Standing ground

 On the way to practice, Coach called my daughter.

"Are you headed to practice?"

"Yes."

"Is your mom driving you?"

"Yes."

"Will she be around in practice?"

Me on the speakerphone: "I can be. What do you need?" 

Coach was in traffic and would be late. She would have my daughter and the team captain start dynamic warm-ups and a full-field game. I would hang around until Coach arrived, just in case.

I'm the travel team manager. This a role that I secretly love. Not that I need more things in the day, but to have a job with discrete roles the I can do like a boss is a point of great joy for me. My other roles are complex with difficult success metrics and involve a lot of thought. Being team manager is something I can do relatively easily and really well. That feeling of accomplishment and easy service is hard to beat. I am team manager and team photographer and coach supporter and logistics queen.  I can provide information for the weekend's games and COVID protocols of our opposing teams like nobody's business. I can provide a game day roster with our guest players' information without breaking a sweat. I can book a hotel room block at the right distance from our tournament. I have my team binder that I put together lovingly with sheet protectors, player cards, extra rosters, medical releases--and it rocks.

I can't say that I'm so smooth with the girls and prefer a back seat role on the team. Don't get me wrong. I cheer like a former competitive cheerleader - individually and for the whole team - but I'm not fist bumping each girl as they come off the field and not one of those parent managers that everyone chats up. I do my thing and let them do theirs.

So this day, I let the team captain start the team with dynamic stretches and hung back under the tree next to the field, surrounded by the foul-smelling cicadas.

I noticed that the club team who had the field before us were wrapping up and a group of men were standing by the side of the field with pop-up goals, looking as if they intended to take over the field. The field that we had for practice.

I started walking towards them as a family came on to the field with their soccer balls. I told the family that our team was about to practice on the field and they stepped off to find another place. The men, though, they hovered nearby and started to take steps onto the field. This was an imminent takeover.

This was the only soccer field in the park, although there was a grassy area beside it. This field, though, was flat and clearly marked off for soccer. I saw the girls start filing on to the field at the north end and the captain was starting to mark the goal boundaries for the north end. The men near me, a gaggle of 10 or so men in their 30s-50s, took some more steps onto the field.

I stepped in their direction. "We have the field from 6:30 - 8:00." I said this with confidence and authority. We had been practicing at this field for months at this same date and time and I knew our club had a permit. They kept advancing. "Show us the permit or we'll just split the field."

They were bold and undeterred. The Other Coach from the prior practice (our same club), came to support me. "You guys will need to practice somewhere else. Our club has the field until 8." The men, one by one, walked up to challenge The Other Coach and me. 

"Show us your permit or we take the field."

What was this? This was ridiculous! These grown men looked incensed. Did they not see the 16 yo girls on the field practicing?

The Other Coach kept fending them off and the men were irate. I got in the fray. 

"We have a permit. We've been practicing for months here at this time and day. See our schedule." I showed them our TeamSnap schedule which didn't seem to sway any minds.

"I pay $20,000 in taxes to this county!" yelled one man who seemed moments away from a stroke, forehead veins bulging, "I own this field!"

Okay, dude.

The girls had spread across the field taking their positions, looking nervous and not starting play as we were taking space on the side of the field still. I stood facing the men, my back to the girls, positioned as to prevent them from advancing further.

I said calmly, "Can we all be adults, gentlemen, and be a good example to these girls? Let's be adults here."

"Yes!" shouted one of these men, approaching me. "I told them let's not be like this. Let's be gentlemen. Just let us come on the field and show us your permit."

The Other Coach was on the phone with the club administrator who was going to send a copy of the permit.

The men took turns shouting in my face, like ridiculous babies. I stood my ground. I was not at all afraid of them. I was defending our team and our girls and our space. Eventually Old Coach convinced them to start playing on the adjacent grassy area since the permit was coming, and he'd show them. Old Coach waited with me. 

Our actual Coach then showed up and was like - what is happening here? She was trying to figure things out and as she was walking to the field, she saw one of the men yelling at me and wildly gesturing. We gave her the short story.

Old Coach got the email and showed it to a couple of the men, who eyed it suspiciously and finally accepted begrudgingly that we were allowed to be there. Note, they did not have a permit!

Seeing everything was tucked away and secure with practice going full steam, I thanked Old Coach and both us walked off the field. He would go home and I would start my run.

Later at home, I got a text from Coach.

"Thank you for being Security today...I was thinking on my way home that I never asked you if you were okay after that guy was yelling at you. I apologize for that. I hope you're okay and I'm going to get you a SECURITY shirt!"

I wrote back: "I'm so glad I could be there. That's so nice of you to think about that. I am totally fine and found it ridiculous that these grown men were acting like babies. I hope the girls saw the importance of standing your ground in the face of rude bullies. I also had nice workout afterwards. :)"

And that, folks, was practice.

Hope in a cloud

I recently attended a virtual conference and one of the sessions centered on wellbeing during the pandemic. The session organizers had participants engage by contributing to word clouds.

In one word, describe how you felt during the pandemic? Not surprisingly, the words that grew largest were anxiety, stress, isolated, uncertainty. 

The next prompt was, In one word, what is the way that you coped? For me, hard to capture in one word but I think it was a combination of the words I saw populating the screen: family, colleagues (leaned on each other), exercise. On that last one, I've completely fallen in love with yoga over this past year and the wonders it has done for my body and mind. Especially on days when my almost-16-yo daughter joins me and we do it together. This is the best bonding. It's almost spiritual sometimes, and at others, it devolves into laughter when one of us falls or does yoga very wrong.

The last word cloud prompt was, In one word, what are you most hopeful for this coming year?

Just looking at these words in this image makes my heart rate and breathing slow. I can't wait to travel with my family again and explore a new country. Reconnecting. Being with people. I miss hugs. (Who said netflix?). I'm feeling hope again - a clearing, a light, better days with more joy and more of all of this.

The bright side of staying home

COVID has induced major disruptions to my life - both personally and professionally - but trying to see the bright side. As I hold positions at two institutions, one administrative and one clinical, I am both in the work-at-home camp and the radioactive-don't-touch-anything-when-I-come-home-from-hospital one, afraid to hug my kids (and, oh, I'm a hugger), although I sneak in a low kiss to the middle of the back from time to time when I'm 14 days out from possible exposure because I would wither from the lack of affection giving.

I see how Facebook, scary as it is, can understand my innermost desires and thoughts these days as I'm pitched ads for 1) scrubs; 2) pony-o hair accessories; 3) premium lounge wear; 4) at home hair coloring kits; 5) hair growth serums (gee thanks, what are you trying to tell me?); 6) weighted blankets - I totally impulse purchased that one; 7) fashionable fabric masks. Also, why have I NOT been wearing scrubs all of these years post residency? Why? Why have I worn nice clothes to the hospital ever? It seems like an anachronism now. All those germs.

So, the bright side of #stayhome:

1) More family togetherness outside. Not going with just plain family togetherness (maybe too much of that) but it's the outside part that's been a difference. Since we are trapped at home all day many days (although husband still must go to work), and kids no longer have their intense sports practices, we've been going out to exercise as a family daily. Taking walks, some of us run together, playing soccer or baseball at the field. We used to do this before but now it's daily. Now that I've played soccer for the first time in my life on a women's adult team (different post!), I can actually pass the ball (kind of) to everyone else! Kind of! In that general direction! This outside togetherness has been source of family joy. (Except for the time I took a walk with the kids and we were on a sidewalk next to a busy street, and I kept scaring the bejesus out of them, yelling at them to stay away from the road and walk in single file so if a car came veering off the street, they wouldn't be killed. I don't think they want to walk with Mama on that street anymore.)

2) We're closer to our neighbors. Similar to the above, we are seeing our neighbors outside more too and our desperateness for human interaction makes the heart grow fonder for visible people, even if >6 feet away. On my daughter's 15th birthday the other day, I messaged a number of neighbors to see if their families could come outside to surprise her with birthday wishes at a specified time. Everyone was "in." We got our daughter out onto the front porch swing and family by family came by and wished her a happy birthday. Daughter marveled at how many people knew it was her birthday and did not realize it was coordinated. One family came by on a walk and then serenaded her by singing Happy Birthday in Spanish. Another dad had his toddler daughter on his shoulders and she had a karaoke microphone, singing a series of songs for her. Another family came by with a huge poster and stopped on our lawn to sing her Happy Birthday. Daughter finally caught on that maybe this was a conspiracy --and was touched. And embarrassed. But mainly touched.

3) Greater oversight of kids' development. Stay with me here. School is a blessing. Teachers are a blessing (and saints too). But, I didn't really know what they were learning exactly and didn't know other ways they were developing to the degree that I do now. We spent many hours apart each day and a lot of it was a black box, except for those rare "parent lunch duties" where I completely appreciated that School is a blessing and Teachers are a blessing. For this window of time (that I hope is not so prolonged...), it's kind of nice to know what they are learning, how they are approaching the concepts, their questions, their curiosity. Don't get me wrong: I have lots of frustration too about this homeschooling situation, could certainly fill a few other posts, but there are some a few a rare number of good things too.

4) Familiarity with the diversity of toilet paper options. I blinked during the beginning of the pandemic and toilet paper was no longer present anywhere. I had to resort to buying various toilet paper varieties from Home Depot that I had never seen before, including business-grade rolls that do not fit on the toilet paper holder and individually wrapped rolls like you see in hotels, just with lower paper grade. Using these alternatives has made me feel unusually resourceful and like I'm roughing it a little - you know, making me humble and all. Like I'm in a developing country or camping or something. But I'm doing it! And it's not that bad.  I also purchased in desperation these paper towels that you pull from the middle of the roll and are massively wide. It's been kind of fun to use these rolls, even when they get to the end when they no longer stand up due to floppiness and must lie dejectedly on their side while we keep pulling out the middle. I'll miss these guys once normal supplies are revived. Luckily, I have many of them still to work through.

5) Outdoor living space revival. As it was becoming clear that we would be staying home for awhile, I finally took steps to make our porch and backyard deck more livable. It's been a dream of mine to have a porch swing and we just pulled the trigger and did it. Now I love our swing! Plus we got chaise lounges for the back. Hanging out at home has become much more pleasant.

I'm sure there's more - less traffic, comfy pants, gas savings? Now I'm reaching.

What are yours?

Short cut

One of the biggest time saving/life hack successes our family can claim is that I cut my boys’/ husband’s hair. The fact that I do this and they are not walking around with bowl cuts or bearing deep scars of humiliation daily is a point of victory. I mean, they pass for having normal hair!

It all started when our first boy turned of age to require regular haircuts as a toddler. We quickly realized what a time suck this would be for the rest of the forseeable future. Not to mention The Husband who is not a fan of time sucks as well. In fact, spending the time to go somewhere, wait, and get his hair cut was such a loathsome, pedestrian, tiresome task for him. He’s military and his special hair needs are minimal.

I forgot whose idea it was exactly that I should try giving The Husband a clippers cut. I’m not sure it would have been me since my last experience giving anyone a clippers cut was when I gave my younger brother a trial run with a pair of clippers when I was 16 and he was 11, and it did not go well. Immediate professional rescue required. When I say it did not go well, I’m not exaggerating. Think Britney during her troubled phase. However, somehow we ended up with a home clippers set and next thing I knew, The Husband was taking a quick drink to “steady his nerves” prior to my first adult foray with the clippers. Mind you, I read the little style manual and watched some YouTube videos. The result: Passable! Not bad! I continued to cut his hair and then our son’s hair with the same basic formula and marveled at the ease and glorious time savings. Then our second son was born and for awhile, I cut all 3 of their hair every 2-3 weeks for YEARS. I’ve gotten to be decent and while I can only really do one style, it’s all that’s been needed. My biggest compliments are when someone says, "Did ____ get a hair cut? It looks nice!" and the implication is that someone other than me cut it. Oldest son, 11, has only just graduated to professionals since he has developed advanced needs involving scissors and gel.

Over the years, I've often joked about wanting to do an apprenticeship at Spiro's, the local barber shop, but only half-jokingly. I often find myself staring at the back of men's heads to appreciate the smooth tapers. I guess if this medicine thing doesn't work out, I can start training in earnest.

Turning down the dial

My daughter started high school this year, and I can't believe I'm old enough to have a daughter starting high school. It feels like yesterday when she started first grade in a new school and wouldn't go into her classroom out of fear and embarrassment from us arriving a couple minutes late (I know, total mom fail. Poor decision to elaborately braid her hair that morning given my remedial girl hairstyling skills).

She's in an all-girls high school, a transition from her one-class-per-grade K-8 co-ed school, and I've been both excited and anxious for her in making new friends and managing her time with 10x more homework and being on the soccer team which involves daily practice after school and weekday games. I want to know every. single. detail. And I want to help. But I'm realizing, too, that that kind of rabid-ness may not be ideal for her development and I am NOT a helicopter mom - or at least, I don't want to be a helicopter mom! (I'm definitely not a lawnmower mom.)

So, I'm working on dialing down my innate drive to interfere and letting it go a little. Not entirely, let's be realistic, but a conscious effort to allow her to find her own way. I know she'll come to me for guidance if needed. I know it's okay to fail. I know she needs to learn. I know she will do just fine.

It amazes (and horrifies) me when I hear stories of parents being weirdly involved when their kids are of grown age. Like graduate students' parents calling the school to take care of things for their adult children. Those stories inspire me to let go now. That's doing favors for no one.

I'm resisting. And turning down the dial. And taking deep breaths. So she can breathe and grow too.

I went to a concert and it was okay

For Christmas, we gave our 13-year old daughter tickets to a concert for her favorite band. She's played us songs ("Can I play you this song? It is sooooo good! *insert look on my face during song that looks like a shot from The Office when a character smiles uncomfortably into the camera*)

Let's just say that I feel too old to enjoy this kind of young boy band music. 

But nevertheless, we gifted her tickets (#4) for her and her two friends and one very lucky parent chaperone (me). Please note my deep love and devotion for my husband to not even try to do rock-paper-scissors for the pleasure. Because I knew that he might die if he were exposed to that environment. He's more introverted and has somewhat elitist views on music. 

I did establish some expectations with all parties to protect my sanity. Since it would be a school/work night (!), I declared that we would get there early and leave early, like before it ended. There's no way I'd be stuck in concert exit traffic late into the evening by leaving when everyone else did. No. Way.

So, on a recent Thursday night, I drove my daughter and her best friends through 1.5 hours of rush hour traffic to the concert venue.  They were ridiculously excited, playing the band's songs and flipping through a coffee table book of said band the entire time. By the time we got to the garage, they were downright Giddy with excitement. I have to say that seeing them united in Giddiness gave me serious feels.

We walked a couple of blocks towards the arena, realizing that there was a huge parking lot right there and that we unnecessarily parked in a remote garage. Oh well (I followed the signs!). We were almost at the arena when I ran through the exit procedures with the girls. I would leave before them, get the car, then text them to meet up, before the concert ended. 

We made it to our seats, and I noted that the median age of the audience was 14 and 90% female. Parents were on their phones.  At one point, one of the two opening acts gave a shout out to the parents in the audience. That's when you know you're old and at a concert for a much different demographic.

There was a whole lot of screaming that night. Jumping. Glee. I loved seeing my daughter and her friends enjoy the moment so much. That made bearing the screaming and jumping and loud music I didn't care for, bearable. On the plus side, I could go get them food without feeling like I missed anything unlike most of my previous concert experiences. And the music, well, I had very low expectations and it exceeded them. (ears weren't bleeding; I refused to stand though)

After looking at my watch for the 100th time, I decided that it was time for me to make the trek to the remote parking garage ahead of time, trying to project what time the concert might start winding down and how long it would take to get everyone home. I left them there with the concert going strong and, on the way out, took advantage of zero merch lines to buy them all concert shirts as a surprise. Lots of parents out there, sitting in chairs on their phones. 

By the time I came back around with the car, it was at exactly my pre-planned pick-up with them and they were out to meet me within a couple of minutes. The concert was just wrapping up and we made a hasty get away with zero exit traffic! It was a surgical strike! On the way home, the girls basked in their happy exhaustion. 

"That was the best 2 hours of my life!" said one friend.

I dropped each one off at home and presented them with the surprise shirt. They were thrilled! We hugged (more feels). And I felt very good for helping to make that experience happen for them. I might even do it again.

It just looks like that girl has a hook for a hand. Also, that girl stood like the entire time.

New Year Goals

2018 was intense, harried, and a blur. There were highlights, like our first international trip to Italy in June (amazing, loved every minute, especially hiking through Cinque Terre and going on a timed family scavenger hunt through the streets of Florence), but there were also times that were just so busy that we were just trying to get through the week and not forget anything big (like that First Communion parents' night meeting that I totally forgot).

The busyness was entirely self-inflicted, a combination of too many kid activities, daughter applying to high schools (yes, it's a thing - a very stressful and energy-sucking thing), did I mention too many kid activities? There's three of them and we try to make sure they all get enriching experiences that they are interested in, but it's reached a comic/insane level if I do say so myself. Soccer alone.

Upon reflection during this sedate winter break, I've decided that I'd like to work on some life goals for 2019 for our family and home.

• More time with friends. We once tried to have friends over once a month which was awesome until it petered out. I think this is important for all of us and also important to our house in terms of general upkeep. We are resurrecting Guests of the Month and thinking of our first invites!
• De-cluttering. Our next door neighbors have the same exact house as we do but the mirror image. They had a holiday party which we attended last week and each time I'm in there, I marvel at their lack of clutter. They have NONE. Now I know it's a party and I'm sure they got it party-ready, but they are naturally immaculate (have 2 older kids) and spare. I came home from the party ready to donate 1/3 of the items in our house. We started with the Great Clean Out by having a family organization event of our basement storage room. The storage room has items like Rollerblades circa 1992, a small couch, and 5,395 other items strewn about in no particular order. It's level 2 Hoarders, Buried Alive. All 5 of us were down there, throwing things out, cleaning up, organizing, donating, and it looks amazing! No longer an embarrassment when the plumber needs to go in there! It felt good and didn't take too long. We also unearthed some forgotten treasures like my medical school commencement program and a birthday letter from a college friend. 
• Developing kid grit. Husband and I have decided that at least some of our kids lack grit and tend to give up easily. While watching our two boys, 7 and 10, on an unseasonably beautiful day during this break, I decided we needed to go on a Mom and Sons Run to enjoy the day and get some exercise. After the complaining and realization that I was set about this plan, we all ventured out to do a neighborhood run - just 1 mile! Now, we've all run a mile before- they've all run a 5K - so a mile is nothing right? Well, during that 1 mile, there were 40 stops, crying (someone fell), pushing (in play but still), a side cramp, and so much walking--I had to pause my activity tracker twice until we could continue. It was like the Bad News Bears Go On a Short Run. I told Husband and we decided there would be a repeat Family Run the next day as part of Grit Bootcamp. It was actually pretty fun. The 5 of us ran 1.25 miles with minimal stops and the 7 year old said, "We ran faster, longer, and it wasn't as bad!" We want to teach them they can get through discomfort and to be mentally tough too. More Family Runs to come!
• Mangeable kid activities. I want to include a question mark here since I'm half-hearted about this goal. I think 7 soccer teams was definitely over the top last fall, but I also want them to have time to pursue their interests, develop themselves, etc etc. I guess my goal is to be more conscious of our whole family schedule and to make sure everyone has some down time. Spring means only 4 soccer teams so that's a start! 
• Be more connected to others. Beyond having guests over, I want to reconnect more with friends and make time for that. I want to carve out more time to be connected with my husband. And continue to have great family unit time. I think this means committing to the bullet point above because connecting takes time and time is of short order around here.

Any one else have goals they hope to tackle in 2019? I figure writing them down makes us more accountable so feel free to share in a public declaration. :)

Signs (H/t to Ace of Base)

I believe in signs.

Driving home from getting the kids flu shots, we heard the song "The Sign" by Ace of Base on the radio. Whenever I hear this song, it brings me back to college Spring Break in Cancun. My 13yo knows it well from the movie Pitch Perfect (she is a big fan) so it was a fun song to have on for us. After the song was over, I changed stations only to hear "The Sign" again! Granted, in the DC area, we have a strange preponderance of "old people stations" per my children, but still! What are the chances?

I immediately thought of our priest's winding homily last weekend where he wore a blindfold and held a football (long story) and talked about blindspots and listening for signs.

Okay, this was a sign of some sort that was actually labeled "The Sign." What was I supposed to do?

I decided that it was time to finally extricate myself from one of my extra volunteer commitments that I was not able to fulfill well since it was low on my priority list and that I carried guilt about. It no longer brought me joy. So, later that week, I stepped down from my role. And...deep exhale. It's done! I do feel a tiny bit lighter. I know that I need to pare down my commitments some more, but this was a good start.

Which brings to me to a story of another sign.

So, my daughter's school soccer team is in the playoffs. I was deeply conflicted since their first playoff game was scheduled for the night that I needed to leave for a conference in TX. Couldn't get a later flight than 7:30pm. I had to be in for an important Friday morning meeting. I was so bummed I'd miss her play, and then if they won, I'd then miss their semifinal game on Saturday as well.

When I arrived at the airport garage on Thursday, I joined a huge mass of people waiting for the shuttle to the terminal (apparently they had been there for awhile without service) and checked my phone. My flight was delayed by 2 hours. I looked at the time. 40 minutes until the playoff game started. Really? Could I make it? I did some rapid calculations and decided that I could make the majority of the game. Maybe I could even check-in my luggage now so I can just cruise in later with my TSA precheck!

Hustled back to car. Drove to Hourly Garage. Found a spot. Booked it into terminal. Self-checked bag (thanks Southwest), asked attendant the likelihood that my delayed flight would actually board earlier (answer: very unlikely), booked it back to car, drove the 35 minutes to the high school and got there 6 min into game. There was a big crowd of support for our team there. Many of the girls on the team had painted their faces - such spirit! My daughter was looking great in the goal. She made an amazing save, tipping a ball that was certainly headed in, out of bounds. It was thrilling to watch them play and awesome to be there! (And slightly weird knowing my bags were checked in at the airport and I really needed to catch my flight.) The team was up by 4 goals, it was well into 2nd half, and it was time for me to get back to catch my plane. I jogged out of there, got into my car, and my husband texted me: [daughter] is out. To much accolade. Coach had put in the 2nd goalkeeper with 10 min to go. By the time I got to the airport, I had confirmation that they won!

I sailed to the shuttle, through security, grabbed dinner to go, and got to gate as they were lining up to board. It was intense, slightly crazy, and totally worth it. What's more, the semifinal game on Saturday was canceled due to rain so I missed nothing.

It did all work out. And it did feel entirely meant to be.

Recovery

After recovering from the the good kind of pain at the end of November last year, I developed the plain-old kind of pain that is in no way good: an intense, searing pain of a likely cervical radiculopathy that prompted me to go to the ER one fine December Saturday after leading a children's Nativity re-enactment rehearsal. My neurological symptoms were getting increasingly worse, as was the pain, despite stopping running completely for weeks, sparing my right side from any kind of lifting or serious use, taking around-the-clock high dose NSAIDs, and even wearing a lovely soft cervical collar for a week (fantastic way to garner sympathy and/or jokes from colleagues).

The ER physician assigned to me was an older man who showed absolutely zero empathy, compassion, or patience. You know when you can feel someone's impatience with your history-sharing, who just wants you to get to it? I told him I was a physician - not sure whether his bedside manner was because of that fact or in spite of it. I had plain films done showing cervical degenerative changes (I had never felt quite so old) and his plan for me was a) switch to naproxen from ibuprofen; b) reassurance that it would get better (delivered by someone without a compassionate approach, this felt tin-hollow); c) follow-up with PCP the next week. This felt like a wholly inadequate plan to me. I suggested a medrol dose pack which he agreed to.

The medrol dose pack was a temporary godsend. It worked within a day to drastically improve my pain. It was amazing! I felt almost normal again. Once the pack was done, though, the pain returned, in some ways worsened. Dealing with this pain - chronic, unclear end date - was humbling and deeply frustrating.

I have always thought of myself as a physically strong person. This has been part of my self-identity. On the playground, I used to win arm wrestling matches against boys. In high school, I was a cheerleader "base" and held girls' feet on my shoulders and bench-pressed them until my arms were extended. (If I did that now, I'm sure multiple discs would herniate simultaneously. Actually, maybe that's why my neck imaging looks the way it does.) This injury, occurring after no single traumatic moment upended that self-image. For awhile, during the worst of it, I cringed as my seven year old came in for a hug from my right side.

After a lot of physical therapy and time (probably most important), the pain lost its hard edge and now has settled to a stiffness and soreness that I don't always notice. A couple of months ago, I started running gingerly again, and a couple of weekends ago, I ran my first race in almost a year. It felt like it usually feels constitutionally-speaking: horrible during, fantastic afterwards, and I'm ready for the next one.

I'm grateful to be mostly recovered. I have new appreciation for those with chronic pain. And most importantly, I'm running again and feeling like myself.

My almost-teen

“I saw J do the reading the other day at church, and at first, I thought it was you. She is becoming a young lady,” Maureen said to me on the sidelines of a soccer game.

My daughter is 12, soon to be 13, but has recently passed me in height. She is never far from a book – goes through them like that – and can’t help but blurt out her responses and reactions to the plot twists in real time to anyone around. “Anna betrayed her!” “I can’t believe he did that! They have the twins!”

She confides in me still, and each time we are there with the door closed to her room, and I am consulted in critical matters of friendship or fashion decisions, I try to proceed gently as if I’ve been let in to a secret society and don’t want to blow my cover. She recently cried into my arms over a friendship disappointment. I felt the same mixture of calm, responsibility, and honor I feel to be let into that moment as I do when a medical student starts crying in my office in my role as a student affairs dean. Or when a patient breaks down in front of me under the weight of a diagnosis.

She started taking martial arts recently since she wanted to learn self-defense. We found a low-key place that offers all types of classes for kids and adults. She does the kids Muay Thai and immediately following is the self-defense class for ages 13 and up; they allowed her to trial it to see how she would do. She texted me before the self-defense class and wrote “I don’t think I’ll do it,” and inserted a chicken emoji. I called her immediately. There were adults and older teenagers taking the class and she felt very intimidated.

“You should do it,” I said.
“But I’m scared.”
“Just try it! I can’t pick you up until after the class anyway.”
“Okay…” she said reluctantly.

I came to pick her up ten minutes before the end of the class and sat down on the viewing benches in the waiting room. There she was, practicing with her partner, a woman in her 30s in a pink hoodie. She was there among older teens and men and women—she seemed so grown up! She was clearly comfortable, holding her own, and loving it. The group huddled in closure and then started clapping and looking at J. She practically skipped out to me at the end of the class, face aglow.

“I want to come twice a week to this from now on. I’m thinking it might be hard in the fall with my two soccer teams, but I want to figure a way to do it!” She was breathless with excitement. “Can we get the gear? I’ll need the punching gloves and shin guards.”

My almost-teen is growing up. I love that she allows me to be there for her. Mothering now is more coaching, guiding, discussing. It’s confiding and listening. It seems like just yesterday she was an exuberant 3-year old who loved Dora the Explorer and would grab my keys, throw them under the couch and say, “Swiper, no swiping!”

I’m amazed by the person – the woman- she’s becoming. She is still that exuberant child, but now with a playful sarcasm, insight, a deepened faith, and strong sense of morality. I’m navigating my new role: sensing, adjusting, responding, and still gently pushing her to keep growing.

We’re both growing, and I wonder how long I'll be a secret society member. Is it life long? Since that seems pretty amazing.

The good kind of pain

I seem to always forget exactly how much pain I'm in over Thanksgiving weekend, after running a 10K on Thanksgiving Day. I'll think of Thanksgiving in my mind with warmness: family, food, friends (and sometimes work) but not the stifled screams of anguish that my leg muscles dare me to emit when I get out of bed on Friday morning. Repeat that with any movement all day Friday > Saturday > Sunday.

I remember one year, I was on the consult service the week of Thanksgiving and while I had Thanksgiving Day off, I had to come in on the Friday. A nurse asked me while I was making my way down the hospital hall whether I was okay. I didn't realize exactly how debilitated I appeared. Just walking a bit slow today *shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*!

This year, it has been no different. I should be more prepared after the same sequence of events every year for the past 4 years but, no, I stepped out of bed on Friday morning and was like - WHOA: IS THIS RHABDO? HOLY CRAP IT HURTS. If I wondered whether I pushed it hard or not, there was my answer. Yet, something about the pain with every step (all day and all night) is nice in a weird way. It's proof that I did something hard.

Thursday was my fifth race this year. I've realized that training for a race keeps me motivated in a way that plain old hopes and goals don't. With my work schedule and everything going on, it used to be so easy to make excuses why I couldn't run:

• It's too late
• It's too early
• I don't want to do my hair again
• Everyone else is hungry
• I'm hungry
• I have low energy (related to the above or separate)
• or almost anything else

Also, my time on last year's Turkey Chase 10K was almost the same as the prior year.  That was kind of anticlimactic. So I asked my husband to help me work on speed over the last year. He's always designed workouts for his own bad Ironman self, so let's just say I was a little scared of what he might design for me in terms of training. Keeping in mind that he went to a military service academy and I went to a college where you could design your own major.

Turns out, I love me a training schedule! I run 4 times a week and have easy and hard runs each week to complete. (I particularly enjoy the easy runs.)  I train for the next race and have had PRs each time.  I really love that in my 40's, I can get better and better at something physical. (It's not all downhill!) Granted, I started from a very low bar of speed. But, it has channeled my previously hibernating competitive streak into something productive.

During the Turkey Chase this year, I tried to use my Fitbit Blaze to track my pace. At the starting line, as I was trying to start the app, it kept saying "Check Fitbit App." Awesome.  Last race, the display was showing me "Calories Burned" instead of my pace which was the last thing I want to know while running a race. So I felt that my contemporaneous race tracking was doomed which turned to be true as my watch kept giving me wrong distance tracking and pace estimates that were way slow. By just the time, it seemed as I was running fast, but I wasn't sure with all of the inaccurate data floating around on my display and my math skills have deteriorated a long way since college calculus.

The race results posted yesterday, and I was thrilled to see that I beat last year's time by almost 6 minutes! That felt great. Mentally, not physically, since physically I'm still decrepit. But, it's a good pain, the kind that comes from trying hard and accomplishing something. I may even miss it when it's gone.

Not pictured: heavy labored wheezing/breathing

Celebrating with Gizabeth

Of course I had to attend Gizabeth's wedding party. I mean, the proposal was on this blog! Sure, I had only met her one time before in person, but through the blog and our communications, it's like we have been long friends. So, my husband and I took a quick trip to Little Rock to help her celebrate. We wouldn't know a soul besides her and her husband-to-be, and perhaps that just contributed to the adventurousness of it all. Plus, it would be just us, no kids -- bonus.

We went straight from the airport to lunch with her and her daughter. (This makes out of town guests feel very special!) She was glowing with joy; her daughter was smart and gorgeous. After lunch, we had the luxury of many hours before the big party, luxury to be work-less and child-less.  This included: a run, walking through downtown Little Rock, a pedicure (+trashy magazines +wine) and enjoying the southern sunshine.

Gizabeth and her husband were married quietly and privately at their house and then threw this massive party to celebrate at the Clinton Library.  My husband and I decided that weddings for more established adults are done right: it was so beautifully done from the white tufted banquette seating, to the flowers, to the great music.

In fact, the DJ was so good that after years of being dance-floor inhibited, I could not resist getting out there and dancing! I totally reconnected with my prior dance-loving self on that dance floor. Husband and I had a major blast. It may have helped that we didn't know anyone and thus had zero self-consciousness. (And I have a photo that is witness to this that perhaps should not be shared publicly.)

Gizabeth was stunning. And everyone was so, so happy.

For the send-off, guests were given sparklers and lined the exit. NB: Do NOT put out sparkler by stepping on it since you will burn a hole in your shoe. Note to self: buy husband new shoes.

All in all, I had such a wonderful time celebrating with a MiM sister. Congratulations, Giz! May your joy and love cup overflow.

The Versions Revisited

I retired my personal blog a couple of years ago, but at one point, it was a very big part of my life. The importance of capturing the details of my life - with all of their humor, fake drama, and sometimes real drama - loomed large in my priorities. And capturing the details of my children and how they were growing was part of that.

I started a regular series on my blog that took the form of Version Updates. Like software updates, with the latest advancements and continued operating failures. It started with Version 14.0, when my daughter was 14 months old. This, of course, led to some nice creative outlets and photoshop skill development. I eventually felt like my children had "graduated" from having such scrutiny and carried it through until each was around 3 1/2 years old (that's Version 42.0 for anyone counting). I hoped that one day, they would be thankful that I catalogued their journey through the early years of life and didn't think I had exploited them for entertainment and cheap laughs.

I published a book of my daughter's Versions posts to give to her, complete with a dedication in the front. I included that I hoped she knew that I wrote it all down in love and that I was laughing with her, not at her.

Well she's now 11. Almost as tall as me. Her feet are bigger than mine and she borrows my clothes. She's seen the Versions book of her and knows where we keep it in the bookcase downstairs in the playroom. The other day at dinner, she was mentioning the autobiography her class has been tasked to write as an assignment. My husband and I were playfully retelling some of her funnier moments at the table when she leapt up and ran downstairs. She came back with the Versions book and started reading at the table. Every so often, she would read a passage out loud, and we would all laugh. She flipped the pages and soaked up the words. Those words, my words, echoed all around us, delivered with her voice. It all came back - oh yes - you used to say that! The memories tumbled by, and I loved, loved that she was relishing in it.

After dinner as we were cleaning up, and she and I were alone for a moment, she said, "Thank you for writing this. It is very special." After a pause, she added, "Can I do this for my children too?"

My heart leapt. "Of course you can. I'm so glad you like it."

She carried the book off to her room, to later continue thumbing through it while lying on her bed. I'm not sure what I liked more about this: that she'll know herself and how she grew, or that she'll know the eyes her mama saw her with and the humor that narrated her story from the beginning.

Family bedtime

Every night before bed, our family of five gathers in our middle child's bedroom. It's dark except for the hallway light that shines in from the open doorway. We pile in somewhere in the darkened room. Maybe on our youngest's mattress that lies on the floor (and will continue to live there until our 4 year old decides his own bedroom is not haunted by The Arm). Maybe on our other son's bed. Maybe sitting on the desk chair. We settle in and start our bedtime ritual.

It's our family bedtime prayer. We start by each saying what we are thankful for that day. I'm often struck by what my children are thankful for: having a house, food, their school, our family, mom and dad. Our daughter, the oldest at 10, sets the example for her two younger brothers by being reflective and thoughtful. (That girl's natural gratitude for everything in her life is a point of immense joy for me and that perhaps somehow, during our many missteps parenting, we did something right.) I enjoy hearing what my husband is thankful for - another window into his day. And I find it therapeutic to think slowly through my day and select what stood out for me. I find that I am thankful for many things and that this reinforces my generally positive outlook on life.

Next, we each say something we are sorry for, or want to do better with next time. We emphasize that there is always something we can do better. The children's responses often involve times that day when they were annoyed or angry with the other. Never any judgment, just sharing.

Then we share one thing we are proud of doing that day. Maybe it's doing their best on a test. Or being a good friend. A piece of art. Another great insight into my husband's day for post-kids' bedtime follow-up. I love hearing what everyone is proud of.

Finally, we name who we each want to pray for. For a long time, our 4 year-old said "Santa Claus" every night and now that has seasonally transitioned to The Pope (formerly pronounced "The Hope") and Wilson, our deceased cat.  Our middle child, 7, tends to pray for large swaths of people - the homeless, people with cancer.  We finish with a prayer that we say together.

I don't know how long this family ritual will hold together. For now it works for us all. I didn't grow up saying prayers or consciously thinking about what I am thankful for. I hope supporting this daily habit gives them as much meaning as it has given us.

Meta story

I have always been a big fan of stories. I love listening to NPR's StoryCorps although I do take issue with those segments playing during my morning work commute since they inevitably make me cry. Heck, this whole blog is built around sharing our stories: finding community and support through our stories. So when the opportunity came up last spring to participate in a live storytelling event, there was no way I was saying no. 

The publisher Springer launched a program to "empower authors and humanize research" called Springer Storytellers. They hold live events where authors tell their personal stories about science and research. This past April, one of these events was tied to one of the big medical meetings I usually attend: Society of General Internal Medicine. I was one of five physician researcher authors who took the stage.

It was difficult for me to decide what story I wanted to tell. It had to be a story related to my work, but a lot of latitude was given about exactly what. I love telling funny stories, and I originally thought I might tell a story about pumping madness while attending a medical conference. In the end, I decided to tell a very different story that I had never told before. The story of how my husband's deployment helped me understand my patients better, and how I became attuned to the stories we can't always, but need to, tell. How it led to a curricular intervention centered on witnessing patient stories. A story about stories.

The setting was breathtaking that evening in Toronto. 

Design Exchange, Toronto


I was fourth out of five in the line-up. Each story I heard that night was unique but equally powerful. I fell a little bit in love with each of my co-storytellers. Something about sharing things so deeply personal and meaningful on stage, owning our vulnerability before a live audience, bound us.

One behind the scenes moment took place as I was walking up the four stairs to the stage. As I took the final step onto the platform with my right foot, my left python-print pump remained on the last step. As in, I walked right out of my shoe. Hello, audience. I had to backtrack and try to replace my shoe as gracefully as possible. The emcee came over to give me an arm to assist. This was not quite Jennifer Lawrence's stair fall, Oscars 2013, but not exactly the entrance I imagined.

With both shoes on

The podcast of my storytelling was recently released.  I couldn't wait for my husband, in particular, to hear it for the first time. I tried to listen to it myself, but between hearing my own voice (don't particularly enjoy) and reliving those emotions, I couldn't quite do it. Maybe with some more time and space. (And now, my first words will make a little more sense knowing my shoe incident.)

To stories that need to be told, and to those who choose to listen.

Boss lady

I have a confession. When I was initially asked whether I wanted to take over my division as chief, I wasn't 100% enthused. It's not how I envisioned my future.  Medical education is my passion. I hoped for a future career in education administration (more on that to come), not clinical administration. But, I was able to be convinced that this could be an okay move for me temporarily. I would still be able to do everything I enjoyed (research, teaching, patient care) and still in the running for any higher level education positions that might come up.

It has turned out to be a great move for me from a professional development standpoint. It has helped develop me as a leader. I didn't anticipate the amount of reward I would receive from leading a group of physicians, mentoring them, and supporting them in their career pursuits. I love getting to set the tone for the group and to encourage a working environment of support and, yes, balance.  I'm proud to have created the environment I would have wanted.

Eleven years ago, I sat in my then-chief of medicine's office along with my then-boss (both men) and told them I was pregnant. I only had been working there for a year. I knew I needed to let them know to plan for the next academic year's schedule. Their faces dropped. There was absolutely zero joy. I could almost hear their mental calculations of how they would account for the weeks of my absence in that awkward silence. The first words spoken were, "How long is that these days, 6 weeks?" My heart dropped. "Actually, I would like to take 12 weeks."  Please know that I like and respect both of these men and still do, but their reactions left me feeling like a burden.

I remember telling some acquaintances about what happened and how sad I felt afterwards. One woman who directed a nonprofit said, "Oh honey, if I was your boss and you told me that news, I would have hugged you and asked how I could help." That struck me. Because, that reaction would have been so wonderful. Could it have actually been like that? I've kept what she said close to me all of these years and have tried to channel that sentiment when I've been the boss hearing that same news.

Last week, I met with one of my junior faculty who just returned from her maternity leave. We talked about her transition back to work, their childcare arrangements, and where she stood in terms of identifying academic areas of interest. At the end, she told me that she felt entirely supported throughout her entire pregnancy and maternity leave and that she wanted to thank me for that.

There are plenty of headaches associated with my job, but they seem so insignificant compared to the parts that are so good - the opportunity to make things better for the women (and men) who follow me.

The hug that keeps going

Growing up, in my dreams of my future family, I always had two children. Two seemed like the perfect number. We had two in my family, my brother and me. There was that nice 1:1 ratio of parent to child. I also grew up hearing stories from my mother of growing up with 3 siblings - and her feeling squeezed out sometimes as a child who was not the eldest, not the youngest, and not the lone son.

I keep that in mind as I raise our three children (10, 7, 4), always conscious of fairly doling out my attention and time. Whenever I am on-service (which means leaving earlier and getting home later each day), I sometimes notice an increase in "needy" behaviors especially in the younger two. There's more clinging, whining, and other attention-seeking antics. I am also particularly sensitive to the contentment of our middle child who is most prone to feeling left out. He occasionally gets into these funks where he is down on some quality he has - such as that he's the only child in our family with glasses, making him feel different and more unlovable, I guess. (Mind you, he is adorable with those glasses!)

Unfortunately, coincident with being on-service is feeling more worn out at the end of the day. The kids' bedtime becomes one last hurdle before glorious rest. That means no long books. No delay tactic tolerance.

One day, when I was feeling a QT deficit with our middle child, I decided to give him his good night hug and not be the first one to let go. Just to see.  I just hugged him and kept hanging on. After awhile, I felt his little arms loosen and relax, enjoying the moment so, but still hugging. The hug went on and on. I did not let go. Finally, I felt him let go first. His arms fell to his sides. He had a huge grin on his face, sated and sweet.

I've generalized the hug that keeps going to the other two children, just to be sure they are all getting enough hugs from mama. It's not every bedtime but sprinkled in there for good measure. Often it ends in a spurt of giggles (especially if accompanied by a neck nuzzle), but always I feel glad to have hugged so slow.

The Do-it-Again Equation

Cutter’s excellent post and the comments to follow really got me thinking. What factors go into our thoughts about whether we would do it again (become a doctor)? Can this change?

This is just my way of thinking about the question (one way of potentially many), but I think the simplified, general equation may look like this:

Outcome - Sacrifice    =    DiA
                    time

If DiA = positive, you would do it again. If negative, you would not.

And where Sacrifice = time, money, family relationships, moves, etc , thus far

Outcome = present level of satisfaction with career, may include work-life balance (or work*life product), income, career-related meaning, work-related aggravation

And time, because I do think time is a factor because time attenuates sacrifice/hardship. For instance, if you asked me whether I wanted to have another child while I was sleep-deprived and breastfeeding my newborn Q2 hours during those awesome early weeks of being a new mother, occasionally crying in the shower if I was fortunate to have a shower, my answer may not have been a resounding Absolutely! Not that I didn’t think my child was a magical gift, but wow. My pregnancy/labor/post-partum period were not easy. Fast forward a couple of years and that hardship didn’t seem quite as insurmountable relative to the outcome.  That was kind of a terrible analogy (along with math, not my forte), but I think in general, distance makes the heart grow fonder and the memories fuzzier.  Alternatively, maybe the Sacrifice was way too much and no time in the world would make that value small enough.

For me, my Sacrifice to become a doctor was relatively small and feels smaller with time. I met my husband during medical school. I was really fortunate to finish training with minimal debt, and besides being very tired and on-call during multiple holidays (Thanksgiving dinner with my co-residents in the physicians’ dining room; watching fireworks on July 4 through the 8th floor hospital windows), it wasn’t so bad. My Outcome, on the other hand, has increased over time. I now have more control over my schedule (compared to being junior staff right out of residency), higher income, more clinical knowledge, have engaged in new areas that keep me excited (teaching, research, mentorship, leadership) and after working with all different members of the healthcare team, value the role of physician as leader more than ever. Don't get me wrong- there are parts of my job that are the mental equivalents of how I imagine a root-canal would feel, but on the whole, my career is rewarding beyond what I could have imagined right after my pre-duty hours residency. My DiA started out positive from the start and only has grown more positive with time.

It goes without saying that this equation and its variables are individual, and there could be a fatal flaw that I have not considered in forming this equation. But, it’s not an easy path to take, no matter how you compute it.

Honoring the Pi

It's the ultimate geeky pseudo-holiday: Pi Day. A once in a century Pi Day, apparently.  When I came back home this morning after taking the boys to Tae Kwon Do, my daughter and my husband were at the computer doing some Pi education. "It's Pi Day," she notified me, "3.14.15."

It just so happened that I had been planning a huge pie bake day today--completely unaware of how fitting that was at the time.  Prior to Thanksgiving 2014, I had made only one pie in my life, maybe 10 years ago. It had turned out so poorly and so un-pie-like (mainly the crust; the crust was a disaster, harkening my former disgraceful days in organic chemistry lab) that I proceeded to avoid making pies at all costs.

Fast forward to today, I have made at least 10 pies since Thanksgiving. I am hooked. My brother and sister-in-law even gave me a pie recipe book (it rocks) for Christmas, and I'm making my way through the recipes. I even enjoy making the crust.

All butter crust- no turning back

Today, we are headed to friends' house for dinner, and I made my first banana cream pie.

Making pastry cream is no joke labor/time-wise though

Coconut cream is up next. And can't wait for fresh berries in the summer, apples in the fall.

As we get older, it sometimes feels like we did all the learning and mastery when we were younger. Residency and intense training are long over for me.  So, it feels good to master something new. Empowerment.

Plus, there's something so satisfying about making food for those I love.  But pie. That's even a little sweeter.

Happy Pi Day! May your day be filled with pie. Or math. Or just love.

The New Four Fs

Last year, I spent a couple of months doubled over with post-prandial pain after dinner. We’re talking pain that would sometimes incapacitate me, having to lie down while my husband tended to the kids and got them ready for bed. I’ve been lucky to be generally healthy so this was a fairly disturbing turn of events—was I now starting to fall apart physically as I neared 40?

It turned out to be a gallstone. A single but determined gallstone: too large to pass, too much of a drama queen to peacefully co-exist in my right upper quadrant. Of course, I remembered that mnemonic from medical school about the Four Fs of risk factors for cholesterol gallstones: Fat, Female, Fertile, Forty. This did not improve my “downhill” meme. As a 23-year old medical student, hearing that mnemonic involving 40 was downright depressing. That was my future: declining bone mass, fertility, metabolism and physical health. Awesome!

Back to those fun months of pain, I was given a referral to see a surgeon. I made a joke about the Four Fs and my meeting multiple risk factors. He shot me down, “Those are not true.” Hmmm. Apparently I never got the updated gallstone mnemonic memo.

Having recently crashed the “now 40” party, I have decided that I will ascribe to a new 4 Fs system going forward:

Fit, Fearless, Fabulous, Forty.

Fit. I am fitter than I have been in years. Sure, I don’t have the time or will to work out daily like in college and medical school (and probably that was a little pathologic anyway), but I have been consistently exercising about three times a week. I rarely have enough time (or will – time is not the only barrier) to do more than 30 minutes at a time, but I’m really proud of sticking to a routine even if I am traveling. My body is not built for running long or hard but it can do 2-3 miles if gently prodded without disintegrating into a rubble of bone fragments. As a family, we’ve taken to going to the nearby high school track on the weekend so the kids can ride bikes, run, or play while I do my laps. I have no lofty aspirations of marathons or anything of that high-achieving jazz but to stay committed to regular exercise for stress relief, brain preservation, and of course all of the physical benefits.

Fearless. I have had plenty of fear and anxiety in my life. Do they like me? What if I say the wrong thing? Who is that man on the bike path? What if I get pregnant? What if I don’t get pregnant? Why didn’t my husband call me at the agreed-upon time during his deployment? Etc etc. My goal now is to be more mentally strong. Easier said than done, but I think understanding myself better, having more internal security in who I am is the key – and that’s happening as I get older. I’m not trying to morph into a daredevil risk-taker (although, I did recently swing on a rope, suspended in the air by a cable, into a large aerial web of rope and climbed spider-style onto the adjoining tree platform – THAT was fun), but to doubt myself less, believe more. That brings me to the next F.

Fabulous. Fabulous is not just how you look but also a state of mind. It’s feeling amazing and worth it. I have outfits that make me feel fabulous. I have work that I engage in (particularly involving education, research and leadership) that I know I have talents for and thus makes me feel fabulous. Being able to make my family (children and husband included) individually and collectively feel loved and important = more fabulousness. No one can feel fabulous all the time, but doing things that make me feel this way as much as possible is my goal.

Forty. Forty is nowhere near downhill. I feel like I am at my height as a mother, as a contributing member of society, as a partner, as a physician, as a human. I would not want to trade places with my 20-year old or 30-year old selves, even if she did have higher bone mass, faster metabolism and better skin. I have come so far! (Products also help, skin-wise.)

So those are my new Four Fs. What would be yours?