In which I throw myself into the fire and somehow survive

It's kind of a running joke between my mother and me - except one that isn't all that funny - that I am the world's worst shopper.

Not in the sense that I don't know how to do it - I am physically and intellectually capable of going to pick out clothes for myself.  Sort of.

Rather, it's that I despise it more than just about any activity I can think of. Like, I would rather clean the toilet, clean the cat box, or snake the hair out of the drain than go to the mall.

My mother is totally the opposite. Before she retired and was traveling around the world all the time, she would always have free time scheduled on her trips for seeing the sights, or, more often, supporting the local economies by shopping. She has an infinite capacity for it.

When she and I shop together, it generally consists of her saying, "there's a huge sale, just take a look," and then I take a look and try on one thing and immediately feeling like the walls are closing in and I need to get out of there immediately.

And when we're not in the moment, we can kind of laugh about it. But it is truly an anxiety-producing event for me. I walk into a mall and I immediately feel fat, ugly, and poor. I get agitated and panicky. The choices overwhelm me and I am paralyzed. It's awful.

So when it came to buy myself a new suit, I knew I was in trouble.

I have an important oral argument coming up in a case in federal court. It's a big deal. There's a lot on the line, and I feel a huge amount of pressure to do well.

And I don't have anything to wear.

I haven't had to wear suits to work in forever, so I have a uniform of black, navy and beige pants that I wear with a solid color shirt and a cardigan. The pants are all the same brand and style. The shirts are all the same brand and size. I have a bunch of cardigans that I swap out. I buy all of it online. It's super easy. But it's not formal enough for federal court.

Like I said, this is a really important case. I'm going to be well prepared and I'm confident I can handle it. I'm good at oral argument. But I also want to go into battle looking like a boss.

I tried finding something online. I bought a beautiful red dress with a matching jacket. I was excited.

But when it arrived, the dress, while gorgeous, fit in the body but was so tight in the boobs I couldn't get it over my shoulders or zip it. Story of my fucking life.

So I steeled myself and headed over to the mall today.

I was already having a shitty day. I was tired and super stressed out and upset about a number of things. I spent the morning lying in bed and feeling weepy. I was pathetic.

Eventually I reached my limit of wallowing and decided I needed to get up and act like a functioning human being. I washed my puffy face, put on some makeup, and went to buy a suit.

It went about as badly as I anticipated.

First of all, there was nothing that I liked. I really didn't want to go the institutional black or grey route - I wanted red or purple or something similarly dynamic. But there was nothing. I went to Macy's, Ann Taylor, Brooks Brothers, White House Black Market, Talbot's, Banana Republic, and Nordstrom (where, for the first time at that store, I got truly shitty service). Everything was black or gray, or an ugly color or pattern, or weirdly cut, or festooned with random features like dumb-ass bell sleeves.

I called my mother.

"I can't find anything. There's nothing."

"Did you try Nordstrom?"

"They had nothing. And the service was awful."

"Really? At Nordstrom?"

"Yes. I went everywhere. I can't believe how little selection there is."

"What about one of the little boutique-y shops in Cherry Creek?"

"You know I can't do that."

"Go to Neiman's."

"Ugh. I'm not going to fucking Neiman's. I hate that place. Plus their prices are ridiculous."

"Well, then you're going to have a hard time finding a fucking decent suit."

Touche.

My dad picked up the phone offered me to buy me any exorbitantly expensive suit I wanted. He was in a good mood because Virginia's men's basketball team had just beaten Duke, at Duke. He likes to give his children and grandchildren gifts. He's super generous and lovely.

When he got off the phone, my mom and I went back to our conversation. She suggested some online options. She said she'd mail me three of her suits that I could get tailored. I felt my anxiety level continue to rise.

Finally, I went back to Macy's. I found some suit separates in black. Sleek, no bell sleeves, no flounces or other bullshit that I hate. Very Alicia Florrick from The Good Wife. So I bought it. Done.

I came home completely exhausted and worn out. I had something to eat, did some laundry. and went back to bed.

And that was my day.

Let's talk about sex, baby

This sounds like such a cliché, but I can’t even deal with how much access my kids have to information that they might not be ready for.

All of a sudden they’re asking me about sex CONSTANTLY. When I had them a couple of weekends ago, I heard references to porn.

“What do you know about porn??” I demanded.

Zeke replied, “nothing, really. There’s sex on it? Like on the internet, there are places like Pornhub?”

For pete’s sake.

“WHERE DID YOU HEAR ABOUT PORNHUB??!! Did somebody show it to you?”

I felt like my head was going to explode.

“No! My friend Hugo told me about it.”

“Oh my god. OK. Well, DO. NOT. Do you understand? It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Why? I thought sex wasn’t a dirty thing.”

“It’s not, but the way it’s shown on places like Pornhub make it look dirty. When you’re ready to have sex, I want you to have a great experience that’s safe and fun and happy. And that won’t be dirty. But right now, you should not be looking at porn. It’s not a healthy thing for you to see.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer.

“Ok, Mom.”

Josie was less placated.

"Mama, what is sex?"

I sighed. "You know how babies are made, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's sex."

"But how does sex end up with a baby? How do the sperm and egg meeting create a baby?"

Ah. That one I can do. That's not sex, that's science.  So I explained about egg fertilization and cell division.

"Does it hurt to have a baby?"

"Yes."

She thought about this for a while.

"Does it hurt to have sex?"

This is where I blew it.

"Not if you're doing it right," I replied.

As soon as the words left my mouth I immediately regretted it. Because what followed was a cavalcade of questions flowing from that one stupid quip. I finally had to end the conversation.

"I'm sorry, but we are not having a discussion right now about 'how to do sex' the right way. When the time is right - and that won't be for many years - we can have that talk. Some of it you will have to figure out on your own. That's just how it is. And I will be happy at that point to have any conversation you want to have. But we're not doing it when you're 8 years old."

"I'll do it when I'm 26," she said.

I started to say that she probably won't want to wait until she's that old, but I thought better of it and caught myself.  No need to make the same mistake twice.

So just look at them and sigh, and know they love you

My children are once again going through a time of turbulence. Once again through no fault or choice of their own. Once again caused by the capricious inability of the adults in their lives to get their shit together.

Their dad and his partner (wife? girlfriend? I have no idea and as far as I can tell, neither do they) are splitting up after 2 1/2 years together. This weekend has been a shit show. Fights and crying and recrimination.

It was my solo weekend. I had planned a very pleasant Saturday - going to the waxing salon, going to the blood donation place, heading up to the mountains for a solo night in a cheap hotel before a solo morning of skiing, followed by a non-solo evening of fun.

But then Saturday morning I ended up at Bonfils with a needle in my left arm while with my right arm I held the phone as both children and adults called me crying, asking me to solve their problems.

The children I can handle. I will always help them solve their problems.

I have lost patience with the adults.

The past couple of years have been hard on the children. And I have tried to hold my tongue as fallout from events and patterns in the other household spilled into mine. They view me as the safe haven. They trust me with everything. They walk into my house and I can almost feel the tension leave their bodies.

But if I say too much, I'll get dismissed as the bitchy ex-wife, the know-it-all, the one who can't mind her fucking business.

It's a diplomatic high-wire act.

Yesterday I cut the wire. When I came off the mountain from skiing to find multiple texts from my children and voicemail messages of them sobbing hysterically, I was done. I called her and told her that having my children calling me crying - or worse, running away to my house when they're supposed to be with dad -- was not acceptable or sustainable. That she and their dad needed to grow up and figure out how to create a harmonious household that didn't leave my children anxious and in tears.

"I don't want to hear about how you think their behavior is disrespectful. Find a way to earn their respect. They are manifestly miserable in your household, and you need to fix it. You are the adult. They did not choose to live with you, and they hate it, and you need to either figure out a way to make them not hate it, or you need to not live with them anymore."  I raised my voice. I know that what I said was harsh and that I said it harshly. But it needed to be said.

She chose option B.

To be clear, this had been a long time coming. They're not breaking up because I yelled at her. I don't have that kind of power or influence.

And quite honestly, it's not what I wanted. A happy, stable household is good for the children. Now things are in disarray again. I worry about them. Zeke in particular seems fragile and exhausted. It makes my heart hurt.

Last night, on my non-solo evening of fun, we were out watching a light-hearted, funny musical about dating. It was charming and hilarious. But there was one song in which the male protagonist described his relationship with his mother, who died when he was young. She didn't have a lot of time for him because she worked a busy, high-powered job, and then she died of a heart condition. In the song, the mother is singing to her son that he was always foremost in her heart, even though she didn't show it. It's his imagining of his mother's love letter to him from the grave.

True to form, I started to cry. Stuff like that always makes me cry now. Don't even get me started on the new Proctor & Gamble "Thank you, Mom" ad in honor of the Olympics.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the weight of the responsibility I feel to be their constant. Not that parents ever really get a break, but my need to overtly step in as the protector feels particularly heavy right now. And maybe what's hardest is the knowledge that I can't really protect them from much of anything.

Life is hard. They're getting the lesson early.

Come on baby, wait and see, cuz I'm gonna take you surfin' with me

Most of you know the story.

Back when I was young and single and living in Atlanta, I was inspired by the movie Blue Crush and by a super fun surf lesson on the Outer Banks and decided that I would take a surf trip to Costa Rica.  I found a surf camp that did an all-inclusive lessons/board rental/hotel/breakfast deal, found some willing friends, and off we went.

While I was there, I ended up falling for a hot Australian surf instructor.

I ended up marrying him.

It ended up not ending so well.

I was always a sucker for a good story. We had a great story. But it wasn't enough to sustain us.

Anyway.

I still love the beach and the warm and the sun. I love to surf.  But it's been so long. My skills are beyond rusty.

back when I wasn't so rusty

In the throes of my recent crazy work schedule, knowing that I would be crazed until I finished a big federal court oral argument in early February, I decided that after the argument, I would treat myself to a birthday present of a surf trip.

I did some research on locations and plane tickets and decided upon Sayulita, Mexico. I did some more research and found a surf camp there that has a similar deal to the one in Costa Rica - hotel, surf lessons, surf board rental, breakfast.

 I put out the call for people who wanted to come with, but no one was available.

I still waffled a little bit.

Maybe I won't go in February. Maybe I'll go over spring break. Maybe I should save the money on something less frivolous. Maybe I shouldn't travel by myself. Maybe I'll be lonely.

I won that battle with myself. Meaning I decided to do it. I'll go by myself. I'll relax and surf and maybe make friends with other people in my lesson group.

Or not. Maybe I'll just hang out by myself and read and sunbathe and sleep.

Maybe I'll meet some hot guy and have a fling. I mean, it's not exactly unprecedented.

In any event, I found an insanely cheap plane ticket, so I bought it.  I made my surf camp reservation. I'm good to go.

It does feel a little deja vu-ish.  Back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, even though technically the crime occurred in a completely different country.

When I was still in the thinking-about-it-maybe-planning-it stage, I was talking about it with a friend of mine.

"It sounds amazing," she said.

"I know. Surf, sun, relaxation. Total chill-out time. I don't remember the last time I was able to totally relax like that, no kids, no obligations."

"Amazing," she said again.

I nodded.

"Can I give you some advice, though?"

"Sure."

"Don't come back married."

Roger that.

Celebrate what you want to see more of

My dear friend Lisa wrote this blog post and it inspired me.

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions - when he was here, Sam asked, "so, did you make any resolutions for the new year?" "Nope," I said. "Yeah, me either," he said.

But I believe in taking stock, in reflection, in gratitude. So I'm stealing borrowing Lisa's idea for a blog post.

It's been such a strange year. It has felt so disjointed to me, lacking any kind of continuity or theme.

I guess it's silly to expect periods of time to be thematically connected. Time passes. Different things happen.

But the past years have been somewhat easy to lump into categories.

2014 was the worst year ever. My marriage fell apart. Emma died. I felt sad and wretched and despondent and unhealthy. Deep breaths full of shards of glass.

2015 felt ever so slightly more hopeful - a fresh start. Still painful, still traumatic, but ever so slightly more hopeful. A house that was all mine. Efforts to heal and cope with all the loss. Venturing back into dating, some of which was ridiculous, but some of which was lovely.

2016 was fucking insane. More tragic deaths, reinforcing the importance of living without fear. And of course, the election.

On to 2017. More craziness, but also some sense of settling in to post-tragedy life.

And much to be grateful for.

I'm grateful for my mother and father.

I'm always grateful for them. My birthday gift from them was a trip to New York to see Hamilton on Broadway. They bring the family together on a regular basis - the beach in July, home for Thanksgiving, plus other visits in between. They are generous and loving. They are amazing grandparents.

My mother and I still talk on the phone every day. On the rare day we're not in touch, I feel off. Incomplete.

In June, they had their 50th wedding anniversary. My brothers and I threw a party for them, and from our perspective, it was as much a celebration of what wonderful parents they were as it was a celebration of their love for each other. And those two things are inextricably intertwined, I think. The strength of their relationship flows down to us, in the support they've always shown, the sense of fun and adventure our lives have had, the laughter and the travel and the emphasis on always learning and growing.

I know how lucky I am in that regard.

I'm grateful for my friends.

Through the magic of social media and modern communication, I'm still in touch with so many of my friends from high school and college and law school and beyond.

Some of them are here in Denver. I have four India friends in town, and eight or nine UVA friends (including five sorority sisters). I have some cousins here. I have friends from work and the neighborhood.

Lisa and Kristin and I have a WhatsApp chat that has been going on for the better part of a year. If I can't see them in person, being able to "talk" to them every day via recorded message is the next best thing.  Plus I get to see Lisa when I'm in Virginia, and she and her kids have been coming to the Outer Banks with us in the summer.

These are all people who love me and care about me. If I ever needed anything, I have a large support group to draw on. And they know that I would be there for them in return.

Knowing that is a powerful thing.

I'm grateful for my career.

Eighteen years ago, I took a job with a firm that practiced special education law. I didn't know the first thing about special education law. But since then, I've had the good fortune of working with amazing people who have dedicated their lives to educating children with disabilities, and to support them in their efforts. The work is interesting and challenging and rewarding, and I love it.

I'm grateful for my health.

I'm fit and strong. I almost never get sick. I may be 47, but there really isn't anything physical I want to do that I can't do. I ski hard, I hike hard, I work out hard, I play with my kids hard. In February, after a big case at work finishes up, my birthday present to myself will be a trip to Mexico to go surfing. I'll spend the next month and a half doing some dynamic/plyometric type drills to improve the "pop" in my pop-up on the surfboard, but any limitations in that regard will be skill- rather than age-related.

My ass still fits into my jeans and my mother passed on her good skin. Very few wrinkles. That plus hair dye keeps me looking younger than I am.

I'm grateful for my children.

They are beautiful and funny and kind. They enthusiastically participated in the women's march in January, and believe in equality and inclusion. They like to travel and are interested in the world around them. They are fun to ski with. They shower me with love and snuggles. They crack me up by saying, "Alexa, fart!" and then seeing what happens.

I'm grateful for all of you. It still astounds me to open up Statcounter.com and see how many people from all over the world have visited this blog. I love writing. I love feeling like I have a posse out there in the world of the interwebs.

In the coming year, I will nurture all of this gratitude - try to be a good friend, a good mother, a good daughter, a good sister, a good lawyer, a good writer, a good athlete. Continue to seek out adventure. Continue to seek out love.

Happy New Year.