(AS OBSERVED FROM A HOUSE FULL OF TINY MEN, OVER BREAKFAST)
Me: today is International Women’s Day, boys! Do you all know what IWD is all about?
Boys: *shaking heads while consuming their way through the better part of a loaf of cinnamon toast*
Me: IWD is about celebrating the power and contributions of all the women around you. You guys know a lot of amazing women, don’t you?
Boys: yeah!
Me: like who?
J: you!
O: Gigi!
J: Ethan’s mom!
A: Aunt Erin!
Dave, walking into the room: but who is your favorite international woman today?!
O: Minnie Mouse!!
A few hours later, over a morning coffee chat with some distinguished international women in my professional world, I joked about starting my day with this moment of celebration and humility with my sons.
But then one of my colleagues quipped, “hey, Minnie is an international icon, small business owner, and entrepreneur; Happy Helpers anyone? Your son is onto something.”
Another woman chimed in, “yeah — plus she has a female business partner… and does it all in heels.”
Happy International Women’s Day, everyone.
Related: 3 ways I’ve tried to be intentional with my sons // The Ford Explorer: Men’s Only Edition (audio or sub-titles on!)
Have you ever found out that you’ve been objectively wrong about something you thought you understood… long after the fact?
A number of years ago, I recorded and distributed a training to my team. In this training, I referred to a specific screenshot as “the money shot.” I was 1000% ignorant to the pornographic implications of this phrase until a teammate texted me “omg. did you say you sent this to the whole global team??”
I also spent a fair amount of time telling people I had gotten “shanked” in high school. Shanked, in fact, before 2nd hour Spanish class even began. As it turns out, most people hear “shanked” and think someone attacked me with some kind of homemade shiv, whereas what I meant was “pantsed” because I was wearing my swim team’s sweatpants for meet day that made me an easy target.
Suffice it to say, there have been enough of these types of revelations that it has made me humble to the fact that many of us walk around assuming we understand things, only to find out we genuinely do not.
5 more moments of revelation from this past year:
- Eggnog is traditionally an alcoholic beverage. I always heard those “so-and-so must’ve had too much eggnog at the holiday party!” comments and thought… ugh, yes; it’s such a rich drink.
- “Para bailar la Bamba.” For the many years singing this song’s timeless hook, I sang it as “baila baila baila bamba.”
- You can adjust your seat belt height. You should’ve seen my face when my (short in stature) cousin casually shifted her seat belt height.
- This symbol: ^. I long thought it was called a “carrot,” and in my head it was something related to the shape of a carrot emerging from the dirt (?). Turns out it’s a “caret.” For as long as I ever referred to this symbol verbally, no one would’ve known the difference.
- The “em dash” vs “en dash” vs “hyphen.” As a profligate user of the em dash, I’m glad I actually have an explanation for this writing tool I’ve otherwise evidently just stumbled into.
A lesson in humility. You never know when you don’t know what you think you know.
I got my second speeding ticket of my life over the weekend. By way of explanation, there were two things happening at once, making it almost unavoidable that I would of course be speeding:
- On a relatively rural section of highway that expands into designated “passing lanes” periodically to break up traffic, I was hustling to pass a slow section of cars before the lanes narrowed back to one for the next many miles. There was a speed trap set up at the far end, likely catching my speed just as I would have maxed out at the front of the line.
- J, O, and I were loudly jamming out to Jack Hartmann’s Days of the Week Rap Back. I challenge anyone with kids in the car to not inadvertently add a few MPH while singing along with this banger.
This is my life now. A little bit of danger, and a lot of strongly formed opinions about kids’ tunes.
Related: speaking of mom-level danger… // Jack Hartmann and I have a storied history together.
THE “IN OFFICE AND ON BRAND” EDITION
*****
After an article was passed around mentioning the unearthing of a Mastodon skeleton in an unexpected place:
Me: did you know that the Mastodon is our state fossil?
Co-worker 1: …no? How do you know that?? You have a fun fact for everything. I feel like you must have a running notepad of facts that you want to keep track of.
Me: funny you should say that… I started a new book and it’s taking me forever to read because I keep pausing to take notes on all the interesting facts. *laughs and shows her my Google Keep app’s top sticky note*
*****
Not more than 20 minutes later in a separate meeting:
Co-worker 2: this word, ‘galvanize…’ this sounds like a word you would use.
Me: really?
Co-worker 2: yes, you always use these specific, long words. I’m going to start keeping a running doc of all the long words you use.
Me: oh my gosh, that’s too funny. But really, I do love using just the right word for just the right occasion. It’s so satisfying.
Co-worker 2: I’m sure! I bet you have a mental list of all your favorite words…
Me: funny you should say that…
Since I began this chapter of life not quite 8 years ago, I have spent 3 years growing babies, 3.5 years nursing babies, and 1.25 years in between during which I was a free agent (minus that whole still being legally and ethically and financially and existentially responsible for said babies).
I weaned C last week, and did so without turning into a blubbery, emotional mess — another feather in my cap of motherhood accomplishments, thankyouverymuch. But really, while the sentimentality of the moment threatened to get the best of me, I faced it with 2 strategies:
- Some good, old-fashioned repression
- A healthy dose of self-reflection and gratitude
During these many years, I gained weight. My feet grew. My breasts shrank… and grew… and then shrank even more. I lost so much hair that I once clogged a hotel shower drain after only 3 washes. I limited the types of medication I could take based on potential interactions with the baby or my milk supply. Per the number of blood draws and IVs I’ve undergone, I can say with full medical confidence that I have “tricky veins” — that it’s worth calling the expert CRNA before the floor nurses “blow out” all the traditionally comfortable places to insert an IV and someone ends up needing to change my blood-spattered towels before the action even begins. I missed meetings, and social events, and sleep to hook myself up to a breast pump, where I spent hundreds of hours isolated and with an uncomfortable resignation to feeling like an animal.
Most of all, I grew and delivered and sustained 4 babies.
For the very real and very permanent price my body has paid over these intensely high-stakes years, and for the off-the-charts positive ROI as a result of that price, I officially adopt a near-zero tolerance policy for any negative body talk. I am not (usually) one for overt and shameless self-congratulations, but this moment feels like it warrants an exception: what. a. champ.
Finally, it’s helpful to remember that this milestone is not just about me. Each time I wean, it means more opportunities for Dave to participate and enjoy the tender bedtime routine with his sons. Clearly, he is quite effective at soothing to sleep.
Related: announcing my pregnancy with C // I come back to this anytime I typo “pregnant”
This week, effectively a getaway up north with O, has been wonderful. With just the two of us, after work/camp hours we moseyed over to a park play date with friends, deployed all the beach toys without certain brothers demanding O take turns, and enjoyed an indulgent sushi dinner at a restaurant with a dress code (aside: does a Mickey Mouse sweater qualify as business casual?). But there was one thing we’d been talking about since the bros left on Sunday: a beach bonfire with s’mores.
Tonight, the final night of our week away, was go-time. I had been hyping it all week. I had kept the skewers unpacked and out all week for this one night. O had successfully resisted raiding the marshmallows and bars of chocolate all week in anticipation of this evening.
Well, among the many things Dave & I tag-team for efficiency’s sake… evidently starting a bonfire is one of those things. On many an evening, I have put the boys to bed and walked outside to enjoy a cocktail over our patio bonfire. Unfortunately, until tonight, it did not quite occur to me that I have never, in fact, started said fire.
So there I am, setting up our beach’s fire pit with pre-cut beach wood and — let’s be real — a bona fide fire log… or two. I brought my Bic lighter. My 4 year old is excitedly remarking that he hopes I can roast the marshmallows quickly so he can eat his s’mores. But it’s windy. It’s so, so windy. I burn off the first fire log’s wrapper and nothing has caught. I think maybe it’s the lighter that’s not holding a flame? So I pull my 4 year old away from his cache of sweets and go back to get a new lighter. But when we return, it’s the same result. And even with me shielding the wind with a few flatter planks of wood, and starting a new fire log, and explicitly reading the instructions on where to light the fire log… it’s a pretty sad showing until the wind extinguishes it entirely.
At this point we’re over 30 minutes into our venture, with nothing to show for it except that O has consumed much of our chocolate, wandered away to explore the riverbed rocks and see if the local ducks are home, and asked to call Dad to tell him he wishes he “was here to roast the marshmallows faster.”
But then I catch a break, and the fire log lights properly, and the wood on top catches and… I’m just saying, I give Tom Hanks a run for his money in this scene.
We ate exactly 2 s’mores (because that’s all that was left of the marshmallows), and I felt as though I was robbed of something primal when I had to use lake water to quell the last of the wind-swept flames 15 minutes after this picture was taken.
I feel as though I should not count this as some kind of survivalist achievement, and yet I can’t help but close the day thinking… Bear Grylls might need to watch his back.
Related: unspoken arrangements in partnership // quality 1:1 time with a child.
Immediately following our first strong gust of wind, and immediately preceding me forcibly launching myself into Lake Michigan:
“let go!” my dad yelled —
meaning “of the sail” and not
“of the entire boat.”
Dave and I occasionally travel for business and between the time differences, kids’ schedules at home, and back-to-back meetings afar, we barely have time to catch up those weeks.
I got into the habit of keeping notes of all the things I want to tell him when we reconvene. My latest list from his trip to California looks like this:
- Ashley’s #?
- Can we convince Joe & Julie to move in next door?!
- Mern’s neighbor has solar panels [nb: the “Mern” here is a friend who lives in Colorado, so this also involves a story around how I discovered that]
- J running laps
- Salami drami? Salama drama?
Does anyone else do this? Is it super weird, or only moderately weird? When I mentioned it to my sister, she didn’t miss a beat and said, “of course you do.”
