RVANews

The moment I wake up

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 07 Jun 2016 13:14:09 +0000

Photo by: Lynie

"Winnie need some!"

"You don't need any, sweetheart. It's not necessary."

"Necessary!"

I realize my not-quite-two daughter parroting back the word doesn't truly mean she thinks it's necessary for her to have some of the makeup I'm applying to my face in the bathroom. Nonetheless, there's a pang of guilt.

I think about how I will explain why I wear makeup someday when she's a little older and finally asks. I can feel it, the "Why?" stage is peeking its head around the corner, it'll be here any minute now. There are lots of options, a whole brimming buffet of choice explanations. I imagine how I will explain these tubes on the counter, the reason behind their existence there.

"I wear makeup because the patriarchy demands that I do so if I want to be taken remotely seriously."

"I wear makeup because social beauty standards, largely linked to the male gaze, make this the more socially acceptable choice."

"I wear makeup because I like it."

Except that could just as easily be, "I wear makeup because I like the iron bars of this sociologically prescriptive male-gaze-influenced 'feminine' cage I am stuck in! Everything I like is a lie! I've never tasted real steak, only the idea of it! The Matrix is real!"

Sigh.

There are so many ways of choosing how to present oneself as a woman. Makeup, no makeup, shaving, no shaving, heels and a dress, menswear...This is not to say that what kind of woman we are is based on what we wear and do to our bodies...but also, oh how it is. As women, we are only just recently getting the opportunity to make so many of those bodily choices ourselves, to be the masters of them.

Now that I have this tiny little girl of my own to raise and hopefully not mess up TOO badly, I'm trying to figure out how to talk about the choices we make in relation to the infrastructure that exists around those choices, surrounding them like social scaffolding. Makeup, the wearing or not wearing of it, doesn't really live in a vacuum.

But then, nothing exists in a vacuum, aside from dust bunnies. It's a hard balance with little kids because it's easy to see their requests as not particularly loaded. I don't think little kids ask for princess clothes because they want to be seen as helpless damsels in distress in need of a man--I think they want this stuff because it's made to be wanted; it's sparkly, and pretty, and above all appealing. As a parent, I see the scaffolding, but all she'll know is the thing itself. It's my job to approve or disapprove while navigating what it means to me versus what it means to her, how much I'm willing to bend outside of my personal feminine and sometimes feminist preferences to what might turn out to be her different ones. I get to make choices for her, but I don't get to decide what kind of person she ultimately wants to be.

So in the end, I don't want to teach Winnie how to be one kind of girl. One kind of girl doesn't exist. In my life, I've been different girls, different women too, as I change and grow. We can all contain multitudes! You can like makeup and menswear, glitter and geography, baking and baseball and bugs...these things are not actually in opposition, contrary to popular opinion. If you choose one, you're still allowed to choose the others too.

But more importantly, I want to impart that who someone is isn't really based on what they like. The things we like, the things we wear--they're all connectors and signifiers, but they don't make us who we are. Whether or not a woman wears makeup doesn't really define her soul, even if it might define some of her values or ideals.

Winnie hasn't asked, but I think when she does, I'll opt for the simplest answer first: I wear makeup because I like how I look with it, and she can wear it when she's older if she still wants to then.

If she asks to wear Insane Clown Posse (ICP) makeup though, I'll have to draw the line there. That is one multitude you cannot contain, please oh please.

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Navigating the weird, wonderful, but mostly weird world of grandparenting

Kelly Gerow — Tue, 31 May 2016 12:15:55 +0000

Photo by: la_febbra

My children have three sets of living grandparents (my husband's parents, my parents, and my grandparents). They are helpful and supportive, and my daughter loves when she gets to see them.¹ That's it. Thanks, everyone. I'm going to write about shows that you're not watching on Netflix now. We'll see you later.

(Waits a minute).

Are they still reading?

No? OK. Good.

Grandparents are strange.

When my peers and I discuss our parents, love and gratitude is implied, but everyone has friction and stressful tales to share. I've had a hard time reasoning how this generation of grandparents behaves compared to how their parents are/were as grandparents. My grandmothers were different from each other in every way except they were both loving grandmas, and never, ever would either of them have owned a "Grandparents House Rules" sign with indulgent whimsy like "cookies are on the breakfast menu" and "what happens here stays here."

Is it because my parents' generation can compare their grandparenting with their friends online and in a way that amplifies the joys and misrepresents realities of having grandkids in front of you? Were our own grandparents hellbent on doing everything their kids asked them not to because of a sense of entitlement? And if so, how did I manage to never hear my parents complain about that?

In my five and a half years of being a person whose children have grandparents, I've been all over the place emotionally with them. One of the most overwhelming aspects about being a new parent was learning to deal with newborn grandparents, too. It was a rocky start, and it didn't get easier for awhile.

I appreciated grandparents more after our second child, my son, was born. I enjoyed their visits because it was nice to have someone there who could pay attention to our daughter and take her to do fun things that we neither had the time or money for while we focused on the baby. And their visits gave my daughter another person to share in her 14-hour news cycle (there has been no evidence that our daughter is ever not talking as long as she's awake). Because of this extra time with her grandparents, she's comfortable and happy to spend time with them, and sometimes she doesn't even ask to play with their phones.

The things I have complained about are petty and stupid compared to other realities, like parents who are no longer living or physically well enough to have meaningful relationships with their grandkids. I feel sorry for grandchildren who won't get to have all the memories that you're supposed to have about your grandma and grandpa, or whatever cute name they're given.²

Some adult children and parents have no relationship, or they have an unfortunate one where the kids are used as pawns. Bad parents can be good grandparents, but they don't have to be given the chance. There are grandparents who are distant and uninterested in their grandkids, and unhelpful and useless when it matters. For me, although I ignore 90% of the help offered me, I know that if I truly needed something, our parents would be here in however long it takes to get here. With cookies for the kids, probably.

Not to list every grievance from both sides of the child, but we've all grown in our roles. There are other grandchildren aside from my kids to focus on, and expectations have been met or failed or forgotten or adjusted to reality. What matters is that our kids are loved and safe. But sometimes I crack and get annoyed, and I'm pretty sure that's when the grandparents hate me. Only your enemies give your children things that are covered in glitter, right?

Because I'm wiser and calmer now, I thought I'd address some common complaints from/about grandparents. Grandparents: Listen up. Parents: You, too. Kids: It's weird that you're reading this, but OK.

Grandparents: Cool it with the desserts and sugary snacks and crap food. Kids who grew up in the 80s didn't eat fresh food until they were 25, and their children don't drink soda and sugary drinks every day. Kids' nutrition is an important thing, and you are not qualified to be in charge of your grandkids' diets. Your own adult children are already stress-eating ice cream after bedtime, and no one wants that habit for the little ones when they grow up.

Parents: If you're on your parents' case about something, does what you're complaining about really matter? Is anyone going to get hurt? Is it something that will bother you after the visit is over, or in 10 years? If not, leave your parents alone and let them do whatever dumb thing they're doing with the kids.

Grandparents: You wouldn't go to the house of an adult person who you respect and say, "Here are thirteen things for your house that you don't want or need. Three of them will definitely ruin your floor." If you can't control the urge to buy things for your grandchildren, then make the items easy to return and don't open them immediately. Or plan to keep them at your house.

Parents: You don't even know the things you've forgotten about your child at different stages of her life. I'm on my second baby, and I barely diaper correctly. Even in the five years between our kids, pediatrician recommendations are different about major things, like medicine dosages and feeding schedules. Helpfully update your parents on what has changed since they were around kids. Be patient with your parents. They're going to pretend they still know best, but at least they'll know the best has been reconsidered.

Grandparents: Get the whooping cough vaccine. Walgreens does them; it's fine.

Parents: Actually talk about visiting frequencies. What you think is too much your parents might think is too little (or vice versa), but your parents might not realize or remember how little non-errand/housework/getting ready for the day or night time you actually get to spend with your kids. A grandparent is an essential person to make time for, but one of many essential things that time needs to be made for.

Related: The holidays, whichever they may be. I read some advice that if you have a lot of people to make happy, especially around major holidays, then celebrate a holiday or birthday two or three times. Nope. I cannot disagree with this more. The Christmas season, for instance, apparently starts on September 30th and actually now ends on December 22nd, and that is plenty of time to fit in some holiday cheer with all who matter. 10 years' worth of birthdays and holidays all blend into one anyway--unless something terrible or fire-related happened during one of the events--so don't make a big deal about everything. My advice is to change it up every year if there's no way to make all parties satisfied.

Parents: If you're not paying your parents to watch your kids, you're getting what you pay for. If you're not comfortable leaving your parents alone with your kids, then don't.

Grandparents: Treat your grandchildren as if they were someone else's children. Which they are. Pay attention to the instructions. Don't let the Grandparents House Rules sign turn into a guideline for child endangerment or neglect.

Both of you: Plan to do something with your parents/adult children without the grandkids once and a while. It's important to remember that you were related before those kids came and changed everything, and it might help you relate to each other a little more again.

Phew. That's a log of baggage. Good luck, I have to go eat some post-bedtime ice cream and text some grandmas a few thank you messages and baby photos.

My son is about to turn one and I'm not sure how he feels about his grandparents. He will probably like them. ↩
I haven't thought too much about what it would be like to be a grandma, except that I want to be called "Grumpy." ↩

When you’re not the favorite parent

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 24 May 2016 12:00:46 +0000

It's a phase.

I've found myself repeating this mantra a lot lately. This phase is like the sharp prick of a needle. The sudden heat of a finger against the stove. The automatic flinch in the body, the tightening in your muscles, when you hear screeching car brakes.

This phase is one in which I am not the favored parent. Me! The one who carried my daughter for a zillion months, the one who gave birth to her, the one who lugged the pump to and from work every day! I thought those things would buy me a little more time, but alas.

There have been so many small things that added up to my feeling the tiniest bit banished from her kingdom. There was the time she fell, and wailed not for me, but for her dad. I picked her up and she sobbed harder, begging for Dada. Finally, at bedtime my daughter would fling herself dramatically out of my arms and into Patrick's. "Dada, hug Dada!" she'd squeal, lunging away from me like I was made of lava, wriggling from my arms, presumably forever.

Growing up, I used to play this idle game where I would walk around familiar places and pretend I'd never seen them before, that this was the first time I'd ever experienced that park, that street, that room. I still do it sometimes, looking around and trying to compare my first impression of a place with my current one. Did this room always feel this way to me, or has it changed? As places become familiar to us, they shift, settling into our bodies and routines, like cushions on a couch slowly sinking imperceptibly until there's a dent and the pillows have all begun to drown.

That's kind of how I've been dealing with the not-the-favorite phase. Oh, she wants me to read the book about Dada, that's sweet. Oh, Winnie wants to hug Dada last and not me tonight, that's something different. Kiddo wants to ride on Dada's shoulders but not Mama's? Alrighty, that is a choice between two equal options and she picked one of the two! Chocolate or vanilla! Rainbow sprinkles or chocolate? They are both valid!¹

I try to experience the small sting of preference as a single thing that I haven't experienced before, rather than one that I have. In doing so, I hope I'm not allowing the feeling of hurt to become familiar, to settle into my body, my sense of self. It's not a perfect solution, but I found that by re-angling my focus, by tilting my head a little and trying to experience the preference as a new single thing rather than a continuation of a larger thing, I was able to dodge some of the hurt over time.

It's hard though. It seems so silly, to let a toddler hurt my feelings. But I do have feelings! And even if she's not intending to hurt them, it still stings to feel her wriggle from my arms at night, refusing to let me be the one to kiss her goodnight. Sure it's her showing healthy attachments to people by doing this, but I want her to exhibit her healthy attachment to meeeeee, the person who carried her around in a little baby backpack until it started hurting my back! That carrier was supposed to prevent this, wasn't it?!

It's so easy to wonder if her preference is because my husband cares for her solo a good deal of the time. My profession is Saturday-heavy; we have an arrangement worked out where some weekend mornings I go off to write while they run errands together; he's the one to get her dressed in the morning.

I could tally up the figures, run the numbers, come up with a statistical reason for why this is, but in my heart of hearts, I don't think it matters how much or how little one parent does in this type of phase. The heart wants what it wants. Her heart right now wants her Dada.

"She talks about you all the way home," Patrick assured me the other night. "It's Go see Mama! See Mama! the whole ride."

That helped too.

In the name of truth in journalism, this is not true; vanilla with rainbow sprinkles is superior. ↩

Being interviewed by a kindergartener

Sam Davies — Tue, 17 May 2016 13:32:29 +0000

Photo by: kaibassplayer73

My kids go to a pretty great school, Sabot at Stony Point. Every year, the school picks an "umbrella" project around a central theme and then every class in the school picks projects to work on within the framework of that broader theme--this year the theme is "Our Richmond."

Some classes have worked with the VMFA. Another class decided to look at Richmond's bridges and learn about engineering. My daughter's kindergarten class has been focused on what it's like to live, work, and play in our city.

The kindergarteners staged a mock Big Bike Race. They constructed a model of the city out of paper and wood blocks. They took GRTC from school to downtown to tour city hall. They took Amtrak from Staples Mill to Main Street Station. And throughout the spring, they've been interviewing parents about what it's like to live, work, and play in the city. A week and a half ago, it was my turn.

Taking notes

I wasn't quite sure what to expect from kindergarten interviewers. I arrived at the class and they invited me to join them in their circle. Each and every one of them had a clipboard with paper and a pen, ready to take notes. Their teachers reminded them that they could write words or draw pictures to document what they were hearing.

I started by showing items from my bag. It contains everything I need to get my work done, no matter where in the city I happen to end up. So I showed them my various charging cables, my pens and notebooks, and the pocket where I keep my iPad. Knowing that they'd probably want to see it, I also brought along my Blue Yeti Microphone and explained what a podcast is. They all stopped to draw it and asked about my podcast.¹

I also showed them some pictures on my iPad of various city errands and stops I make throughout a day. I showed them a picture of the barista who makes my morning espresso at Lamplighter. I showed them a picture of High Point Barbershop. I even showed them a picture of me getting my weekly comics at Velocity. But what really stole the show was a picture of my post office box.

They were FASCINATED by my little rectangle of postal patronage. Every single one of them wrote down my PO Box number, most also drew a picture of it. None of them wanted the full mailing address, but it was very important to all of them that they write down "25914."

Questions

What animals do you see in the city?

Humans (because I'm literal). Squirrels. Birds. People walking dogs.

What colors do you see in the city?

All sorts, but I really like the brand new color-coded signs that direct you to the different landmarks and parts of the city.

What's your favorite building in the city?

I love walking by the old Cokesbury Books building at Grace and 5th. That street has the best trees and I love the way the old building fits on that block.

What types of people do you see in the city?

All sorts. I love walking downtown and seeing a great range of people. From construction workers in hard hats to General Assembly members in the fanciest of suits.

Where do you work?

At the time of the interview, I was two weeks away from starting a new job. I told them that I was nervous because I didn't know what it was going to be like yet, but that I was excited because it would be something new and I'd get to ride the bus to work.

— ∮∮∮ —

I'm grateful that I had the chance to do this with the kindergarten class. Not only do I love being the center of attention, it really provided me a chance to reflect on how much I love living, working, and playing in our city. All my little trips and errands, all the places I walk on my lunch breaks, all the people I see, Richmond has become my home and I love it. I'm so glad that I live here, and I don't think I could ever leave.

Sam and Ross Like Things, found on your RVANews. ↩

That whole “coparenting” thing

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 10 May 2016 13:33:09 +0000

Photo by: Angelo 1964

So there's this thing called co-parenting and apparently it's something you're supposed to do with someone if you're raising a child together. But that is complicated because sometimes two people don't share all the same views. Bummer, right?

Here are my question: is it easier to parent solo or parent together in the moment? Not, like, whole-life-wise, just out-and-about-wise. Why is it so complicated?

It's one thing to co-parent when the child is an infant, and another thing entirely to co-parent when there's this whole little person whose needs extend beyond getting enough to eat and sleep. It's another thing too, when we're no longer in the thick of things like sleep deprivation. Our brains are suddenly no longer in survival mode. Suddenly, we¹ can nitpick a little more, because there's more time to think.

I know I'm lucky. I have a partner who is amiable and shares a good deal of my opinions. But it's still complicated, even in the best of times.

I kept trying to figure out how I wanted to write about this topic. It's complicated, but writing about it from my side alone felt, well, one-sided. So finally, I pulled Patrick into the living room with my laptop and mic, and decided to chat about it, to try and get my head around it.

Listen

http://podcasts.rvanews.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/That-whole-coparenting-thing.m4a

Ultimately the differences in our parenting styles aren't life-or-death differences. It's not like I'm on Team Carseats and Patrick is on Team Death Wish. The fact that I tend to say, "Time to brush teeth" versus his "Are you ready to brush your teeth?" isn't a huge deal right now; my daughter gets the idea, whether one method is a slightly more authoritative method against the other. But still, we're talking about these things now, so that maybe as we go further down the road, we'll have some sort of conversation to fall back on.

So far, these are my two main takeaways for how to coparent effectively:

Support the other person when possible. They're the boss when they're making a decision.
Communicate about your big-picture and little-picture views.

As with a lot of things in parenting though, I'm coming to find there are huge variables. In this case, the variable are the individual people, their individual motives. Maybe the third item in the above list is a reminder that you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make them drink. This applies to partners, toddlers, and equine animals. All you can do is your best. And chances are, you're doing a better job than you think.

Read: I. ↩

Learning to knock: What neighborliness is like for kids these days

Sam Davies — Tue, 03 May 2016 12:10:42 +0000

On the street in Northern Virginia where I spent much of childhood there was a lot of knocking on doors. Kids would knock to see if each other could come out to play. Kids would knock to borrow roller blades. Kids would know who had the new Nintendo game and invite them outside, knowing they'd probably get invited inside instead.

Games were organized. Kick the can, football, basketball, baseball with a tennis ball to not break windows, spotlight¹. The court bordered onto a woods, so there were forts and "wars" and adventures. Nintendo tournaments moved from house to house. Sleep-overs were frequent and it was not uncommon for the kids to be in and out of each other's houses.

I learned basics of human interaction from the neighborhood. I learned that you don't knock on some neighbors' doors before 10:00 AM on Saturday because they sleep in. I learned at other doors to take a step back after ringing the bell so the big dog couldn't escape and jump on me. I learned what excuses would and wouldn't work when I wanted to stay inside for some introvert time.

I'm starting to see my little neighborhood get there for my kids. With the spring weather, you can hear where the action is by following the squeally child noises. Kids are riding bikes, running around, making up calvinball-like games. And while our neighborhood isn't as condensed as the suburban cul-de-sac I grew up on, the kids are starting to get a bit of freedom and autonomy. I've even found neighbor children in my house without knowing ahead of time that they would be there.

Most of the time, the kids just have to open the door and listen to figure out who's outside. Other times, they might want to play with a specific person. In my day, that would've involved a walk over to the kid's house and a knock on the door. In 2016, we find ourselves (the grown-ups) texting.

Texting is nice because you can make sure that people are actually available and that your kid doesn't knock on a door and wake a baby. It's also nice because you can give introvert families an easy out because they can just politely pretend that they didn't get your text until later. And while the kids are littler, it gives a combination of freedom and piece of mind by letting your kid walk over by herself, but having the other parent text you when they get there.

The other day though, we tried things the old fashioned way. The six-year-old wondered if the next-door neighbors could play. Instead of texting, I told my daughter to just go over, knock, and politely ask if they could come out to play. And she did! And they did want to play! It was great!

Except now, I have to teach her boundaries. Now whenever we're outside she wants to knock on their door. Sometimes, they aren't home, as evidenced by me having witnessed them leaving, but the six-year-old wants to "just be sure".

Sometimes, the neighbors are home, but not available to play right now, maybe "later." So now I also have to explain how time works. Five minutes, my literal six-year-old explains, is later, so why shouldn't she knock on the door again to see if they're ready to come out? My daughter refuses to accept that "later" is an indefinite temporal construct. Or that, as always happens, the neighbors will come out on their own when they're ready without further prompting, because they like playing with you. I'm grateful to my neighbors' tolerance while we figure it out.

And I'm grateful to have found the little neighborhood that we have. That my kids can explore a small corner of the world with a whole bunch of adults keeping an eye out for them as they run around playing games, having adventures, and making social mistakes that they'll never ever be able to forget even if they wanted to.

Heathens call it "flashlight tag."↩

Hayley refutes last week’s assertion that kids are superfun

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 26 Apr 2016 13:38:24 +0000

Photo by: Thomas Hawk

Last week, Sam Davies wrote about all the awesome fun things about having kids. This week, I'm here to rain all over Sam's parade.

KIDDING.

Kinda.

Look, I wanted a kid. Badly. Like, crazy-badly. I love having a kid now, too. Like, crazy-muchly. It is immensely fulfilling for me as a person. I love it. It's like diving into a huge vat of Mrs. Yoder's doughnuts every morning when I peek into her room and hear her happily chirping to her bunnies about how she's going to go outside today and throw a ball to the dogs. There is no greater joy. Honestly, if someone left me a whole basket of babies on my doorstep, I'd be OK with that. Slightly panicky and concerned, but ultimately OK.

But having said that, it doesn't mean there aren't things that are...a little more complicated with tiny people involved. Particularly when these tiny people have very big feelings.

Take going out for popsicles. I remember the naive Hayley who, blissfully ignorant of the cold hard truth about popsicles, decided that a Sunday afternoon outing to get popsicles would be the perfect way to top off the weekend. Oh, sweet Hayley. How did you not know? Popsicles are cold, and holding them is hard for tiny hands, and that's how my child ended up being the child wailing about being given a popsicle at King of Pops.

Because the popsicle was cold.

To parent a toddler, you can't just be a regular old adult. You have to be tricksy. You have to be wiley. You have to be sneaky-smart. You have to see the future for what it could be, not what you imagine it might be.

Say you're thinking of going to the playground.

'What a grand holiday we'll have!' you might say, if you are slowly morphing into the kind of person who says 'holiday' because Peppa Pig has invaded your home.

ALERT: It will not be a grand holiday! ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO THINK OTHERWISE. There will be swarms of people, and if you're an introvert, this will cause your soul to slowly shrink until you are a shell of a person, wandering around after your child, the sun beating down on the back of your neck because you forgot to slather yourself with sunblock when you slathered your child. The shrieks of children are not joyful, they are the shrieks of a thousand carrion.

Miiiight I suggest the botanical garden instead? They have chalk, and flowers, and turtles, and blocks made of wood, and not a swing or slide in sight. It is heaven, if you're like me and require a little bit of space and quiet. The park is a lie!

Slowly, I'm learning that my expectations of certain activities might not align with them in reality. And it's OK. I'm also learning how to adapt. Popsicles are a layer of Dante's hell? Alrighty then! We will vacate the patio and eat popsicles some other way. The park is too insane? No problem, we'll have a different sort of holiday with more flowers and fewer falls from tall metal climbing structures.

So maybe don't abandon all hope, ye who venture out with toddlers. Adjust that hope, instead.

Hope for the best, expect the worst.

Wait, no, that's not quite as grim as I wanted to get.

Hope for the best, adjust accordingly!

There. I think that covers it nicely.

It's all gonna be OK, y'all.

All the good things: What’s best about parenting

Sam Davies — Tue, 19 Apr 2016 13:04:26 +0000

Photo by: jjesskalee

Parenting is really hard work. Get any group of parents together talking about their kids, and it quickly descends into horror stories about irrational tiny humans, lack of sleep, and poop. In this column I often talk about how I'm struggling as a father, how my daughters can exhaust my patience, or how I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. All of that is still true, but today I'd like to remind myself that I like my kids and spending time with them is the best.

Reading to them

For much of their early childhoods, reading to my daughters consisted of holding a picture book open while they attempted to tear and/or eat the book. But now, I get to read them chapter books and it's my absolute favorite.

I'm reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my six year old. She'll get home from school, find a snack, then snuggle up with me as I read to her about Hermione, Harry, and Ron. She laughs out loud at Peeves and doesn't mind that my Hagrid voice most closely resembles a drunken American trying his best to fit in in Glasgow.

My nine-year-old and I are reading The Lord of the Rings. She works on a puzzle or draws in her sketchbook while I not only read aloud Tolkien's prose, but also poems in Dwarvish or figure out how to sing songs in Sindarin. These books really do benefit from being read aloud and I'm really enjoying taking my time to enjoy every word. We've also gotten a few books of Tolkien-inspired art from the library that she likes to look through as we read. She's even excited to have me read The Silmarillion to her next, but we'll see how that goes.

Camping with them

Twice a year, a group of Northside dads and their daughters go car camping somewhere within a 90 minute radius of Richmond. Sometimes we go to a campground at Lake Anna, sometimes to the river, but it's always a fun, relatively relaxing time. I get to walk with them, go canoeing with them, keep them from falling into the fire, all the great camping experiences. My favorite is when we're all tired from a full day, lying in our tent together, cozy in our sleeping bags, and chatting until we fall asleep.

Listening to Hamilton

Every day as we are about to pull away from the curb to drive to school, I ask my daughters what music they'd like to listen to. And, every day the answer is Hamilton. Not only is the music great, but my kids are now into the history of it all. My nine-year-old devours Revolutionary War books from the library. My six-year-old squeals with joy every time we go on a street named after a Founder she recognizes. If we start from the beginning track and traffic is modest, we'll get to school sometime during "The Schuyler Sisters," which is their favorite because women are primarily singing it.

In the evenings, we also dance around the kitchen to Lafayette 6.3 words per second rap in "Guns and Ships."

Getting beaten in games

My girls are old enough that we can play games that are actually fun, not pre-determined Calvinist exercises like Chutes and Ladders or Candyland. And most of these fun games, the girls can soundly defeat me with enough frequency that everyone feels like they have a shot. Whether it's my nine-year-old holding back her Draw Four Wilds in Uno, my six-year-old sinking my Patrol Boat in Battleship, or both of them conspiring to explode me in Exploding Kittens, it's fun to play knowing that we're evenly matched.

Hugs

Can I just say that nothing tops your kid seeing that you might be feeling sad and then coming over to give you a hug? It's. The. Best.

Also, snuggles.

This list is by no means exhaustive, but even in writing it I'm reminded just how much I like these two people that I'm partially responsible for. Hopefully I'll remember these things the next time I'm feeling angry and will find a way to let that anger pass.

Heavy, lovely, invisible chainmail

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 12 Apr 2016 13:27:52 +0000

Photo by: Sherwood411

Day 1: Notes scribbled on the plane

I try to suppress all the anxiety I feel about this trip and focus on the good it will do me. This is the first solo trip I've taken since having my daughter in 2014. This is a respite. A time for renewal, to relax with friends, all of us leaving our little ones for a few miraculously-scheduled days to hike and relax in Colorado.

But the anxiety! I know flying is ostensibly super safe. But the mind is not a totally logical creature. I am at heart an animal who doesn't fly by nature. Thus, anxiety.

I pack a fully charged Kindle, podcasts, Hamilton. As I get closer to boarding, I anticipate being trapped, forced to read for four glorious hours. I agonized, too, though. Do I pack my favorite perfume? What if something happens and Winnie could have had that to remember me? Scent is so connected to memory, after all. I feel like I'm being ridiculous but also seriously, would Patrick know to get that for her to remember me by? I should have set up an Amazon list of Hayley Things...or is that something only an anxiety-riddled person would do? Welp.

I instruct Patrick to sign her up for ballet classes if I die. And tell her how I died saving Chechnyan orphans. You know, the usual jokey-jokes. And then, I'm off.

There is a baby in an Ergo two rows up from me, curly haired and sleepy-eyed. I make eyes at her for four glorious hours.

Day 2

There is a lazy freedom in hiking without worrying about naptimes. Lunch on a mountain is eaten while sprawling on an outcropping of rocks that, were I with a child, would never have been picked as the picnic spot.

Time moves slower without her bubble of child-needs enveloping me. There are a million choices that can be made, none constrained by bedtimes or the need to try and provide a balanced meal option. Time is syrup, sticky-sweet and slow. Delicious, in its rarity.

Day 3

Like a wind-up toy or music box, I have come to the end of the sticky-sweet time and feel myself retracting and spinning back in towards my child. I hunger for her little voice, her small person mannerisms, her Very Serious "Oh my!" when something must be exclaimed over.

I obsessively scroll through my phone's photo library.

I FaceTime her twice, delighting as she kisses the screen to me, wishing I were there. I am a person with a long tether, made of guts and love and all those gritty gross human things that knit us all together. I am happy to be solo for a little while, but only a little. I'm free, but only in a superficial sense; I wear a heavy, lovely invisible chainmail called Motherhood everywhere. While that may sound oppressive--the word chainmail, after all, does not conjure up images of carefree romping, it's not--it's protective, it's shiny, it's brilliant. But heavy, yes. It doesn't weigh me down, but I am always aware of its presence.

Day 4: The return

And then, just like that, I am back. There are no babies on this return flight, so I content myself to scroll through videos of mine that have been texted to me in my absence.

When I get back, she's napping.

I think of all the recharging I've experienced, the oh-so-needed time away to find the Hayley beneath the chainmail, the fleshy, loud-barking-laughing me hidden under the layers of responsibility and work and parenthood's daily requirements.

She flutters her eyelashes.

Mama's back.

But I feel like I'm back too, a little bit more myself than I was a few days before. The chainmail is sometimes heavy, but the occasional time away helps me balance the weight just right.

Growing up as a parent

Sam Davies — Tue, 05 Apr 2016 13:17:45 +0000

Photo by: Curtis Gregory Perry

Humans keep making more humans. Worldwide, at least three or four babies are born every single day¹. Some of these tiny humans are born to first-time parents, some are born to grizzled parenting veterans, and all of them have yet to play Secret of Mana.

Every day my daughters also get older. They learn new things, forget old things, and pick up both good and bad habits. My older daughter is nine and was born to first-time parents. My younger daughter, who is now nearly six, wasn't. Neither has played Secret of Mana yet, but I'm working on it.

Every day there are more kids that my kids are older than. Sure a good bit of their time is spent with their close-in-age peers at school and formal activities, but a trip to the neighborhood playground can easily find my nine-year-old helping to guide a two-year-old towards the swings that are closer to the ground. It used to be that my little baby might be the only child at a party. Now, we go to parties and sometimes my girls are the oldest kids there.

There's so much luxury that comes with having a non-baby kid, that I forget how restricting life was before. My oldest kid doesn't need a car seat any more. Do you know how much time parents think about which car(s) the car seats are in? Not a lot, because you just assume that if your kid is going anywhere it'll be in your car because there's no way you're moving that car seat once it's installed. Now, my kid can just ride in any old car. She's not hitchhiking or anything like that, but if a friend or neighbor needs to drive her around for some reason, she just has to get in the car and buckle up. No. Big. Deal.

To parents of younger children, I want to send out this message: there will come a day when you do not think at all about your child's bowel movements--it just ceases to be your problem. I can remember cancelling plans because a poop didn't happen. Now, my kids specifically choose high fiber cereal.

Oh, and did you know that you'll get to have conversations with your kids? That they will talk you as they contemplate good and evil, and give you detailed analysis of the different Hogwarts houses? And as they become less and less tiny, you'll realize that they are complex humans that have depths that you cannot fathom, in the same way that no one fathoms your own depths. I get small glimpses into my daughters' and it fills me with awe.

As my kids get older, they are also able to relate more directly with grown-ups. My nine-year-old loves to read and will gladly talk to you about books. My six-year-old (after warming up to you) will tell you all about the musical, Hamilton. Don't get me wrong, they're still kids who want to run around like goofballs and play with toys, but they can hold their own at a "grown-up" party.

Because I was not the first parent, I know that there are parents of kids older than mine, who have reach a point where their kids are even more independent, if not more surly, and can tell me all the things that I think about all the time today, that I just won't contemplate in 10 years. And, I know that my kids will eventually hit a point where little toddlers are just as enigmatic to them as toddlers are to grown-ups. At some point, the babies become the little kids, the little kids become the big kids, the big kids become the teenagers, and the teenagers start pretending they're the adults until they realize that they actually are.

I'm glad I had to go through the crucible that was early parenting to get to where my family is today. I never want to do it again, but I'm glad I went through it. I know there are crucibles I'm going through now but not even noticing, and I know there are the things coming in my parenting future that will make me seriously consider why we undertook this whole enterprise. I'm grateful that humans perceive time linearly and that I get to walk that straight line with the family I've made.

Citation needed. ↩

Yes, please, but…: Having all the things, but not all of each thing

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 29 Mar 2016 12:34:57 +0000

Photo by: CamEvans

"The thing is, when I work late like that every night, I miss dinner and putting my daughter to bed," I explained matter-of-factly.

I extrapolated, saying that I imagined other folks would similarly not want to have their schedules shift to a go-in-later-stay-later situation as the norm, since if people are paying for care, or kids are old enough for school that starts at a set time, that kid-time that's lost in the evening isn't necessarily recouped in the morning. It was a hypothetical conversation, one I never felt a true stake in prior to having a kid.

In the end, it turned out to be a misunderstanding--that it wouldn't be every shift, just the usual one-late-night routine with a little change. Which is fine. More than fine, it's expected in my profession. I breathed a little sigh of relief: Good, okay, that's straightened out.

Being a working parent with a young child feels like a constant game of straightening things out, smoothing wrinkles, fighting traffic to be home before her bedtime. Sometimes I'm putting on my patience-game-face when suddenly, something comes up right as I'm flying out the door at work, and then I'm there for an hour more helping straighten something else out, smooth a wrinkle, make things run the way they should run.

There are wrinkles everywhere, and I'm smoothing them, smoothing them, smoothing them. There is never a smooth surface, or at least not for long. What's it that Bilbo Baggins said he felt like? Like butter scraped over too much bread. Except I'm not an ancient Hobbit. I'm just a working parent.

People say to lean in. As the head breadwinner, I feel that pressure keenly. They say, as a woman, as a mother, lean in, and put in the time, and reach. I want to wrap my fingers around opportunities, I want to say "Yes please" to things like Amy Poehler does. Yes please, I'll do that! Yes please, I'll write that! Yes please, I'll lead that! And I do. I say yes. After all, I'm the head breadwinner. I've got no reason to lean out, because I'm not ever going to stay home. And if I'm never going to lean out, then the logical option is to lean in. Right?

Of course, there's the option to lean back, not out. To not take that professional development class after work once a week. To stay after, but just for a few minutes, not an hour, when I know someone needs help. To say "No thank you, not this time, but next time!"

But it's hard to lean back when you know you'd never be satisfied with leaning back, not for long. I know myself. I know staying home would make me a shell of myself, happier in some ways, but more miserable in others. I thrive with projects to sink my teeth into, things to aspire to, ambitions to achieve. If I'm not working towards something, I feel adrift.

I am full of contradictions.

I love my work.

I love my time not at work.

I say "Yes Please, But," not just "Yes Please."

Yes please, but I need to be home for dinner.

And the truth is, when it comes to trying to get those contradictions to balance out, I'm not interested in playing Twister to squeeze out every bit of work I have in me, and every bit of good present parenting. I can't make 100% good decisions that benefit my professional life and my home life equally. Those decisions do not exist. Sometimes, my professional life will lose. Sometimes, my daughter will lose. And that sucks.

And she will probably turn out OK despite that.

And so will I.

Unemployed dad and the kids who love him

Sam Davies — Tue, 22 Mar 2016 12:28:13 +0000

Photo by: bionicteaching

The phone call ending my employment was not entirely unexpected. As a remote employee of a healthcare technology firm, I lived in emails, conference calls, and iMessage, and for nearly three weeks, there was a marked decline in anyone requesting my time and attention. When I asked my boss what was up, he told me that we'd talk soon--we did, late afternoon on a Friday, with HR. I'd been laid off.

I've been a remote employee for various firms for the past 10 years and people who aren't seen every day are often the easiest to cull when culling needs doing. The last time laid off, I was on paternity leave after the birth of my second daughter (who is now almost six). They had me call in to an important "all hands" meeting. When they went through the PowerPoint of the new org chart, I wasn't on it.

This time, the call (and my employment) ended just as Kat arrived home from picking the girls up from school. I texted her to come up to the office, and then I told her. After we muttered a few good expletives to the ether, Kat went downstairs and I told the Internet about my day.

When I came downstairs, my nine-year-old daughter asked me "Daddy, did you lose your job?" She was looking at me like she knew she was asking about "grown-up" stuff and was maybe a little afraid to be asking. I sat down next to her and answered in the affirmative. She asked me why it happened, and I tried to explain the difference between being laid off and being fired. Then I assured her that we had enough money saved up that we'd be OK for a while. She gave me a nice hug.

After the initial emotional shock wore off, I was prepared to wallow deeply under a blanket, but I was thwarted by my loving family. Coincidentally, I lost my job on the Friday that my girls started their Spring Break, and I had no excuse to stay home. Instead, we explored the city, hitting up several parks and the science museum, and generally enjoying each other's company.

But, I had to make a real effort to be present with them. Sheer worry occupied a large section of my thoughts. What was going to happen? Would we need to use up all our savings, what'd happen then? Should I try to find any job as soon as possible or take a deliberate, but non-irresponsible, path to a more fulfilling one? The kids didn't have any of these worries, so I did my best to compartmentalize those feelings while we were together.

But the worries haven't gone away, nor should I ever really expect them to. The outpouring of offers of help from friends and family have made me think the world is a pretty OK place, and I've taken every opportunity offered to talk with people. Many have been through similar situations and it's helped to hear that, yes, you will feel all the feelings over and over and over again.

Some days I bicycle around town, complete errands, and manage to apply for jobs and talk to friends for advice. Other days, I hide under a blanket and watch Netflix. Some days I feel like losing my job will be one of the best things that could've happened to me. Other days I feel like I'm useless and that I contribute nothing to the world. Apparently, this roller coaster ride is not uncommon, and I'll probably be riding it for awhile.

My girls don't care if I had an active day or a more slothful one, they just want to hang out with me when they get home from school. They don't seem fazed at all. Aside from the actual day I lost my job, it really hasn't come up. They wake up, go to school, come home, and to them I'm just "home from work" a little earlier. I get two more hours of time with my kids every day, and I should make the most of it while I can.

I'm only three weeks into the unemployed life and it's scary. It's scary because I can't help but think of what happens if three weeks turns into three months or three years. I'm worried that I'll disappoint my kids in some way I can't define, that all of their toys will get taken away like in A Little Princess and they'll have to go live in an attic somewhere. I'm worried that I'll fail them and not be able to provide for them and that they'll suffer by my inadequacies.

I know this is silly. I know that they just want a dad who loves them and spends time with them. I know that they are strong and resilient and as long as we have food and shelter and each other we'll probably be OK. I just want to be my best for them, and it's hard when I feel like I'm failing.

Toddler trippin’: The four stages of dreaming big with toddler vacations

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 15 Mar 2016 13:21:11 +0000

Photo by: ldifranza

Step One: The Idea

"Let's go to that ginger festival this year," I said, diving into my pasta as Patrick and I settled down at the dinner table, toddler safely tucked into bed and--knock on wood, crossing fingers, crossing toes--sleeping.

"Sure," Patrick said amiably. My good old always-up-for-adventure partner. "Where is that?"

"Uh," I replied, taking a gulp of wine. "Chicago? Yeah, Chicago I think."

I think Patrick raised an eyebrow in slight skepticism.

"It'd be fun!" I added. "We've never been to Chicago. We could see the city, see all the gingers, you know."

If this were a movie script and not a depiction of something that happened in real life and I had more creative license, I'd have Patrick say here that redheads aren't things to be ogled at. But in my defense, our daughter is a curly red-haired kid, so we'd be going with her to be part of the red sea.

Anyway.

More pasta, more wine, I'm getting into happy trip-planning mode. I mused about the long drive. "We could take the train," I suggested. We could eat, walk around, it'd just take a little longer...

Step Two: Denial

After dinner, I grabbed the laptop and looked it up. Great, there's a train from Richmond to Chicago, I figured there would be but good, good, we'll just see how long....

"Yikes," I said, almost choking on the wine I was still nursing. "Um."

Patrick looked over my shoulder. The estimated trip time to get from DC to Chicago by train was 24 hours and 5 minutes. An entire 24 hours and five minutes. We could get a sleeper car for $705, or seats for less.

"Well..." I said, but Patrick shook his head. We were not going to spend 24 hours and five minutes on a train with a toddler, without even having our own room. Winnie wouldn't even have her own seat, being under two, because we're sure not going to pay for an extra one when we have an option to get her in for free.

"How long of a drive is it," I mused, pulling up a new tab.

Pretty long, turns out. About 12 hours, and that's not counting stops. I thought back to our trip to North Carolina last summer. True fact: I almost just typed South Carolina because that's how long our trip to North Carolina took with stops. It's natural with a kid; you need to change, stretch legs, eat. I need to pee about once an hour, you know. I'm not complaining, so much as facing a reality.

But I wasn't quite ready to face Chicago reality yet.

We could do it, I thought. Maybe we could make it a two-day road-trip, split it up somehow, then see the city, ogle the gingers slash show off our ginger, eat some pizza, and go home...

Step Three: The Tipping Point

"When's the festival?" Patrick asked.

I looked it up.

The Redhead Days Chicago page had just announced the dates were approved...for June 4th and 5th.

"That's kind of soon," we mused. I quickly tallied other responsibilities we had between now and then. There was a trip to Denver for me, a trip to Baltimore for him, a month of overlapping last rent and the new mortgage on our house...the usual flotsam and jetsam of things planned in the next month or two of a family.

I clicked out of Google Maps. I clicked out of Redhead Days.

"She probably wouldn't get much out of it this year anyway," I mused. It'd really just be for us, anyway. Maybe next year...

Step Four: Acceptance

The thing with planning trips with toddlers is that everything takes longer, and they'd probably realistically be just as happy staying home and knocking down block towers all day. Going places is awesome sometimes, but also exhausting, and often plans that we would have made easily on a whim at one point in life now never make it past the Google Maps tab.

But then when we do manage to haul ourselves somewhere, we feel so damn accomplished. I took my daughter with me solo on a plane to Indiana a few months back, and I felt like a BOSS by the time we got home. And during the trip back, I didn't even have my Tula¹ carrier! HORROR.

But it was fine, in the end. And it is slowly getting more fine. Packing a huge diaper bag for outings is becoming more a thing of the past. It's getting finer and finer. So while we may still shy away from things that sound like they're more trouble than they're worth, I also want to remember that feeling when I think about larger trips. It's a balance. Everything is a balance.

So next year when my little family--knock on wood, cross fingers, cross toes--visits Scotland, remind me of that boss feeling. I hear it's a bit further away than Chicago...

I am not affiliated with Tula. I just really like them. ↩

Being a public dad

Sam Davies — Tue, 08 Mar 2016 15:56:04 +0000

Photo by: Sam Wolff

You may not know this about me, but I care quite a bit about internet privacy issues. I don't like being tracked without my consent for the benefit of advertisers. I certainly don't like my government collecting a record of everything I do on the internet to use against me if it ever decides it wants to. I have an EFF bumper sticker on my car and regularly send encrypted emails to myself¹. All this being said, I write a column, where I've openly discussed my vasectomy, my ADHD, and a whole lot of my experiences as a father.

I'm a generally open person who loves talking about myself. I'm more than happy to share details about my life publicly, as long as it's my choice. I get to decide what information I disclose, and how I disclose it. This doesn't mean that I always express my thoughts as clearly as I'd have liked to, or don't change my mind about opinions I've publicly held, but it does mean that I engaged willingly.

You'll note that I say "I" a lot. Just as I want to have the choice about what I share to be my own, I need to extend that same right to my wife and children, my friends and family. Any stories I share about my wife, Kat, she consents to prior to them going up. Some sentences, paragraphs, and entire pieces have seen major revisions (or been scrapped altogether) because I crossed the line between speaking about my experiences and feelings into speaking about our experiences or feelings--and maybe one of us wanted to keep them just to ourselves.

With the girls, it's more difficult. At the ages of 5 and 9, they can't really consent to me putting a story about them on the internet. Regular readers will note that I try to write exclusively about how being a dad makes me feel. Part of this is the aforementioned "liking to talk about myself," but most of it is not wanting to tell stories that belong to my daughters and not me. I try to focus on my feelings, fears, and experiences, and talk about my girls in a more general, non-specific way.

All kids are annoying to their parents sometimes, but I don't want my girls to come back on these columns and read caricatures of themselves.

I also have to realize that the internet is forever, and that my daughters will, barring zombie apocalypse, likely read these words. It's not enough for me to just tell cute stories and say "Boy, aren't my kids so annoying?" in humorous ways. All kids are annoying to their parents sometimes, but I don't want my girls to come back on these columns and read caricatures of themselves.

So I try to write about how being a dad makes me feel. I want my girls to read this column and get a sense of their dad as a man who loved them very much, but also had (and likely still continues to have) very little clue as to what I'm doing.

Parenting any human is hard because you love your kids so much and know that you're going to screw up along the way. It's unavoidable. Something I say or do is going to cause my daughters to become more flawed human beings, because that's just how human beings work. But, I'll likely have no idea which of those moments will be one of the ones that stick. It might be one of the times we're both tired and hungry and get mad at each other. More likely, it'll be some throwaway line that I say that I forget about immediately, but sticks with the girls forever.

Girls, if you're reading this on the future direct-brain interfaced internet, know that 99.9% of the time I'm just winging it and making it up as I go along. I'm writing these columns to help process my thoughts, feelings, and experiences that I have while doing my favorite thing, being your dad. I hope none of these sentences scar you for life, and that you learn a little bit about your flawed dad as he tries his best to help raise you.

As I'm the only one I know who bothers to set up GPG, the only person I can send encrypted emails to is myself. ↩

The kids at the park are alright

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 01 Mar 2016 12:40:17 +0000

Photo by: coofdy

Parenthood is full of hard, grit-your-teeth stuff, stuff that makes you come undone, stuff that knits you into a fuller human being. This is a story of one of the smaller aspects of parenthood--not a stay-up-all-night-fretting challenge, but certainly a teeth-gritting challenge.

That thing is the park.

I know, I know--the park?!

But have you been to the park recently?

There are parents everywhere. Everywhere you look, you'll see a parent. Here a parent, there a parent, everywhere a parent-parent. It's like if the Almighty rained down a plague of parents on Egypt instead of locusts. And it's like Egypt is all parks.

Obviously I'm not saying we should all drop our toddlers off at the park and be all, OK-see-ya-buh-bye!, but this whole playing-on-the-toddler-structure business is getting surreal. ANECDATA: Last time I went to the park, I watched a child waiting for their turn while an adult swung on the swing. And while yes, that parent might have paid taxes for that swing to exist maybe...come on now. Another time, I counted more parents on a structure than tots.

So I took my daughter to the park, and I stayed and didn't leave her to fend for herself like a wolf pup. But I did do something that felt like a defiant, rebellious act.

I sat on the bench and watched her from afar.

I watched my tiny daughter struggle up the hill to the top of the slide.

I watched my tiny daughter sit there, letting other children pass her.

I watched my tiny daughter get manhandled by a well-meaning elementary-schooler who saw that she wasn't going down and sweetly offered to help by sliding her down on her tummy.

I watched my daughter hold her own and deal with it, on her own.

I watched her figure things out.

"She's fine," I called, rather loudly and obnoxiously, to my husband as he sometimes inched closer towards her, pulled in bit by bit by the pull of peer pressure to hover and help her reach the top, to give her a hand as she oh-so-carefully made her way up and down the small toddler steps. I said it several times, along with a chirpy, cheerful, "She's doing great, see?"

I was saying it for the parents around me, but also for myself. It felt like a chant, like something I needed to remind myself of again and again as I sat on the bench, letting my daughter grow and struggle a little on her own. She's fine. She's doing great. She's fine. She's doing great.

My heart pumped in my throat as she sloooooowly went down backwards on the steps, inch by tiny inch. If she fell, I would be there to give her a kiss. If she fell, I would see. If she fell, she might get a bump or a bruise, probably nothing more. She might not fall directly into my arms, but I would rush over. She would not bleed out before I took the eight steps it would take to get to her, probably. I told myself these things over and over, gritting my teeth, refusing to go over and pick her up and help her down.

And she was fine.

She made it down.

She did not bleed out.

Then she turned right around and went back up, by herself, blissfully unaware of the tiny heart attacks she was giving me.

Maybe that's the essence of parenthood, at some small level.

You grit your teeth. You watch with your heart pounding as they try and struggle. You remind yourself that she is fine. She's doing great, see? You feel eyes on you from every angle, watching you, making judgments perhaps, or maybe that's just your mind working overtime and judging yourself, too. Are you doing the right thing? Are you hovering too much, are you not helping enough? Are you helping, hindering?

It's not easy to park yourself on the park bench. For a task that consists entirely of sitting on one's butt, it's challenging. But I challenge you to try it anyway. Try it even though you feel like everyone else is being a Better Parent Than You. Try it even though your child might struggle a little. Try it, and see what happens. See how they can hold their own.

How chill is too chill and am I that chill?

Sam Davies — Tue, 23 Feb 2016 13:05:15 +0000

Photo by: Chloe Hague.

Sometimes I forget just how type B my little family is.

This past weekend my wife, Kat, and several other moms were gathering to pick up cases and cases of Girl Scout cookies that were to live in our house for a few days. Kat was the Cookie Regent for my nine-year-old’s troop. Her role was to bring all the troop's boxes back to our house for distribution to the rest of the troop. My role, on the other hand, was to be the adult in charge of two additional girls at my house so that all the carspace possible could be used to transport Thin Mints.

I sat outside reading a magazine while the four girls ran around outside for a few minutes, then they wanted to go inside so I read my magazine *inside* while they played Sorry!. I wasn't aloof or inaccessible, I was just in the next room and able to hear any violence or address any tiny human’s needs, but they ended up not needing me at all.

They were loud in the way that gathered children are, but they didn't need to be hovered over or engaged or have me guide their activity. The only reason I was *only* in the next room, instead of on a comfy couch further away from the noise, was that I didn't know the visiting children very well. Once we’ve established a precedent that you are a child who will either: not get gravely injured at my house, or come find me if you *are* then I safely retreat from the fray.

I didn't know how long I had. This was Kat’s first year as Cookie Regent for the troop, and it could take anywhere from 20 minutes to a couple hours. I set up a contingency plan that I'd call the cookie retrievers if they weren't going to be back by the time the children started getting hungry, and then I'd use my magic powers to turn money into delivered pizza.

Most of it is just my natural tendency, but I do worry that I put up a front to try and seem laid back around other people. I have this idea in my head that the “cool” parents are cool with “whatever.” Look at ME, I'm sitting on the bench and not getting involved in the playground drama. Where’s my kid right now? Over there somewhere? I don't know because I'm *that rad*.

By the second camping trip, I had made a rule: I'm not going to help you find your flashlight.

Sometimes, I'm not as good at hiding it. There’s a group of Northside dads who do daddy-daughter camping through a program at the Y. The best part of the camping trips is when the dads are all sitting around the fire and the daughters are all running around doing whatever. I was able to keep my faux-relaxed dad persona up while it was just me and the nine-year-old, but her little sister is old enough to go with us now, and two is *way* more than one. During the first trip, I almost lost my mind trying to keep my daughters from losing all of their things.

By the second trip, I had made a rule: I'm not going to help you find your flashlight. That made things a lot better.

I'm a little sad because it's winter and I can't drink yard beers like I do in the spring and summer. I go outside with my iPad, a lawn chair, and beer, and drink the beer, while sitting in the lawn chair, and playing on my iPad. The children run around and do children things. I'm outside, they're outside, everyone’s happy.

That’s my ideal, but I know that I'm not great at avoiding laid-back excesses. On a weekend, I know it's better for us to go out to a park on a lovely day, but I’m not going to push it. Do you guys want to go out to a park today? No? Fine, we can just read and play video games. We'd all be happier if we walked around Maymont for an hour *then* played video games, but how much fight is it worth to get everyone, including me, out the door? The video games are already here. Sure, we'll all be grumpy after two hours of iPadding, but it certainly was easier than putting on pants.

Of course, I'm my best at parenting when I can get out of my head and just *be* with my family, whether that’s reading a book to them, playing a game with them, or reading a book while they do their own thing. Sometimes, I need to be the grown-up and provide some momentum to our days, but other days I can just be OK with my kids having personalities similar to mine. And, I can stop trying to project an air of exaggerated nonchalance when around other parents who don't particularly care how I parent my kids.

The thick-skinned parent: Choosing your way and shrugging off haters

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 16 Feb 2016 16:27:20 +0000

Nudge nudge.

"I'll just get here at like 4:00 AM that day," I whispered to my husband. "That oughta do it."

Like it was no big deal. Like getting up at a time that shouldn't even EXIST to turn in an application that could probably be turned in slightly later isn't slightly insane. But these are not the words of a sane person. These are the words of a person in the middle of a preschool open house.

Originally, I didn't think we'd start preschool for my daughter at age two. But I bounce around like a pinball from one parenting philosophy to another, seeing the appeal of each in turn, first Free-Range, then Finnish, Tiger, then French. Some days I feel like I want to let my child go feral, totally cage-free. She'll only be this little once, and there's no academic need to push her or teach her to read now or anything. Kindergarteners in Finland are joyfully illiterate. Why rush?

Other days, I look at preschool or music class brochures and think that yes, while she'll be in the youngest age-group there, why not start now? The only way to get to Carnegie Hall is to practice, practice, practice. "Oh, but she's so little," I'll muse. But then, many children in France start at the creche around two.¹ By any number of standards, I could make the "right" choice no matter what I end up doing.

I imagine myself getting to the preschool in the predawn hours: cold, shivering as I clutch my daughter's preschool application between my bone-cold fingers. Teeth chattering. Heart pounding. This will decide my daughter's future. This is important. This is why I'm here. I'm trying to do what's best.

Ugh, that word "best."

I firmly believe that most parents fall into the camp of Trying Our Best. What constitutes "best" differs from person to person though. It's touchy. Choosing one method over another has so much to do with one's individual child, not what the books say. But if I say I'm trying to do what's best for my child by only using an Amish buggy as transportation, and it's an immediate judgment on all people who use cars...when maybe it's only me having a fear of cars, and has nothing to do with what everyone else is doing or not doing.

"Choosing what's best" has so many gross judgmental implications, and I hate it. I hate that I can't say I'm trying to do what's best for my kid without sounding like a judgmental snob who thinks you're doing it wrong if you aren't doing it this way too.

The things we do for our children are deeply important to us...and maybe not so important within the greater rolling sea of parenting options. Preschool, no preschool...Suzuki...no reading education until seven...anyone will tell you either this is right, or this is wrong, and here are all the academic reasons why. It's maddening, until you start to not care. And I think, at 19 months into this parenthood gig, I'm starting to hit my stride and not care if what I think is best for my family is met with Reactions.

So if you see me out there, sea-foam scarf flapping, my cold hands balled up tight and the chill March air whipping through my freezing body and crackling the preschool application in the predawn wind, please know this: I'm trying my best.

"She's crazy," anyone could say, looking at me. "I would never do that." And maybe they won't.

I'm not a Free-Range, Finnish, Tiger, or French mom. I'm a Richmond mom, trying her best.

I think that oughta be enough.²

For a good article about the French crèche system, read this. ↩
But 4:00 is super early, so I might push that back to oh, 7:00. What time does the coffee place open? I'll be there five minutes after that. ↩

Too much togetherness: Thoughts on treating cabin fever

Sam Davies — Tue, 09 Feb 2016 13:22:38 +0000

Photo by: massdistraction

A few weeks ago, Heaven's Dandruff fell on the River City, and non-homeschooling parents and guardians were faced with the daunting task of spending entire days with our children. There's a reason that parents start tweeting sad face emoji at the school systems' weather-related closings, because we're used to the children being gone for a large part of the day.

On one hand, this is ridiculous. My family is made up of my favorite people. I like spending time with them. So little of my day is actually spent with them: 1/3 of my day I'm asleep, 1/3 I'm at work, and a good chunk of the rest is spent getting the children ready for school or bed. On a good day, I get to spend maybe two hours of hangout time with my favorite people. This isn't to say that time spent driving my kids to school or helping them brush their teeth isn't valuable and rewarding (it is) but my time to just be with my kids is so limited, then why is a foot of snow a bad thing?

Because sometimes my kids are the worst. They fight over LEGO hair. They demand to eat food. They want me to tell them how not to be bored. They get tired and cranky at the same time I wanted to be tired and cranky. It's not fair. How dare my favorite people want to spend time with me!

Snow is exciting enough that the children can spend time outside. The five-year-old can be out there for hours exploring, but the nine-year-old is more like her dad, the resident Snow Grump. She's excited at first, goes outside to play, then realizes that she doesn't like being cold, wet, and tired. She attempts to calculate the minimum amount of time she can spent outside that will earn her a cup of hot chocolate (15 minutes) so she can come in and read.

Thank goodness the internet and power stayed on. Even though it resulted in relatively higher crankiness afterwards, we were able to say yes to extended iPad binging and watching of Glitter Force on Netflix. We got to play every board game in the house and color every piece of paper. I know the best thing I can do is just to say "yes" to every reasonable thing, but sometimes I don't want to. "Can I do face-painting?" Yes you can, but I don't want to help clean you up later. Sometimes, just sometimes, I'll get away with "after this chapter" and hope they forget.

Unlike my stalwart spouse, I do get a reprieve. I'm a remote employee, and while I normally work at a co-working space, there's no obligation for me to leave the house to work when the roads are a mess. I lock myself in the office and send email, write documents, and chat on conference calls while the family does its thing. Headphones shield me from any sibling fights, and sometimes I'll hear a knock on the door and it's one of my offspring delivering a mug of coffee.

But, spending the entire day in the house is not rejuvenating for me. The need to not be in the same space all the time is one of the main reasons I normally frequent a co-working space. So, I have to catch myself lest I come "home" from work grumpier than I should be.

Being around your children all the time takes practice. Spending as much time as possible with my family takes actual effort. The idea that doing your favorite thing should just come naturally and not require work is false. My default is to hide under a blanket from the world and escape into fiction. It feels great in the moment, is fine in moderation, but I can count on one hand the number of years I've got left where my kids will want me to play "Mouse Trap" with them, or want me to read to them, or want me to play in the snow with them.

I'm not good with moderation. Why read to myself for 30 minutes when I can do it for five hours? Why watch one episode of TV of Netflix when I can watch all three seasons? These things are easier for my brain to fall into, but they aren't the best things for it. The best things are playing "Star Wars" with my kids. But that requires getting out of this blanket cave, which I need to build the habit of doing more often.

The Cobbler’s Child: A photoessay of failure

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 02 Feb 2016 13:33:47 +0000

When you're the kid of a librarian like my daughter is, you end up with a lot of books. Like, a lot of books. And when you're the librarian herself, you end up assessing a lot of books. Like, a lot of books. I read a lot not just for pleasure but for work. It's part of my job to find good stuff, and see what's out there in the world. Not just fun books that appeal to me, but books that appeal to a wide variety of readers. Books with different viewpoints, diverse characters, the right books for the right readers. I look for books with characters who use wheelchairs, who experience autism, who are not all of one race, who have Down Syndrome, who wear a hijab...

But you know the old saying that the cobbler's child goes without shoes? There's some truth to it here.

I was chatting with folks about possible topics for the parenting podcast I co-host, and the topic of home libraries came up. I found myself wondering, what did my home library really consist of? What were the ingredients of the library soup I thought I had? Because while I support initiatives like We Need Diverse Books, I wondered if I was walking the walk while I talked the talk.

So I decided to find out.

This is my daughter's book collection.

I decided to collect them all together first, to assess the type of organization I'd need to do to see how I stacked up.

(I did not include middle-grade chapter books for the sake of the experiment and my arms.)

By the time I collected everything together, it was clear that the cobbler's daughter wasn't without shoes. But what kind of shoes was she wearing? That was what I needed to really assess. And that's where things got embarrassing.

I broke down the books into the following categories:

Books with animals
Books with white/neurotypical/abled-appearance characters only
Books with one diverse character
Books with multiple diverse characters
Books with diverse protagonist(s)

And, um. Here we go.

Firstly, there are a lot of animal-character books out there. Animal books clocked in at 59 out of 92 books counted. This is pretty understandable and not a bad thing in my eyes. Animals are accessible characters that kids can read into any way they want. They're fanciful and require the use of imagination. I have no beef with Lowly Worm.

But.

These are the books with all-white/non-diverse characters, as far as I could tell by flipping through them.¹ I counted 21.

Yikes. This one, lone book is the one that features one diverse character. I wasn't sure how to count the kid on the cover. Does being on the cover count? I decided it didn't count, because who reads or focuses on the cover? Cover is not necessary content.²

That left five books with more than one diverse character.

The remaining four books had diverse protagonists. Rosa in Rosa-Too-Little is Hispanic-American and the book is sadly out of print.³ The Librarian of Basra is an Iraqi librarian who wears a hijab. Wave's protagonist could read as Korean but admittedly this is a stretch, as the illustrations are sparse and could be seen a number of ways. The Snowy Day's protagonist Peter is African American.

I don't think I have any books that feature kids with disabilities. There are no books about immigrant families, though they certainly exist.

This is embarrassing. And yet, it's so incredibly easy for it to happen.

So, what to do about it?

There are a lot of resources out there for me to find books that feature not just animals and not just white characters. I use the following resources in my job, and now I'm going to start using them for my home library, too:

Sometimes, it's hard to listen to the talk you talk and look yourself in the eye to see if you're walking the walk. But, it's also eye-opening.

I thought I had a diverse collection for my daughter. Turns out, I didn't. Book collections don't come fully assembled the way we think they ought to. They are formed book by book, just like our lives are formed not all at once, but choice by choice. Annie Dillard once wrote, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." How we form our bookshelves can be seen as an extension of that. I don't want my daughter's world to be homogenous.

And maybe we have enough animal books.

You try rearranging the toddler's book collection in a specific organized way without said toddler helping helpfully and you can forgive a book that may be wrongly categorized. ↩
This stack's numbers differ from the podcast slightly; I think I counted a library book or two in my initial pre-photo-essay assessment! But I think the point still stands that I brutally failed. ↩
This is a huge bummer since it's the book I attribute to my early fascination with the library. Rosa is too little to get a library card so she practices and practices and practices writing her name until she can do it, and then she's big enough! Yay! ↩

LEGO your conscious mind: Zoning out with kids

Sam Davies — Tue, 26 Jan 2016 12:41:14 +0000

Why is it so hard to find LEGO pieces? My eldest daughter has a birthday coming up and really wants a new LEGO set. In preparation, we've been working together to rebuild some of her old sets that have fallen into disrepair, which has led us to reconstruct Olivia's House.

For those of you who haven't done a LEGO set in a few years, the larger sets come with numbered bags, so that you don't get overwhelmed with pieces. For example, in Olivia's House, each section of the house might come in its own bag so that kids can a) have "save points" to take a break and still feel like they've made progress and b) so that you don't spend your entire time looking for the next piece.

On a rebuild, there's no such luxury. All of the pieces you'll need are in the Bin, a giant plastic tub filled with all of the LEGO in your house that's not hiding under a couch. Some pieces of Olivia's House are nominally intact and can be reused, but other pieces have become detached or incorporated (as they should be) into other projects. This is perfect for creative play, but makes a reconstruction more difficult.

We start from the beginning of the instructions, which seems perfectly reasonable until you can only find three of four needed flat, smooth, light-green 1-by-4s. So we sift through the Bin. We move LEGO around, producing the distinct LEGO bin noise. We move the LEGO gently. We move the LEGO forcefully. We get in each other's way. We grab handfuls and let the LEGO fall through our fingers like water like we're panning for gold.

Occasionally we find pieces we might need later and we put them aside, or we discover Princess Leia hair on a Storm Trooper and play with that for awhile, but most of our time is spent looking for elusive single pieces. We could move on to the next step, but that feels like letting the Bin win. So we look, and look. Once, I glimpse the needed bendy piece in my daughter's section, but it's too late, the pieces were moving too fast, the bendy piece too wily, and it descends to hide amongst it's sisters.

When we do "move on," I can't let it go. I may say that I'm looking for a white 2-by-6, and I'm not not looking for it, but I'm also still looking for that yellow pokey block that I know I saw in there 20 minutes ago. I'm not sure the human brain (well, definitely not my human brain) is capable of looking for two LEGO pieces in the Bin at the same time. It's a constant shift between looking for one, or looking for the other.

I also find myself trying to "trick" my brain into finding the right piece. I say, "OK, subconscious brain, do your thing," and I stop trying to look for the piece (even though I'm looking for the piece) in the hopes that the LEGO noise and my mind-like-water will just happen to find the piece when it's ready to be found. I'll also try to trick myself by saying to myself that I'm really looking for the next piece, but am actually looking for that teal bastard that I've been trying to find for an hour.

And, sometimes, all the pieces are found, and I don't know what to do with myself. We've found all the pieces so far. We're up-to-date with the instructions. We've even replaced the "placeholder pieces" with the ones in the instructions. But, even though I know that I don't need to keep moving the LEGO around in the Bin, the world seems eerily quiet without that WOOOOSH WOOOSH in my ears. My hands can't stop moving the LEGO back and forth.

It all works out though, because very shortly thereafter, we can't find another piece we need.

Finding a missing LEGO piece is a lot like playing a computer game like Civilization. My brain gets addicted to the "just one more turn" mentality. There's always a next step, with a small little reward potentially just seconds away. Just one more piece. WOOSH. Maybe I'll find it soon. WOOOSH. Just five more wooshes then I'll stop. WOOOSH. OK, for real this time, just one more piece. WOOOSH. "Time for dinner you guys!" I'll be right there! WOOOSH. "Are you guys coming?" WOOOSH. "We'll start without you." FINE. Let's go eat.

And suddenly, I realize I've just spent four continuous hours playing with my kid.

Swearing off screen time: The worst diet ever

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 19 Jan 2016 13:15:09 +0000

Photo by: edans

"Television and other entertainment media should be avoided for infants and children under age two. A child's brain develops rapidly during these first years, and young children learn best by interacting with people, not screens."

You know what sucks? That statement right there from the American Academy of Pediatrics about media diets.

Imagine a lazy Sunday after you've worked all week, and now the time is nigh...time to entertain the tot. Maybe your Sunday looks a lot like ours...

8:00 AM: We have a whole day ahead of us, so much to do! Oh...you want to read this same book nine times in a row.
9:00 AM: Let's go for a walk!
9:30 AM: We're back! You want to read that same book again nine more times.
10:00 AM: Welp, I guess that's it. How about blocks, can we get you interested in those for, like, a couple hours?
1:00 PM: Naptime!
1:30PM: You don't want to nap, do you?...What if read that same book nine more times?

Let's be real. It's cold outside. I could craft things, but I'm not very crafty and neither is my 18-month-old. How about books? When I read Duck and Goose Find a Pumpkin 38 times per day, my brain becomes the pumpkin. I try the obvious thing, hiding the book, but it does no good. My child is inconsolable and I feel bad because what kind of book-hiding monster have I, the professional librarian, become? I don't think that was the goal of the Academy.

But it's the Right Thing To Do, right?

I remind myself sometimes that I am Doing the Right Thing. I sit on the couch, thinking of how this is the right thing to do, but damn, is it boring. My friends are probably all cozy in their houses watching Mary Poppins and drinking cocoa and giggling, and here I am, the No Fun Parent, alone on the couch in front of a dead TV watching my child play with wooden blocks. The Moral High Ground is a lonely, boring place. Nobody likes the Moral High Ground parent, not even the Moral High Ground parent! Who wants to be That Parent who's like, "We don't let our daughter watch screens. We only let her watch organic carrots grow in the garden."

I realize pediatric recommendations are there for a reason. I'm willing to accept that kids learn best through real person-to-person interactions, like I'm willing to accept other professional recommendations from people who went to school longer than I did.¹ But it doesn't mean the recommendation is easy to live with. It doesn't mean I enjoy reading Duck and Goose Find a Cure for Cancer every one of those 38 times.

I think plenty of people want to watch TV with their kids to enjoy an experience together, not to replace those real learning interactions. I don't think everyone is sitting their kid in front of the TV and saying, "Here, learn this way, we're never reading Duck and Goose Find the Holy Grail again." One doesn't have to replace the other. Am I doing legitimate harm if I put on Mary Poppins while I pop clothes in the washer, time I wouldn't be using to necessarily teach her anything person-to-person? Or am I supposed to be letting her help wash and fold as an enrichment experience? What if I don't and that time isn't spent actively learning anything with the TV off? I'm not being snarky, I genuinely want to know.

This weekend I'll probably find myself sitting on the couch fantasizing about what would happen if Mary Poppins just magically started playing with a snap of my fingers.

I probably wouldn't turn it off, right thing to do be damned.

Until then, Duck and Goose are calling.

It's something about a pumpkin.

Vaccines. ↩

Feral Man-Child: One day without my family

Sam Davies — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 14:24:55 +0000

Photo by: jez.atkinson

I like to think that I've experienced personal growth since my younger days--that tempered through the crucible of responsibility and experience, I've developed wisdom about the world external and internal. I like to think that as I progress through life, I continuously become a Better Man. I like to think this, then my family leaves town for 13 hours and I immediately devolve into a feral man-child.

Dropping my wife and two daughters off at the Staples Mill Amtrak Station at 8:00 AM, I'm temporarily blessed with freedom from responsibility and have nothing but possibility before me. However, I know that I'll make choices that make me feel tired, bloated, and gross, and I try to actively fight my instincts.

A few things are in my favor: I've showered and am wearing clothing that's acceptable to wear in public. I've already left the house to drive to the train station. I even remember to bring a Soylent bottle with me to break my fast. Momentum is in my favor and I head to my favorite merchant of legal, addictive stimulants and down delicious espressos and work on the New York Times Crossword.

But, then I mock the gods. I start writing this piece, the one you're reading now. I start writing about how I've finally overcome my natural tendency towards gluttony and sloth and spent a productive, yet relaxing day without my family. I write a good three paragraphs and head home, unsure of what I'll do with the rest of my day, but optimistic that it'll be well spent.

I get home and don't descend immediately. I don't leave my shoes wherever; I put them on the shoe shelf. I don't put my grey hoodie on top of my black hoodie on top of my heavy jacket on the coat rack. I take all three and hang them up in the closet, on hangers, because that's where Kat prefers that they go and she's not even there. I put the dishes away and make not one, but two beds, as I prepare the spare room for Kat's brother who'll be driving my family home later that night.

I've done all the things that I need to do, and it's only 10:00 AM. I play on the internet for awhile, then get hungry. I think of all the food choices before me not constrained by having to feed tiny humans nor by something being unhealthy. I could just drink another Soylent and be sated, but knowing that I won't have another opportunity for a long while, I break down and use that same internet to order a Pizza Hut Pepperoni Lover's Stuffed Crust pizza.

In case you're unfamiliar, the Pizza Hut Pepperoni Lover's Stuffed Crust pizza provides temporary comfort bathed in nitrates and grease. Pizza Hut pizza itself tastes like sleepovers. It tastes like staying up as late as you can trying to beat Milon's Secret Castle¹. It tastes like watching Terminator 2: Judgment Day even though it's Rated R. Pepperoni tastes like a soothing after-school snack, heated up in the microwave on a paper towel to sop up the orange drippings. The stuffed crust tastes like the future that was promised.

When the pizza arrives, I eat it and my old man body betrays me. Any nostalgia associated with this meal is forgotten as the stomach acid rises to meet the pepperoni onslaught, and my body starts the tumultuous process necessary to tackle 8560 mg of sodium. I have the presence of mind to fill a water bottle before I stumble toward my bed, but I decidedly don't properly put away my pants as I don my sweatpants of shame. I then proceed to watch the entire 24-episode first season of TV's New Girl² on Netflix.

I get a two-hour warning as my family leaves Alexandria, I tidy up a little bit, and then rest until I hear the car pull up. The five-year-old is a wreck as it's two hours past her bedtime. I carry her in, dress her in her pajamas, and brush her teeth. I head up to the eight-year-old's room and tuck her in, sing her "Still Alive," and say good night. It's nice to immediately have purpose again.

My kids aren't going to need me forever, but time away from them, even 13 hours, reminds me just how much I need them.

We never did. And certainly not in 9 minutes, 3 seconds. ↩
Spoiler alert: It's Jess. ↩

A marshmallow year: Looking back and letting go

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 13:37:32 +0000

Photo by: rokebola

I'm sitting here surrounded by blocks, several large boxes from the new carseats, and a tree full of twinkly lights, and all I can think is, whoa. A whole year passed. How did that happen, when my GoodReads reading goal is only half met? I thought I had more time.

At first I thought it might be fun to compare my Google search history from my column in January 2015 to my Google search history from this past month.

Then:

when do babies start to coo
dogs driving me crazy after baby
baby not responding to loud noises
how long does sleep regression last

Now:

children's museum richmond
Sunshine Kids Radian65SL
better ending to little women jo
febrile seizure mouth twitch

Looking at my history then versus now, I'm like, "Wow, I did it! I have moved on from being a fearful, anxious newborn parent to a typical parent doing research about carseats and things to do instead of things to worry about, and things I'm interested in just for me, and OK fine a few things that still cause a sudden spike of worry."

I feel like I've arrived at a whole new stage. Not a better stage in the sense that newborn time sucked--those baby cuddles are things I'll never get back. But this toddler stage is so different, not only in my daughter's development, but in my development as a parent. I've reached a more confident stage. I like this stage very, very much.

Every stage that passes is so wonderful, so momentous, and so bittersweet. Everything they tell you about it all going by so fast is startlingly, achingly true. My husband and I worked harder than most to have this one child, and every new thing this year has felt like this blossoming, magical experience we'd longed for. Like biting into a juicy apple, or a puffy marshmallow dusted in sugar. But in that experience, there's this sense of sadness too--that once this or that marshmallow stage has passed, that's it.

Poof.

It's been a magical year of stages, of growing, of experiencing so many things I longed to experience: a first birthday, first steps into the ocean, first words. But in that magic, that delicious single marshmallow meant to be enjoyed, there's this deep desire to have a whole bag of marshmallows, not just this one in my hand. If I could, I would tip the bag into my mouth and devour every last one. I am greedy. I am selfish. I want more magic marshmallows.

But I just get this one.

Maybe.

Because there is hope, too. As I folded away a bunch of summer clothes that she's outgrown, I found myself feeling a sense of hope that, even if I never have a newborn of my own again, that there are other ways of building our family too. This past November we plunked down more rent to the cryopreservation place in the Czech Republic to keep our embryo over there on ice for another year. In an interesting overlap, that November RVANews ran several stories about adoption as part of National Adoption Awareness Month that had me thinking long after I closed the tabs¹. These stories cut deep to things that weigh on my mind a lot. Whether this means adoption, fostering, IVF with the embryo we have on ice, or not having more children at all--I don't know. We're on the road, but we're not there yet. Wherever "there" is.

So that was 2015 for me and my family. It was a year of growth, of loving my daughter in whole new ways, of savoring every bite of this one marshmallow with ardent zeal, and of thinking about what the future holds for our family.

All I know is this:

Life will surprise you.

Not to say we didn't think of adoption before--you can't experience infertility without everyone asking you if you've heard it's a thing. We dipped our toes into international adoption waters and were denied at the time due to student loan debt. ↩

2015 Parenting in Review

Sam Davies — Tue, 29 Dec 2015 13:00:35 +0000

Not to jinx it or anything, but in a few days I'll have successfully helped navigate two tiny humans through the year 2015. What likely seemed like a near eternity to my two daughters, to me felt like a blink of an eye. I only bring up such a cliché because it's 100% true.

In reflecting on the 2015 parent that I was and the 2016 parent I hope to be, I can say that my mistakes were many and my joys sincere. Each parenting skill I seem to master only exposes my deficiency in 10 new skills I didn't know I needed. Just when I think I've finally figured out my iPhone 4, I realize that my kids have become iPhone 12 Pluses. Puberty is on the horizon in the next few years, and the only thing I'm prepared for is knowing that it's impossible to be fully prepared.

2015 was not without its worry, as I'm an anxious person. I spent so much time worrying about losing some of the luxuries my family is fortunate enough to have, that I couldn't appreciate them. As Alan Watts wrote in "The Wisdom of Insecurity":

To put it still more plainly: the desire for security and the feeling of insecurity are the same thing. To hold your breath is to lose your breath. A society based on the quest for security is nothing but a breath-retention contest in which everyone is as taut as a drum and as purple as a beet.

Only by embracing that I can't provide my kids the best of everything forever, have I been able to live and enjoy the things I can provide.

As I try seek a more healthy detachment from things I can't control, I have to be careful to watch my tendency toward too much detachment. Especially in winter, I want to hide from the world and I struggle to recognize the difference between being OK with potential loss and thinking that nothing's worth keeping.

In 2016 I hope to find the right balance between just relaxing and living a simple life vs. being the change I want to see in the world. I'm older than I've ever been (and now I'm even older), and with that comes a waning of youthful idealism. Things are less black and white--you realize that nothing's ever going to be perfect. All humans are hypocrites, but the idealism of my kids makes me want to at least try and make the world slightly better.

The problem is that I'm jaded to the idea that individual action by itself makes much of a difference. Take climate change for example: yes, I should make my home more energy efficient, ride my bicycle more often, and use different light bulbs, but those things, even in aggregate with my neighbors, will have paltry effect compared to effort spent actively trying to convince my government to take meaningful action for the nation as a whole. Or the fact that the NSA collects a record of everything I type into the internet: sure I can run Linux and Tor on my computer and stop using credit cards and cell phones, but it won't stop for everyone until we convince our government to stop. That long game takes effort, perseverance, and time--three things I personally struggle with managing. In short, I want to show my kids how to not give up on the world, but also not spend all of my brainpower worrying and all my time away from my family .

I spent a good portion of my 2015 figuring out how to relax, how to be more at peace with life as it is, and being OK with life as it comes. In 2016, I hope to discover how to take that peace and spread it out as far as I can without losing it. I want to come home at night, cuddle up with my daughters, and feel like I've done all I can to make the world slightly better for them.

Hygge at home

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 22 Dec 2015 14:00:40 +0000

Photo by Michael Johanson.

Winter is the worst. I could list all the reasons, but you know them already: it's dark when you wake up, dark when you leave work; the cold can make your whole body tense and on-edge; everything can seem bleak and black. BLERGH. Or rather, normally I'd be all BLERGH. This year, I'm trying to be more HYGGE. Which sort of sounds like the same guttural utterance one might make in dismal misery, but it's actually the opposite!

The Danish concept of hygge¹ is all about the joy one can take in small, cozy pleasures. Not crazy once-in-a-lifetime stuff like the joy of a trip to Iceland or some exotic vacation, or the joy in achieving something you've been working for, although those sorts of things can be fun and you can certainly take pleasure in them. Rather, if the holidays can be seen as a time we celebrate with extravagant gestures, hygge is about celebrating the smallest of pleasures.

Hygge is more about the everyday coziness we can conjure up; it's sort of the day-to-day equivalent of the My Favorite Things song. Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...those things, those small things that are not in and of themselves huge and significant, but involve a deeper feeling of contentment and coziness. A thick hand-thrown mug filled with cocoa that you want so badly to Instagram, it's that perfect.

So. Since winter makes me a grumpy person, I'm trying to consciously cultivate some hygge in our home. Here's how:

Sunday Candles

Every Sunday evening, I light a bunch of candles in the living room to set the tone for the end of the week and the beginning of the next. It's this really calm, quiet time for reflection on the week past, and thoughts about what I want to do in the week to come, but not in a super stressful "plan out the to-do list" way. There's something about the glow of candles, isn't there? See also: fire pits.

Jeanette Winterson wrote, "I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing--their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling--their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses."

I think that's what happens when we switch from the lights to the cozy candles or fire pit. Maybe we become a little more real, a little more authentic, a little more ourselves.

Baking bread

I'm not a huge baker, but there's something very ancient and human about kneading dough and baking it into bread. The feeling of creating it is something that feels right--like something you should do during the cold winter. And there's that scent throughout the house! There's nothing cozier than walking into your home from fetching the mail to be reminded that, with a gust of warm bready goodness in the air, your belly will soon be full of bread you can all share together.

Making warm things (in my case, quilting)

Maker skills are all the rage. I just finished my first quilt, and I'm ready to dive into the next. But it's not just about being a maker that has gotten me into the art. There's something special about curling up on the couch with a good documentary² and a warm quilt you're piecing together, especially if you're making it for someone you love. And this is a really important aspect of hygge--it's not just about you; it's about the coziness you can experience with those you love.

Walking together for coffee on weekends

There is coziness to be found in routine. Walking the same path, bundled up in those warm woolen mittens, and trekking our way to our regular coffee spot is comfy and cozy because it is a part of our weekend life. It's not just a run to crowded Starbucks, it's a Thing We Do Together, rosy-cheeked and watching our breath turn icy in the air. You're together, there's a chill in the air, but you'll have your warm drink, and look! A chipmunk! You see them every time, but they're still like little Disney characters come to life.

Bathrobes

Oh my god, bathrobes. Did you know they allow you to basically walk around your house cuddled up in a blanket ALL DAY if you want? What a time to be alive.

— ∮∮∮ —

So as we all face the bleak midwinter, let's do it with our heads held high, our spirits maybe a bit brighter, and look for ways to incorporate moments of cozy pleasure and togetherness into our lives. I'll try to do that, even while I'm tugging on my mittens, wishing for spring.

Pronounced "hue-gah" according to Hygge House. ↩
Ballet documentaries are my drug of choice. ↩

Daddy, what’s an “F-bomb?”

Sam Davies — Tue, 15 Dec 2015 14:07:53 +0000

This morning on the way to school, I taught my daughters the f-word. I didn't plan it or think it through; it just kind of happened. One minute we're listening to Christmas music, the next I'm making a deliberate decision to say "fuck" to my daughters.

We weren't listening to the most traditional Christmas standards. I, being the driver and the dictator of the stereo, had put on Jonathan Coulton and John Roderick's One Christmas at a Time. There are no swears on the album, but there are some PG or even PG-13 tracks that I thought would go over my daughters' heads. For example, in the opening track, "Uncle John," the song's narrator implores the listener to not invite Uncle John to Christmas because he'll borrow Nana's car and come back at 3:00 AM with a new girlfriend who has a "Hilter neck tattoo." The girls think this song is hilarious because my brother's name is John.

It wasn't one of these tracks that did us in; it was the morose, but seemingly benign chorus of "Christmas is Interesting." The lyrics:

Christmas is interesting
Like a knife in your heart
Christmas is interesting
How it tears you apart
Christmas is interesting
Like a stick in your eye
It's so freaking interesting
That it might make you cry

I'd forgotten that the song was so dark, and while I contemplated skipping it I overheard my eight-year-old sib-splaining to the five-year-old: "He just said the f-word. Don't ever say that f-word!"

I went back over the lyrics in my head. Did I miss something? Had I accidentally put on JoCo's "First of May"¹? No, I hadn't, I was 100% sure the lyric said "freaking." So I said to the girls, "The singer said 'freaking,' which is a word that people use sometimes when they don't want to use the f-word, but still want to show that they're frustrated."

"Oh," was the response from the backseat.

The few seconds of silence followed felt like an eternity. I thought about my elementary school days, when I thought the "f-word" was "fart." I didn't know there was a ruder, more vulgar f-word waiting for me on the horizon.

I also thought of George Carlin's 7 Dirty Words²: "Nobody even tells you when you are a kid what the words are that you're supposed to avoid." How are you supposed to avoid using words when you don't know what they are?

And, I was a little surprised that they didn't know what the word was. They've said it before. I can remember when my oldest was three, she dropped her toy and said "Fuck!" in perfect context. We felt like the worst parents in the world and made efforts to temper our expletives in our home.

Even with consciously trying to not curse at home, I'm an imperfect parent, and on rare moments of extreme frustration, I have cursed around or even directly at my children. Most of the time, I can catch myself, but the words "Just put on your f-cking shoes" have left my mouth. I feel shame at this, and when I've made this error I've apologized sincerely. I can count on one hand the number of times it's happened, but the kids have heard the word in context before.

So, after the interminable pause, I ask, "Do you know what the f-word is?" and my daughters say no.

So, without thinking about what the consequences might be, without consulting my wife, I tell them. I say "I'm going to say the f-word is so you know what it is, but it is an extremely rude word. If you say it at school you will get in trouble. If you say it any other time, any person who hears it will probably think you're being very rude and disrespectful to them." Then I say, "The f-word is fuck" and it feels vulgar coming out of my mouth. I feel like I've made a mistake.

My eight-year-old wants to "pinky promise" me that she'll never use the word in her entire life. I tell her that that's not necessary. She probably will use the word as she gets older, but it's a word that even adults struggle to use without hurting people's feelings. It's a grown-up word and when she's closer to being a grown-up, she can better decide what words to use to best express herself. For now, if she doesn't want to risk hurting people's feelings, she should use different words to express her frustration.

I'm pretty sure I made a mistake telling my daughters what the f-word is today. I didn't think it through. There's no reason it had to be today. There's no reason I couldn't have talked it over with my wife and come up with a plan and told them tomorrow or the next day or a year from now. I hope that erring on the side of knowledge over ignorance will come out OK in the end, but I'll strive to be less impulsive about it. Words do have power and there are consequences for using them. As my daughters are still navigating how to communicate their feelings respectfully towards other humans, I hope I've taught them that there are some words they aren't ready for yet.

The Not-Safe-For-Work lyrics to "First of May" ↩
Warning, the linked Wikipedia page actually contains those words. 10-year-old me wishes the World Book Encyclopedia I had growing up had had swears in it. ↩

An anxious parent’s calming list

Hayley DeRoche — Tue, 08 Dec 2015 14:12:34 +0000

Photo by: Dolinski

I am an anxious person, a worrier. I'm anxious every time I get in the car to drive my daughter to her grandma in the morning. I worry every time I think about sending her to school. I'm anxious every time I walk down the stairs with her that this will be the time I trip and fall. Even my dreams are full of scary things that I can't control. Things that ought to be fun turn into scary things there: I'd been planning a day trip to the High Bridge Trail once, and the dream I had about that bridge and my daughter getting too close to the edge still terrifies me.

Despite these fears, I am clearly¹ a functional member of society. I'm scared, but I keep going. But when I find fear creeping into my daily life and making things difficult, I try to talk myself through a number of calming facts and anecdotes that help quell those fears--at least a little.

Below are some of these fears and how I make them seem a little bit smaller.

— ∮∮∮ —

Car seats are designed for crashes

That's the whole point of a carseat. It's not just to keep kids snug and comfortable², it's to keep them safe in the event of a crash. A medical professional friend once said they call car seats "orphan seats," because even if a crash is terrible and other passengers die, the child in the seat is much more likely to survive. Admittedly this is macabre comfort to take, but still. I have to remind myself each time we get in the car that even though other drivers scare the crap out of me, I have taken all the steps I can to keep my daughter safe.

School shootings are rare events

While it was published in 2011 and thus does not include the latest statistics, the Encyclopedia of School Crime and Violence states that "generally speaking, schools are relatively safe places to be. Although many people believe that overall school violence is currently on the rise, in fact this is not so. In the last decade, types of school violence other than shootings has decreased by approximately 50%. Most students, particularly those in suburban areas, will not experience a shooting; among homicides where school-age children are the victims, less than 1% occur at school, or while traveling to or from school." This is not to downplay school shootings--they are terrible and horrific and tragic. That is why they are a fear. This is only to say, they are still rare tragic gut-wrenching sickening events. Will I make decisions for my daughter's future schooling based on fear? I want to say no. If Malala Yousafzai can go to school with courage under harrowing circumstances, I can send my daughter too.

Kids in Japan run errands when they're adorably young

Sometimes they get secretly filmed for the show "My First Errand" which if you watch nothing else on the Internet today you should watch right now. I know, I know, whenever anyone starts a sentence with, "Well in Japan," I want to be like, yes but in Japan their crime statistics are in, like, the negative zone³. But even though we live in very different places, knowing that kids that young are capable of basic self reliance is enough to make me feel more comfortable letting my daughter toddle around the park with me in a safe line of sight, rather than climbing up on the jungle gym with her. I can let her go a little. I can unclench my fingers...a little.

We will all cause some sort of damage to our children eventually

Whether we let that keep us from taking risks is up to us. Whether it's saying the wrong thing or taking them out on the High Bridge Trail, everything we do and say has the potential to cause harm. But everything we do also has the potential to cause good. Risks don't always reap the worst outcome. They can reap rewards, too, and I'm trying to focus on what those good outcomes can be.

There are terrible people in this world, but there are incredible people, too

And just like the scary people who come out of nowhere, the kindest people can surprise us. There are folks doing tremendous good in this world who are focused on kindness and not evil. And while it's scary to share a world with unspeakably evil people, it's pretty comforting to know that we share it with the kind people too.

Dreams are not reality

Fears are fears. Even when they manifest in very real ways like taking over my dreams, they are still ultimately fears and not what is necessarily going to take place. The worst can happen, but I'm trying to remind myself that maybe, also, the best is yet to come.

Right?! Oh please say yes. ↩
If they were designed purely for comfort I don't think they'd be designed like that. ↩
Hyperbole! ↩

Our low-stress, high-comfort holiday season

Sam Davies — Tue, 01 Dec 2015 14:00:17 +0000

Photo by: outdoorPDK

December is upon us. With Santa closing out the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and the turkey chilling in the fridge, we've officially ended the time period where people complain about how it's too early for Christmastime on Facebook. Now begins the next phase of the year, in which people complain about how crazy the holidays are once you have kids and your life isn't a relaxing string of cocktail parties anymore.

I have two young daughters and things...aren't crazy?

The kids aren't bouncing off the walls (any more than usual), and the grown-ups aren't stressing out about gift-buying, travel, or meeting some platonic ideal of a perfect Decemberween. It is winter time, so we're going outside less because it's cold and dark out there. Inside we are playing more video games and snuggling under more blankets because we can. But, none of it is particularly Christmasy.

It's not that my wife, Kat, and I aren't filled with Christmas cheer. We like cheer. We aren't scoffing at Christmas, and we haven't got a single humbug¹ between us. But, we aren't the most type-a, red-energy, folks on the planet and don't feel any compulsion to try and do everything. We'll do things like put up a few decorations, but we probably won't even get around to that stuff until December 20th or so.

Two Christmases ago, we stopped getting trees. A good friend was getting married far away, and we had to travel on December 26th. The kids stayed with their grandparents, while Kat and I flew to Florida for the wedding. No one would be around to water the giant dead conifer in our house, so we decided to not get one that year. It was so nice not having to buy, care for, and dispose of a tree-corpse that we didn't buy one the following year either². The kids' reaction to not getting a tree this year was only a mild "Aaaaw," more or less the same reaction we get when we tell them they can't have candy for breakfast.

It also helps that we have an arrangement with some of the extended family: Only the kids get traditional presents. Grown-ups are allowed give food or drink to each other, but don't have to worry about buying "stuff" for each other. Don't get me wrong, I love stuff, but we all seem to have mutually agreed that we don't necessarily need more. Giving and receiving gifts is great, but no one could argue that it doesn't take a lot of work.

Our little family gets to come up with traditions that we like. The family'll watch The Nightmare Before Christmas. The grownups'll watch Love Actually. I'll watch Die Hard alone after everyone else is asleep. Christmas morning, we'll eat cinnamon rolls and force the children to wait until after coffee is made before they open presents.

We'll probably decorate the house a little bit. Stockings will hang from the mantle. We'll put out a nativity scene that looks enough like toys that the girls will want to play with it, but is delicate enough that they'll have to be supervised while they do. I imagine paper snowflakes will make their way to our front window.

And Kat and I will make an effort to not be complete homebodies during the holiday season. We'll probably go to the GardenFest of Lights at Lewis Ginter. We'll probably take the kids downtown to look at the lights around the James Center. We may even take a drive to look at the two Tacky Lights houses in our neighborhood (but feel no particular need to see more).

Traditions are great because you don't have to think about what to do, but are less great because you feel obliged to do them. One of the best parts of having a young family is that you can pick and choose. We get to set what those expectations are for our kids (for now, at least), and I think we've struck a nice fit for our particular family. Only those traditions that don't feel burdensome make the cut. You get all of the benefits of not having to make a decision, without any of the worry that you won't meet expectations.

I can think of no better fit for my family than a cozy, low-stress December, and feel fortunate that we seem to have figured out how to get there.

Except for the Christmas Parade. But, I think all parades are the worst, not exclusively the Christmas one. ↩
Caring for a small conifer in your house is like caring for a pet for two weeks, except you throw it in a chipper when you're done with it. ↩

Raising a reader this holiday season

Hayley DeRoche — Mon, 23 Nov 2015 13:49:17 +0000

Oh my stars, it's the most wonderful time of the year for librarians. The Best Of- lists are rolling out, and everyone is begging their favorite local librarian for tips about what books to give to loved ones for the holidays.¹ What's that? You don't recall asking your favorite librarian for this information? Well, buckle up cuz I'm gonna give it to you anyway.

OK, fine. Very few people have flagged me down in the streets begging for my obviously-expert opinion on books to give or get. To be honest, the mere act of getting my Amazon wishlist primed² for the holiday season this early is kind of bumming me out. It's not that I feel the cold sheet of winter's despair when I think about adding this book or that book to the list. It's that it's so soon. Aren't we supposed to still be slogging our way through the watermelon-laden festival streets of Carytown instead of getting irrationally annoyed at charming horse-drawn carriages slowing a whole lane, dammit? It's too early for this, it's too early for all of this!

But here we are. You, me, and this list of holiday books you know you need to pay attention to. So let's get to it, shall we?

For the Littlest Readers

The Princess and the Pony

by Kate Beaton

An adorable fat pony that farts a lot. A Viking princess. Battles. Sweaters. These are the ingredients that make up The Princess and the Pony and the end result is a sweet confection of a book.³ It is literally the best book ever. Bonus: it features a multiracial family and that fact is not the subject of the book in any way. These things are hard to find. Also, did I mention a pony? You can never have too many pony books. It is known.

Llama Llama Gram and Grandpa

by Anna Dewdney

Llama Llama books never fail to charm with their delightful rhymes and sweet rhythms and LLAMAS. This story features Llama Llama's first overnight at Gram and Grandpa Llama's house. What I love about Dewdney's books is that she tells a story with extreme detail but in a way that almost doesn't make you realize she's doing it. For toddlers, the process from start to finish of any particular activity is laid out in clean, neat order and described. Example: Who will take good care of Llama? Llama Llama's Gram and Grandpa! Bag and Fuzzy? In the car! Buckle up! The drive seems far.... Hugs and kisses. Big hellos. Mama loves you! Off she goes. A glass of milk. A yummy snack. Now it's time to go unpack. If you're preparing a little one for a first overnight, this book will charm and prepare them for every step of the way.

For Elementary-School Readers

Kristy's Great Idea, The Truth About Stacy, & Mary Anne Saves the Day: Full-Color Editions (The Baby-Sitters Club Graphix #1-3)

by Ann M. Martin and Raina Telgemeier

People. PEOPLE. Graphic novels of The Baby-Sitters Club. In full color. SQUEAL WITH MEEEEEEE. If you're looking for a way to introduce a young person to the wonder of the BSC but were correct in thinking the outdated horrendous covers of ye olden times would scare them off in fits of laughter...well, now that is not a problem! Full disclosure, these are re-issues of black-and-white graphic novels of the BSC by Telgemeier, but having them in full-color is enough to put them on the must-buy list for 2015. They're completely delightful, and Telgemeier managed to capture the essence of Kristy, Claudia, Mary Anne, and Stacey⁴ so well, it's uncanny. These are old-school, but in the best possible way: new and modern!

Tweens and Teens

Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

OMG, the "Harry Potter/Draco fanfic that's totally not Harry/Draco but totally is" that was the foundation for Rowell's DELIGHTFUL Fangirl. This is mega-meta.

Lumberjanes

by Noelle Stevenson and Grace Ellis

I cannot contain my utter delight with the Lumberjanes. These books about tween girls away at summer camp "for hardcore lady-types" are chock-full of feminist references, pop-culture asides, and pro-female fun. Each girl is unique. They value math but not in a "math isn't so hard, girls" way but rather in a "math is so interesting because it can tell us so much about the world" way. They also value puns, and this is just as important as valuing math. Full disclosure, I put the big Lumberjanes To The Max edition containing issues #1-8 on my own wishlist because I don't know any tweens who need it.

Adults, aka, books you want to add to your list, or get other old people you care about, idk

Modern Romance

by Aziz Ansari

This has everything I want out of a book: Aziz Ansari (so many books lack an Aziz Ansari, and this is troubling; the publishing industry needs to address this problem); in-depth sociology research; references to Flo Rida; ramen. What more could a book need? I particularly recommend the audiobook version of Ansari reading it himself, even if it means you miss out on the charts and graphs which is a legitimate concern since charts and graphs are like the delicious coconut cream cake of the visual world.

Tim Gunn: The Natty Professor: A Master Class on Mentoring, Motivating, and Making It Work!

by Tim Gunn

Have you ever wanted Tim Gunn to stand near your desk while you work and remind you that no matter your obstacles, you should strive to make it work? This book is the next-best thing to having Gunn mentor you IRL, which, can you even imagine? Gunn is charming as ever, and unlike a lot of celebrities-turned-authors, he's got the academic cred to give his work some gravitas, even while he dishes casually about other celebs here and there while being his delightful self. Buy this for someone who needs some encouragement, or buy it for you if you're having a rough year at work. Or even a good year. I can think of no better way to start a new year than with Tim Gunn offering gentle reminders to make it work.

Waaaaaaaait!

You were about to close out this tab and I'm over here flailing to say wait for one more second!

Let's say you've stocked your cart and wishlist with all these books, and you still have that nagging feeling of ennui. Maybe you want to do something good beyond buying your niece a Baby-Sitters Club graphic novel because your heart is already several sizes larger than normal. Well, did you know the Children's Museum of Richmond collects books to give away to people in need? I didn't know this until right now! According to the Museum, "your book donations are distributed directly to underserved children and organizations that serve at-risk children."

YOU CAN HELP GET BOOKS FOR EVERYONE!

If that's not a surefire way to banish ennui, I don't know what is.

And just as important, what books to add to their own wishlists! ↩
That was an Amazon joke, thank you for noticing. ↩
Yes, even with copious farts! ↩
So, I always used to think of myself as a Mary Anne but now I think I'm more of a Kristy. Weird. ↩

S.A.D. dad: Living with both depression and children

Sam Davies — Tue, 17 Nov 2015 14:10:00 +0000

Photo by: Malingering

Today I'm sobbing quietly under a blanket while my eight-year-old lies next to me, reading _New Mutants Annual 1_¹. Nothing is wrong, except everything. I know I'm suffering from a self-diagnosed form of seasonal affective disorder, and at this exact moment there's nothing I can do but let it pass.

Again, it's not that anything specific is wrong or that there was some trigger (other than fewer daylight hours as winter approaches), but at this moment I feel incapable of joy. I don't want to do anything because it feels pointless. I'm past the point of trying to lose myself for hours in a video game or novel and I lack the inertia to try to trick my physiology into activity through exercise. Right now, it's as if my body needs to be sad.

And this isn't the cathardic sadness of Inside Out where a flood of tears makes you start to feel feelings again, and realize that the joyful and tearful memories are intertwined, this is the numbing sadness where you feel it's not even worth the sob.

I've been here many times before and I, fortunately, know it will pass for me. In the past without the support structures of therapy, medication, and self-knowledge, I have sunk deeper, for longer. When you feel like nothing can ever get better, your brain has a way of fullfilling that prophecy and making it harder to recover. I intellectually know that this will pass, and while it doesn't provide me much comfort in this moment, it does help me prevent the downward spiral that makes things worse.

But... my kid is next to me. This is new. I simultaneously want to cuddle her like a stuffed animal and hide from her. I don't want her to see me so affected. I don't want her to see me crying. I don't want her to ask me what's wrong and not be able to give an answer. I don't want her to see me weak and vulnerable, even though she probably should. Talking about it would help, both me and her. I'm no scientist, but with half of my genetics there's a good chance that my daughter could experience similar states in her lifetime, and it would probably help her to know that this is normal and she isn't alone. I don't know that I'm capable for this discussion at this moment.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, she doesn't press me on it today. She must know that something's wrong, but all she seems to want is to be with me and cuddle. Questions and talking can come later. Right now, my eight-year-old seems to have intuited exactly what I needed.

— ∮∮∮ —

About a week has passed, and I'm well on my way to climbing out of my depressive canyon. My body's adjusting to the different levels of sunlight, and I'm making an effort to spend more time outside. I've also made the important effort to talk about it, especially with my wife. Saying aloud "I'm feeling sad for no reason" makes me feel less sad. That simple sentence, said to a trusted loved one, helps absolve me from feeling both sad and guilty about feeling sad at the same time.

I did not see my doctor, though I probably should have. It'd make sense to adjust my medication around the equinox, but two things prevented me. First, because of the nature of my meds, any changes would take weeks--not days--to take effect. I really need to schedule an appointment for September 2016. Second, if I go to my doctor with the sniffles, I pay a $40 copay. If I go for my ADHD, anxiety, or depression, I pay $116.87 towards my insanely high deductible. Since tweaking these medications naturally requires a few trips to my physician, it could likely cost me $300-400 out of pocket. It's ridiculous that mental illness is treated differently than if I threw my back out, but it is, and the insurance company wins this round.

I haven't talked to my daughter yet, though I've resolved that I should. I will tell her that sometimes people in our family get sad for no reason. I will tell her that this is normal, and that, even though she won't want to, she should try and talk about it to someone. I will tell her that things will get better and that it's OK and normal to need help. I will tell her the kinds of help that have helped me, that I'm vulnerable, and that I couldn't have done it alone. And I will tell her how much her love helps me.

The delightful first appearance of Lila Cheney, a mutant, planet-stealing, rock goddess. ↩