Explanation - Issue No. 7
CLIMBING MOUNTAINS IN THE DARK
In 2015, my now husband and I took a magical vacation to Tanzania. Every two years, we would do a big trip, and we would budget and plan around the shared belief that travel should be a focal point of our lives. When deciding where we should go, we would independently make lists, mine often written by hand and researched based on images and stories I had heard, his made on Excel and based on weather patterns and activities we could do. Then, we would pitch our lists to one another, hold a debate, and settle on where our next adventure would unfold. And, with that, in 2015, we decided to go to Tanzania, to go on safari and then do a 6 day hike to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. I could write an entire book about our experience. But, what I’ve been thinking about most recently, seven years later, is the final ascent. After 5 days of strenuous hiking and camping, dealing with altitude acclimation and stomach issues that I’ll spare you the details of, after putting our bodies through what felt like ceaseless challenge, after having a few existential crises on why anyone hikes mountains to begin with, we were told that we would wake up at midnight, eat a light breakfast and then begin the final climb, so as to reach the top of the mountain by sunrise. I hadn’t slept, I was so anxious, and I couldn’t decide if the cold, the 30-40 mph winds or my pure nerves were making me shake. This hike was unlike anything we’ve done before or since. We couldn’t see past our headlamps. There was no reprieve from the incline or the wind or the cold and the terrain was sand, so with every step we took, we slid back down at least half a step. When I look back at the experience, I realize that my body switched into survival mode and took a hiatus from collecting memories. It’s all kind of a blur, just snippets of sensations and emotions cutting through the treacherous, windy dark. Thanks in large part to our guides, to our determination, to our bodies’ willingness, to our support of one another, we made it to the top in six hours, just as the sky was lighting up in pinks and oranges and uncovering a glacier on the “roof of Africa.” It was one of the most magical moments of my life.
What I keep coming back to, after all of these years, is why did we hike at night? And, what I’ve realized, maybe through motherhood more so than ever before, is that there was more to the rationale for hiking at night than the mesmerizing sunrise. It was because sometimes, I think, seeing the hill, knowing what you’re up against, is enough of a deterrent to not trust your body’s ability to push through and survive. I don’t know if we would have made it to the top of Kilimanjaro if we could have seen the mountain, or the sand, or how the wind was blowing our path away. But, instead, we faced the challenge fully in our bodies, deeply consumed by our breath, by our determination, by trusting that there was a top to the mountain but not knowing exactly where it was. I come back to that experience so often now. In many ways, Kilimanjaro feels so distant from my current world. It was so meditative, I was so focused on my own body and needs, it felt so insular and yet electrifyingly different and dangerous. But, in these last few years, these years of entering a new phase of our lives with our children, I still feel in some ways like we are climbing mountains in the dark. Perhaps, we are able to do hard things because we can’t always see the hard things we’re doing. We just climb, not always knowing what will stand in our way, trying our best to pace ourselves while putting one foot in front of the other (pole pole in Swahili), each day we’re defying the odds, continuing to climb without knowing what’s ahead, demonstrating the mountains we are capable of conquering in the dark.
PROVING MY WORTH OVER HIGHLIGHTS
Last week, while getting my hair done, my hairdresser introduced me to the woman sitting next to me. “You’re both writers!” she explained in order to introduce us. And so, we began to talk. She was a law professor whose upcoming book about pandemics was being published in just a couple of weeks. She gave me a brochure, talked about the release party, and asked me what I was working on. I paused, took a deep breath, felt my bottom lip between my teeth, and then explained, “Well, I’m staying at home with my kids right now, so I only have 4-5 hours each week to write. I do have my MFA from Rutgers and my background is in creative nonfiction and poetry. Right now, I’m writing a newsletter about life as a mom to little kids. It’s all I have time for, but it’s fun and I’m feeling excited about it.” I felt her interest waning. Though, in retrospect, I don’t actually know that her interest did wane. She didn’t even really need to be there. The whole interaction was basically just me imagining what I would be thinking of me if I were her. I was so self-conscious, that by the end of my monologue I had explained away my legitimacy and totally undersold myself. And, I had done it all with enough foils in my hair to conduct electricity.
Similarly, before quitting my job last year, I pictured being at a dinner party and just dreading being asked what I do, because I didn’t want to own the title of stay-at-home-mom based on my own preconceived and largely false notions of what claiming that identity would entail. Despite being truly happy with my decision, my ego has continued to rear its head (which is not an all bad thing by any means), but it has manifested into a totally unnecessary over-explanation that I now find myself giving constantly. If someone says “what do you do?” Instead of saying, “I’m staying at home with my kids right now while they’re so young.” I say something so exhaustive and unnecessary like, “I was a teacher, which I loved, and the place I worked at was great. I’ve also been a professor, and I have also spent a great deal of time in the nonprofit sector. But, right now, I’m staying with my kids because of the pandemic and vaccines. Did I mention how young they are? I know it’s privileged and I don’t take that for granted. This time is so fleeting. I do think I’ll work again, and it’s been a really great opportunity to pivot my career back to writing, which is what I had originally set out to do in some form. Did I mention I’m also writing?” And by the time I’ve said all of that, I’ve officially lost the interest of the person, who probably never cared at all about what I do and why. This is what I keep coming back to, they don’t actually care and if they are judging me, they’re not my people. I think my over-explanation, ultimately, has little to do with anyone else and much more to do with the fissure I’m trying to make sense of that has happened in my life since having kids – On one side there’s ego and ambition, and on the other, my capacity and priorities. So, if you ever encounter me or anyone else at a dinner party fumbling as they try to explain what they do and why, perhaps the incessant over-explanation (albeit unfortunate for anyone who has to listen) is a desperate attempt to build a bridge between the complicated forces driving one's life.
SENDING MY DAUGHTER TO SCHOOL
AFTER THE LATEST SHOOTING
On May 25, we sent my daughter to school, like it was any other day, and to her it was. But, to me, it was the first day after the school shooting in Uvalde, Texas, that I decided to go against my gut and send my beloved baby into her classroom instead of just holding her close and shielding her from the world. At night, when she has trouble sleeping, I always say the same thing, “You are safe, you are loved, and Mommy and Daddy are here if you need anything at all.” But the shooting in Uvalde, yet again, proved that despite feeling in the deepest parts of me that I would do absolutely anything in my power to keep her safe, I am raising her in a country that is failing her just as we’re promising her the world. She isn’t old enough to understand what happened, but no one is old enough to make sense of it. Nineteen children and two adults were senselessly murdered by someone who should have never had the opportunity to decide their fates. They were failed by a system which touts preserving the right to bear arms as more essential than the right to life. They were failed by a country that has yet to prioritize ample access to mental health resources. They were failed because even our places of education aren’t safe. They aren’t safe because our politicians have been prioritizing limiting the ability to authentically and honestly tell the stories of black and brown and gay people, as if education could ever do more harm than good. Because our politicians are more threatened by honest history than firearms. They were failed by a system that is working diligently to restrict women’s rights to make decisions for their own health and bodies and families and lives while creating ample opportunity for disturbed (almost always white) men to determine the fates of elderly black people at a grocery store, of worshippers, of our children.
Knowing all of this, I dropped my daughter off at school, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her. I had to chase after my son, before she had even walked out of my sight. Life feels like it’s always moving too fast for me to get my footing, for me to build the world she deserves. The next day, I voted. Today, I’ll hug her extra tight. I’ll listen to the stories of the families affected, I’ll viscerally feel their pain while understanding that I have no idea. I’ll feel guilty and grateful and certain that no more stories are needed for us to understand that change is necessary. I’ll continue hoping that tomorrow the world will feel brighter, that we won’t continue to repeat history, that we’ll give these massive problems more than moments of silence and our respects, that I’ll have more answers and clearer next steps. By the time she understands the world she’s living in, my hope is that it will be different, that I will have done more, that we will be getting closer to the world she deserves. But, a part of me just wants to hold her close, to keep her safe in my arms, to not trust the system, to mourn and move on, to pretend it’s not our problem until it’s our problem. At night, when she can’t sleep, I’m not ready to tell her the truth, “The world is a scary place. We’ve got so much work to do. Sometimes we take steps forward, but, we’re also taking big steps back. You are not safe, we are not safe. I want to hold you up, but there is a lot that pulls us down. You deserve more. All children deserve more, and that is a daunting concept. But I haven’t lost hope, and I hope you don’t either. Change is possible, we live in a place brimming with potential, and we can do hard things. You are so very loved, and nothing matters more to me than ensuring that within this world, you thrive.”
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
Three years ago, when my daughter was 8 months old, we took her to Greece and Italy. And, while I could focus this piece on how travel, by and large, is something that’s really worked for us, or the number of stories we came away with from that particular trip, instead I’ve chosen to reflect on a particularly messy blow-out diaper. Because having kids means that along with adding words like “Hooray” and “Uh Oh” to your regular vocabulary, you also spend a remarkable amount of time discussing and reflecting on poop. It happened in Venice, while we were having dinner in a dimly-lit, family-run restaurant. The bathroom was off of the back patio, with an exterior entrance, no air conditioning, and no space to maneuver. There was poop everywhere and we were expeditiously getting sweaty as our daughter’s wiggles began to resemble that of a firehose on full blast. This is not the moment you would expect to feel unconditional love for your partner, but poop-bonding, it turns out, is among the moments that I feel closest to my husband. I was reminded of this at an outdoor taco joint the other day. My daughter, who is no longer in diapers, was playing giant connect four by herself, as we laid my 18-month-old son out across my husband’s legs and changed his poopy diaper right beneath our table of tacos. We were like a well-oiled poop-changing machine. We’re not always in sync, because who is, and also parenting is hard, but the moments when we can do it together, when we can laugh and feel certain that we’ve got the right person on our team, even if it involves blowouts in cramped Venetian bathrooms, it turns out those moments really work for us.
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
In Issue No. 2 of Charmingly Chaotic, I mentioned that at night I tell my daughter a story in order to prepare her for something that’s coming. While I mentioned that this was something that was working, I would like to amend this previous statement. Like most humbling parts of parenthood, just as I start to feel like I’ve really figured something out, it shifts, and once again I’m left realizing that parenting is so very humbling. This brings me to a parent-teacher conference that I attended last week. During the conference, my daughter’s teachers asked if we were going on a trip soon without her, to which I replied that we are. I explained that at night I’ve been telling her about this trip to prepare her and assure her that she’ll have a great time and be in the most capable hands while we’re gone. Perhaps, I’ve also been telling her because I’m nervous about leaving her and her brother, and in my attempt to project confidence and assurance, I am subconsciously projecting my nerves onto her. I’ve reached this conclusion because that’s what her teachers told me I was doing. Apparently, three to four times each day for the last several weeks, our daughter has been telling her teachers how we are leaving her for eight to nine months (which we are not, not even close) and that a slew of people will be coming in and out of her house while we’re gone to visit her and her brother (which is also far from the case, they will be in the loving care of grandparents). They asked that we not bring up our trip again until the day before we leave. So, it turns out, sometimes more information isn’t always best. Sometimes, I’m not projecting the emotion that I’m desperately attempting to. Sometimes, I still have no idea what I’m doing.
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
Chocolate Chip Cookies
Some people are experts on beer, others on wine, while others specialize in pickles. For quite some time, I’ve considered myself a chocolate chip cookie enthusiast. Several years ago, my friend and I even made it our mission to find the best chocolate chip cookie in the city, based on several criteria and an elaborate ranking system. After lots of trial and error, this is my cookie recipe. It makes between 20-24 cookies.
Ingredients
1 + 1/8 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 heaping teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (2 stick) butter, softened (melting it too much changes the consistency of the cookies)
1/4 cup + 2 Tablespoons granulated sugar
1/4 cup + 2 Tablespoons packed brown sugar
1 ½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 large eggs
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
Directions
Preheat oven to 375° F
Combine flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl.
Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract until whipped
Add egg and beat to mix in
Gradually beat in flour mixture, then chocolate chips
Drop rounded tablespoons of dough onto ungreased baking sheets
Bake for 7 minutes (Underbaking is key. They should look pretty doughy and only have a little browning at the edges)
Remove from cookie sheet immediately and let cool on cooling rack
