's legacy of kindness and friendship lives on in the two friends who were brought together to remember him.

The boy in the black shirt and a mustache, right in the middle is Auburn,
the one to the left with the hat is Paul, and the one leaning in over to the left of Paul is Rob.

A more recent photo of Auburn and his wife Janet in Pennsylvania.

I Write

I want to write today.

I want to write today, but I don't know what to write.

I want to add another episode to my short story that seems to be gaining some momentum. But I can't seem to get into my characters' heads today. I can't decide how the main character should spill some important news to her best friend. I can't decide how she should tell her or how her friend should react, or what either of them will do or say.

I want to write a piece about my son's wonderful experiences through scouting, but with my disappointment about their policy in regards to gay leaders. I want to put aside the stance on that issue and focus on writing about the beautiful photos I took out at the camp last weekend, and how the scout and scout leaders' experiences there over the years makes it as peaceful and at-home as their own backyards. But I don't know how to separate one from the other, and reconcile the duality one feels when they believe so much in an overall organization but question their stance on a specific issue.

I want to write an article for a professional publication, and start building my academic writing resume so I can pursue the next phase of my career in higher education. But I can't decide what the subject of that article should be.

I want to write about my husband on a journey this weekend- twenty plus hour road trip with a friend he hasn't seen in over twenty years. They drove from Florida to Pennsylvania to attend a funeral and memorial for one of their high school buddies who was killed in a motor cycle accident last week. It's a fascinating situation to me- tragic circumstance leads to reconnecting old friends. But I'm still waiting for details beyond the roadside phone calls during the trip.

I want to write today. A poem, a story, an article, an excerpt.

But today, I settle for a blog post.

I wrote today.