The English Geek

{What I Love} no19: not feeling The Love

I woke up this morning after dreaming about Ragnar all night. Not just dreaming about it, but talking and moaning quite a bit, too, according to Kendell. (Just to recap: Ragnar is a relay race, which you run with a team of 12 people; each team member has three different legs.) I told Becky last summer, after we finished our first one together, that of course I'd run Ragnar again with her. And then I didn't think much about it, because I don't tend to get anxious about races.

But this morning, after all my dreaming, I'm anxious about this race. My first leg in particular, which is 7.2 miles long—all uphill. The ascent is 1743 feet total, but there are some downhill stretches, too. As soon as I could wake up and get on the computer, I started trying to find places around here where I could do training runs that would compare. And not much does. Even though I live by the mountains, I live in a valley. To run consistent steepness I must run in the mountains, which does make me anxious. I mean—I love to do it. But I get nervous, thinking about the possibility of Bad Guys Chasing Me Down.

And maybe it was just the fact that I didn't sleep well, and I have this horrendous sore throat and headache. Maybe it's because my friend's very-good news yesterday cracked open some old scars for me. Maybe it was that I spent an hour at Jake's junior high this morning, and junior highs tend to reawaken those old, unpleasant memories. But the I-can't-run-this-race panic has completely overflowed into full-out I'm-a-pathetic-loser darkness. My brain starts clicking out lists of all my failures, like how if I had a friend who was also a runner I could run those mountain roads with her and not be afraid. Something sparks the cascade and then it's just all downhill from there, and this morning the spark was the race and it sent me spiraling.

It is so easy to be overwhelmed with that combination of fear, loneliness, ineptitude, failure, and self-disgust. Which is an odd thing to write about in an "I Love This" sort of blog post. But, this is me, and I always knew this sort of post was coming, even without the particulars. I always fail at cheery optimism. It's just not my natural state, which is why I try harder to be cheerily optimistic. Sometimes the pessimissm knocks me over. I don't love feeling this way. I don't love how that darkness is always sitting just behind my shoulder, waiting to pounce. And how weak I am once it does.

But I also know this: it does pounce. Maybe it pounces upon everyone now and then. And I know, once the darkness goes away, it will reveal a little bit of light, a way to do what right now seems impossible. I know that the fear will goad me to do things I don't believe I can. And while I don't love this process, I know I need it, and so I value it, if only for what I can learn from it.

{What I Love} no18: the 811s

I have a confession: I hope to never be a children's librarian.

A few weeks ago at work, we had a meeting with the children's librarians and they told us about all the things they do in their division. As I listened, I felt all my energy being sucked out of my body. Just from listening. I am starting to learn a (perhaps ugly?) truth about myself: while I loved my children when they were little and I loved having my own little people around me and doing all of the little-person stuff that comes along with them, and while I love my little nephews and nieces (including those of the "grand" variety) and I love my friends' kids and I can't wait to have grandchildren—I'm not sure I love kids. Does that sound awful? I don't know. I just so much prefer doing library stuff with teenagers and adults. I desperately don't want to spend my twenty working hours at the library planning story time. Or hosting story time.

Except, there is something magical about working on the children's side of the library. The way that children's faces light up with excitement when they find what they were looking for, or the sound of their childish voices which they try to keep at a whisper but it's so very hard when you've just spied the exact flower fairy book you've always wanted to read! And the way that they are not afraid to hide their happiness and enthusiasm. So I'm glad I get to work on the children's side every once in awhile.

Today was one of those once in awhiles, and I had only been at the children's desk for about two minutes when a patron asked me one of my favorite types of questions: "Are there any books of poetry for children?" Are there! why, yes, right over here in the 811s. My personal favorite section of the dewey decimal system, because it's the home of American poetry. Sometimes when I am feeling restless at my reference desk, I wander over to and browse for a few minutes in the 811s. I pick up a book and read a poem and then put it back or, if the poem was extraordinary, I take the book home with me. But it's not only the poetry I love in the poetry section. It's just the sheer proof of many people working on writing poetry. Of presses putting their faith in poems by publishing them. Of the existence, the physical existence, of poems in the world.

But I confess: the 811s on the children's side have a special place in my heart. I love children's poetry. Love the well-written stuff that's inventive and doesn't use forced rhyme or a sing-songy rhythm and assumes kids are smart enough to be delighted by a clever metaphor or an unusual image. I loved reading children's poetry to my kids and hope that memory sticks with them. I love that we have Shel Silverstein and I love that there are dozens and dozens of other children's poets who are also good.

And I love it when someone asks me that question: Where can I find the poems? Because I can always, always show them!

Do you have a favorite dewey decimal number?

{Edited to add: a list of my favorite children's poets}

Karla Kuskin
Eve Merriam
Douglas Florian
Tony Milton (she did the covers for the US versions of the Harry Potter books, too)
Theodore Roethke's Dirty Dinky and Other Poems (although this one is a little dark)
Jack Prelutsky
Paul Janeczko
Rick Walton
Constance Levy
Karen Jo Shapiro

 

{What I Love} no 17: my old photographs

On the morning that my dad died, my uncle Roe—Dad's brother—brought my sisters and me an unexpected and priceless gift: their mother's photo albums. My Grandma Elsie was quite the photo buff; I trace my love of pictures and scrapbooking directly from her example. In these albums were photos I had literally never seen before, including this one:

which is of my other grandma. I love so much about this picture, not the least being that both of my grandmas found themselves at a function together, and one of them took a photo of the other. The purple glasses (I own those now!), the fancy plates, the doll bottle; Grandma's outfit and hairdo (so very seventies!). It's not the most flattering photo of her—no one looks especially photogenic when they're swallowing—and almost makes her look mean, which she was not ever capable of. She's the person I associate with complete, pure love, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back. This photo accomplishes two other things: takes me back to how it felt to be loved unconditionally by Grandma Florence and reinforces the love I have for Grandma Elsie.

There is this one:

which is me as the baby, with my mom and my two older sisters. I can't believe how much my sisters resemble the daughters they would one day have! and look at that paisley print on my mom's shirt!

But my absolute favorite one is this one:

I
t's hard to tell, but my mom is pregnant here with me. I almost can't stand it, this makes me so happy—a photo of my pregnant mother. I love it for many other reasons (look at the stripes on those pants!) but mainly for the look on my dad's face. He loved her! And she loved him back! Since I know what would come for them in the following 40 or so years, this brings me an unmeasurable (and unnameable) happiness. Seeing proof that they loved each other alters how I feel about myself. It makes me feel more certain and secure.

It also reminds me: photos matter so much. Sometimes I wonder. The difference between then and now is enormous. Back then, photos were meted out carefully, one film frame at a time. Now I can easily snap 100 in an hour if I want to. Now we are overflowing with photos. Will they matter as much, given the abundance? I hope so. I think so. Maybe in a different, more familiar way. I know that to you, who "know" only me in the pictures, these are just old photos.

Someone else's old photos might be even less interesting to look at than someone else's vacation pictures. They matter to me because I know the people in them. I miss the people in them—my grandma who's been gone for more than twenty years now, of course. The healthy laughter of my father, which I haven't heard for half a decade even though he's only been gone for six months. But that version of my mom, too, young and still looking forward. I miss that even though I never really knew her like that. I miss those young times in our life, when we lived on the little red house on the corner by the library, with raspberry canes in the backyard and my best friend Teresa down the street. I miss the me who could still do anything. I miss my Grandma Elsie, whose presence is there by way of being the photographer, who I mostly missed my whole life because I didn't know her well enough.

But despite all the missing, these photos bring me so much happiness. Perhaps because of the sadness. They are proof that all of us existed. Proof that I was once small and just beginning and could do anything. All of our trails took us places no one could have planned or imagined. They also inspire me: Keep on taking pictures. Even if we have too many. Too many is better than too few or not enough, and I don't know what I might capture that will be a trigger, that will take one of my children back to some time in their life they need to remember existed. More photos, always more, as I continue moving forward on the path that started long before I can recall.

{What I Love} no16: more than One Book

"I don't understand," this old conversation goes. "Why do you have to bring home so many books? Kaleb has a pile and Haley has a pile and you have 17 piles and they're scattered all over the house."

Actually, it's not even a conversation. It's sort of a rant that I try not to respond to anymore, because just as I don't understand Kendell's lack of interest in reading, I don't think that anything I say will help him understand my interest in reading.

"It's not like you can read more than one at once," the rant generally ends.

That's another thing I don't tell him anymore: of course you can. Read more than one book at a time, I mean. Well, I suppose not literally at the same time. But I am often working on more than one book. For example, right now I am reading:

1. Waltzing Again, a collection of interviews with Margaret Atwood. I'm keeping this in my van to read when I find myself waiting for someone (usually the carpool). I haven't gotten very far, and I might not finish it before I have to return it, but that's OK because I'll still get something out of it.

2.  Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. This is my main book right now. It has to be because it is long. It took me nine months to get to the top of the hold list, though, so I'm determined to finish it. I grow more and more picky about the kinds of fantasy I want to read. If it's too evocative of Tolkein, if it falls into cliched or formulaic characters or plot points, if the main character is impossibly, invincibly good at his or her given skills—these things tend to annoy me and lead to me not finishing the book. So far, though, Thronesis very slightly only a little bit Tolkein-esque, and that simply in the language; I'm finally deep enough into the story that I can keep all the characters straight. I think this is a fantasy I will finish. If I'm not reading it, I keep it in my purse so I can snatch a few extra reading minutes here and there.

3.  The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster. My friend Doug loaned me this amazing book nearly a year ago. I put it in my "read soon" pile and then never got to it, but he let me know he needed it back so I'll be finishing it tonight. It is completely unlike anything you'd expect from Forster—no British high society. Instead, this is a short, swift, and entirely fierce  dystopia. It is so good that I am ashamed both for taking so long to read Doug's copy and for not knowing it even existed before he told me about it.

4. Mudbound by Hilary Jordan. Even though I think Kindles might just bring about the end of the (literary) world as we know it, and even though the new Kindle commercial-—the one with the mom sitting on the beach reading her Kindle, and her kids are over in a pavilion also reading their Kindles, and she says something like "it's the best way to read" and I want to stab her eyes out so she has to learn braille and give up her wanton reading ways (that sounds more violent than I intended) (and also please note that if you are a Kindle reader I will only want to stab your eyes out if  you are also self-satisfied and, you know, all wealthy about it like the woman in the commercial)—obviously makes me a little bit crazy, I have a confession. I don't own a Kindle but I do have the Kindle app on my phone. Unlike Kindle Commercial Lady, I don't love reading on the Kindle, but I do understand the appeal a little bit more. I'm treating it as my back up: if I forgot my book and find myself stranded somewhere with nothing to read, then I crack open this Kindle book. (Usually this happens in a movie theater.) I got it one day when it was the special deal of the day on Amazon, for just a dollar. While I didn't love Jordan's most recent book, I am enjoying this one in the small bits I've read so far. 

5. The Postmistress by Sarah Blake. I've been listening to this one while scrapbooking, cleaning the house, or, once, running. It's a World War II story told from a handful of different perspectives: Iris James, who is the postmistress of a small Massachusetts town, Emma Fitch, who is the new wife of the doctor in the same town, and Frankie Bard who is reporting on the Blitz in London. As I love books with multiple points of view, this works for me. I'm not as sure about the audiobook thing—I haven't quite got the knack of following along with the story. But the story! It is moving and inviting.

6. The Translated Poems of Tomas Transtromer. Transtromer won the Nobel for literature last year. I am working on understanding his thinking—some of his poems are simply bizarre beautiful objects I don't understand but still appreciate for their beauty. I want to also understand them.

I almost didn't realize it until writing this list just how many books I am reading at the same time! Totally doable. Totally pleasurable, especially when random bits from completely different books magically intersect, each informing the other.

Are you a reader of more than one book at a time? Or do you focus on just one? And what are you reading right now?

{What I Love} No15: library perks

There've been a lot of discussions, lately, over the validity of my career choice. True: I don't make a lot of money. I have to work on Saturdays. There isn't a ton of room for advancement (although I'd like to think that the library values me enough that if I needed desperately to work full time, they'd help me do that).

But, you know, despite the negatives, I love my job. The most stressful thing at work? The elevator. It smells vaguely like a carnival ride thanks to some persistent elevator-peeing boys a few years ago and the fact that it tends to need to be worked on quite often. Faint, ancient-urine + motor-oil scents = carnival ride in my book, but there isn't an amusement park thrill I'm less likely to visit than the library elevator. Being claustrophobic means I don't get along with them in the first place, but throw me in one that has the tendency to stop between floors? Cue elevated heart rate and sweaty palms.

Anyway---if the elevator is my job's most stressful part, I count myself fairly lucky in where I work. And plus, there are plenty of perks! For example, I get to talk about books to people who (usually) love reading. I get to see new books and place them on the shelf. I get to have my very own shelf to put my recommended reads and it's still thrilling to me when someone who doesn't know me picks up a book I've suggested. And! another perk: sometimes we librarians get to do the really cool stuff, which in my book (tee hee) is interacting with real, live authors. I mean: holy cow. I drove to Salt Lake City in the car with Marilynne Robinson! I had dinner with Laurie Halse Anderson! Ursula K. Le Guin almost decided to come to our library, and when we did To Kill a Mockingbird for our city reads program, Harper Lee sent us a letter. Yes, it's true, I have touched a letter written by Harper Lee.

Swoon.

Sometimes those writerly interactions result in another perk: the ARC. Advanced Reader's Copy, to spell it out. In December I got to read the ARC of Dan Wells's new novel, Partials, and let me just say: reading a real, live, bound book that still had some typos in it? Strangely thrilling to this aspiring writer!

I love dystopian and post apocalyptic novels (There is a difference). (One day I must get around to writing about why, and then I could link back to that post without having to write "I love dystopian novels.") As they are thehot genre right now, especially for adolescent readers, this makes me a lucky lover of dystopias—except when it doesn't. Some of the new crop aren't exactly the highest caliber, and some have thoroughly disappointed me; these are the ones written because it is the hot genre and not because the author had a completely convincing world view or political opinion to enrich the culture he or she was creating. The best dystopias are warnings, I believe, about where our current thinking might take us. So, even though the genre grabs my attention, and the new books get me excited, I'm still sort of picky about which ones I'll actually read. Partials, however, falls squarely in the camp of books-I'm-glad-I-read.

The book's premise:

Roughly twenty-five years ago, Partials—who are genetically-modified seemingly-human soldiers that the government invented to fight in a war—decided to up rise against humanity. In the process, a virus, RM, was released that killed almost the entire human population. The humans who are left were those who were immune to the virus, and they have gathered together on Long Island, where they're trying to rebuild humanity. The only problem: all the new babies are infected with RM right after they are born, and then die within three or four days of birth. The government of this human society has created an edict called the Hope Act, which means that every girl who is 18 or older must get pregnant, and continue getting pregnant, in the hopes that a child will be born who is immune to RM. So far, this hasn't happened and people are getting desperate. Some have formed The Voice, a ragtag group of outsiders who fight against the government's constraints.

Sixteen-year-old Kira, who has received medical training and works in the labor and delivery unit of the community's hospital, ends up taking her desperation in a different way. She has a sort of ah-ha moment of realization about the study of RM and wants to explore new directions. This desire leads her on her adventure, which is the crux of the story.

What I thought:

The thing I loved about Partials, and what I think sets it above the average group in the crop of recent dystopias, is that it grapples with some big questions. Why does humanity have the penchant for self-destruction? Why does absolute power always absolutely corrupt? Why do we allow our fear of the Other to damage us? Why do we tend towards violence as a solution to nearly every problem? How can we thrive without technology? What does it mean, really, to be human?

If a good dystopia takes a current scientific issue to its extreme application, the question this book asks isn't really "what if we develop technology that is more powerful than we are?" but "What if we never learn how to control our hunger for power?" In that sense, even though it's a dystopia founded in technology, it isn't really about technology but the social experience.

Another thing I liked was the teenaged characters. (More about the adult ones in a bit.) It is interesting that the teenagers, given the right knowledge, are able to see what adults cannot. I think that sometimes proves true in real life, too. Being less jaded than we are, teenagers are able to see a fresh perspective and thus things we overlook. The adult characters, however, seemed a little flat, too bound by their desire to save the world to see a new way of doing just that. Several of the reviews I read (after reading the book!) said the same thing.

Another thing lots of the reviewers said: they didn't think there was enough foreshadowing for the big surprise at the end of the book. Really? I sort of had the opposite reaction. Of course Kira...well, I can't really say what the big reveal is because I'm hoping you'll read the book too. But I saw the surprise coming and I think Dan Wells did do a good job in foreshadowing it.

So, there you have it: Partials by Dan Wells. A little gritty, a little edgy, but not smutty in the least. (In fact, the lack of almost any perceptible sexual tension was something else I enjoyed; the romantic triangle is getting more than a little bit worn out in my book.) And, if you like that sort of thing, it's got a lot of battles. I tend to sort of just skim over battle scenes, no matter how compelling the book is, and this book stayed true to that. Battle scenes? Eh. Sort of boring to me. (That is true for movies, too.)

The only problem with reading an ARC? (Aside from the fact that yes, there really are typos fairly often, and strange quotation marks in random marginal spots.) It's that now I have to wait even that much longer to read the sequel. Put perhaps, just maybe, I might get lucky again with another ARC. It's one of the perks, you know!

{What I Love} no14: this Valentine's Day

Life is ironic. Here I am, an avowed Valentine's Day hater, trying to de-grinch myself by writing all month about stuff I love. And life turns around and gives me one of my favoritest Valentine's Days ever.

Here's how it went:

First, this morning, I treated myself to a caramel hot chocolate from McDonald's on my way home from driving the kids to school. (Yes, I was still in my pajamas!) I made valentines for my kiddos, a batch of pizza dough for dinner, and a batch of sugar cookie dough for dessert, and then I rushed off to work, where my coworker immediately gave me a bar of chocolate.

When my shift was about half-way finished, I was sitting at the main desk. My library has what we call a bridge, which is a glassed-in walkway between two wings. I was working on some book group stuff (as I am wont to do) when I looked up and saw four middle-aged men walking across the bridge. They had on matching outfits: black pants, red sweaters with black shirts underneath, and black and red floral-print ties. I wonder who that obviously-a-barbershop-quartet group is going to sing to? I thought, sitting up straighter to greet them. Whomever it is is going to be slightly embarrassed.

I never thought it would be me.

But it was. Kendell had hired his friend's group to serenade me. In the middle of the library! It was awesome, even though I was blushing so hard I'm fairly certain I was purple. Before they started singing one of them asked me if they could sing as loud as they usually do, or if I would get fired. I made an executive decision to let them sing loudly. It was lovely and sweet and thoughtful and memorable!

When I got home, I discovered that Haley had cleaned the kitchen, Kaleb had made me a sweet Valentine cobbled together from some of his favorites from school, and Kendell had dropped by the jewelry store to pick up my anniversary/Valentine's Day gift (which I shall blog about tomorrow). More sweetness! I had to run to Costco quickly, as I had run out of time that morning to buy the pizza toppings. The second I got home all the kids and I worked together to make the pizzas. When we make pizza at my house, each kid has an 8" pan of his/her own. I spread the dough and then the kids make the exact pizza they want. Kaleb discovered he likes canadian bacon!

After we ate, we cut out the cookies, then baked them, and Kaleb just, all by himself while I was eating, frosted them all.

Tonight, I get it. I get why people love Valentine's Day. And while I don't think I'll get (or even want or need) jewelry, flowers, and a singing quartet every year from now on, that is OK. That it's happened just this year is good enough. It's awesome, in fact. Because now I have this Valentine's Day, the one I can look back on with sweet fondness no matter what any other year brings!

How was your Valentine's Day?

{What I Love} no13: continuity of our history

Twenty years ago today, I got married.

Why we chose February as the month to get married is beyond my recollection (or, frankly, understanding). I do vaguely remember my beloved joking that with our anniversary being so close to Valentine's day, we could totally save a whole bunch of time and money by celebrating both at once.

I seriously thought he was joking.

Despite the fact that I don't love the month of my anniversary, I confess that it is pretty cool that we made it this far. Twenty years—two decades—twice my lifetime. It makes me think about a conversation I had with a friend recently, one who's been divorced and is now remarried and much happier in her second marriage—but still sad about the loss of so many years. "You and Kendell have so much history together," she said. "It will take so long for us to have all those connections."

She's right. Twenty years builds up a lot of history. Dinners out and dinners in and dinners eaten standing up at the counter and not a few eaten in bed in front of the tv.  Vacations. Long drives. Holidays. Family parties. Losses. Joys. Lots of photos, lots of medical experiences, lots of trips to the grocery store, the gas station, the pharmacy. Big events---graduations, births, deaths. Small moments---a familiar smile, feet against feet under the covers, a laugh at an inside joke.

Four amazing, wonderful children.

Lots of arguments. Lots of discussions. Lots of disagreements. Lots of compromises. In fact, if someone were to ask me what one of the secrets of staying married, I'd say: be willing to love and forgive as hard as you are willing to fight. Maybe that is our only secret.

When I was my nearly-twenty self on the day I got married, I had no idea what it would be like. I thought marriage would be about romance. That sleeping in the same bed with someone you love would be the ultimate experience. That happiness would be easy. I know now that happiness is elusive, snuggling is fairly overrated, and romance isn't the point most of the time. Marriage is just about living, trying to live with each other and to make a life together that makes you both happy enough. I don't know if that sounds jaded—I hope not. It is honest.

But what I also didn't know when I was a 19-year-old newlywed was the peace that would be built upon the continuity of our history. The days building upon the days, stacking up into a new structure we can't really even describe even though we live on top of it. It is a blessing, that structure. It is a life, one we both love.

{What I Love} no12: my neighbors

(alternate blog post title: "when all the random little bits of knowledge I've gathered over the past week or so come together to form a comprehensive epiphany." I do love that, but it's sort of long.)

Last Sunday, I was watching my friend (and down-the-street-and-around-a-few-corners neighbor) Donna in church. She had graciously stepped in at the last moment to help out in primary (the children's organization of our church) because our music leader had gotten sick. Seriously—who does that? Just steps in and for 25 minutes keeps 35 or so little ones (all seven or younger) happily singing? Someone amazing. I watched her and that's what I thought: she is amazing! Her children are polite and kind and knowledgeable and I am 100% certain that Donna doesn't put up with stuff like kids complaining over dinner. She's straightforward and strong, and she also accomplishes all the stuff that moms try to accomplish. (You know...the stuff I routinely fail to accomplish.)

Early the next week, I was perusing Facebook for a few minutes and I read Donna's status. Someone had decorated her door with a hand-illustrated poster that said "This is the home of Donna, who is a Super Mom." They also left her a cape. That's nice! I thought. But then I read another comment from Donna herself, further along in the thread. She'd written something like "I really needed this because sometimes I feel like the worst mom ever."

And that stunned me!

Because there I was, just a few days ago, admiring her and thinking about how great she is with her kids, and at the same time she was walking around thinking that about herself. How could she think that? It was this simultaneous realization: one, if Donna thinks that, then *I* as a mom am in serious trouble and two, maybe everyone, even those who are awesome and amazing and strong and incredible, walks around feeling like they aren't good enough.

Then, on Thursday, I read this thought on my friend Karen's blog. It's sort of a long excerpt, but so what I needed to read to go a little bit further toward understanding what the universe is trying to tell me:

This is about thinking you can. Thinking that you have what it takes to conquer your next challenge. You have what it takes to achieve that goal. What it takes to operate on the level you want to be.

The trick is that once you think you can, you can.

I know it sounds simple and I also know that it isn’t simple. I go through bouts of insecurity in my life. Over work, over my art, over my ability to be a good wife or mother. Over everything that actually matters to me. And I’ve noticed that when I am in that state, I end up being sub-par. I actually make more mistakes. So then my view of how I am actually comes true. Which is a vicious cycle, of course. I think I am mediocre, so I perform mediocre and then end up actually being mediocre.

See how that works?

But then there are times when I feel good. I feel like I can. I am excited and powerful and confident. Which also makes me kind, helpful, and uplifting. And, man, nothing can get in my way during those times. I am a powerhouse. I know things. I learn things. I am always surprised by how much and how well I can get things done when I am in that place. I am a star.

Which is a truth I already know, but in a different form: if you think like a thin girl, then when you're faced with a boxful of donuts, you'll only eat one because you'll think "thin girls don't eat entire boxes of donuts." But if you're thinking like an overweight girl, you'll think "ah, to hell with it. I'm already an overweight girl. That's what we do, we eat a boxful of donuts" and then you eat the entire box of donuts and maybe half a bag of potato chips just to balance all the sweetness out. Believing you are thin girl helps you be a thin girl. I learned that after I lost my ability to think like a thin girl, and then thought like an overweight girl, and then somehow managed to get the thin girl thought process back (although, alas, not the thin girl body so much).

In other words: the more we believe we are what we want to be, the easier it is to be what we want to be. Self doubt is poison. It is a snare slathered in poison and one I am constantly all-too-apt at sticking my hand in. There's something nearly...self-protective about it. If I acknowledge my failures first then it means I beat you to it and you (whoever the yous are) are not able to point it out for me. It hurts less coming from me.

But it does more damage, somehow, when the criticism comes internally. Because it weakens our ability to be who we want to be. And it makes us, I believe, question everyone around us. That person must see how I am failing, we think. We think it is obvious and overpowering, while the other person is thinking "holy cow, Donna is amazing."

One more piece to the puzzle. A couple of weeks ago I read this article my friend Wendy sent me. It's a list of the ten reasons that hell is only full of men, and I'll sum up: the first one is because women do all the laundry, and the second one is because of what women do to women. (Those are all of the ten reasons.) And we do have that power, that strong and sharp ability which is the opposite of our power to create: the power to cut apart other women simply by way of knowing their weaknesses. (The article is much funnier than I am making it out to be.) I think we all know we have this power. Knowing we have it means we assume others are using it, even though some of us grow wiser than our cruel abilities. Some of us don't. Sometimes we do it inadvertantly. Sometimes, despite our greatest intentions, our tongues get away from us. Sometimes we do it on purpose, simply because we can or, perhaps, because our weaknesses need the accompanying bolster.

But, despite knowing that we have this incredible power for cruelty, I also know we have the opposite within us as well. And we use that, too. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose, like with Donna's door.

On Friday, I called in sick to work so that I could take care of Nathan, who has been coughing his lungs out for weeks now because he had pneumonia—and I just kept telling him it was a cough that would go away. I was also taking care of Kaleb, who'd been throwing up for nearly 24 hours—which was made worse by the fact that when he called to have me pick him up from school on Thursday, I didn't believe that his tummy hurt. I just thought he didn't want to stay at school.

And you know my self-flagellation skills were out in all their gory power with those failures of mine.

But then, at about 1:30 or so, when Kaleb had managed to keep some ginger ale down and I don't think I'd heard Nathan cough for about 15 minutes, my doorbell rang. The kids raced to see who it was: the UPS man, dropping off a computer part. I was (ironically enough) cleaning the kitchen when Kaleb, who'd made it to the door first, called out "Mom! come see!" and so I dried my hands off, thinking the UPS man needed my signature.

Instead I saw this:

(In case you can't read it, the sign says I am the Queen of Clean, and the basket holds some Comet, a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (oh, my, I have such a good story to tell about the magic eraser but, alas, it cannot be told on the blog), and my absolutely favorite chocolates, Lindt truffles.)

And in that moment of looking at my door and reading the sign and feeling a rush of love from whomever the "feel-good fairies" are, all my little pieces of wisdom clicked together. Because, let's face it: keeping my house clean quite often feels like one of my biggest failures. I try, and sometimes I'm motivated but usually I'm not, so the pantry is in a disarray and there's something questionable in the back of the produce drawer in my fridge and holy cow, someone really should do something about the dust on the fan blades. (See how easy it is? The self doubt?)

But maybe I'm not as bad as I thought. Maybe no one really has a perfectly clean house. Maybe every woman I admire for their clean house also has a super-messy cupboard or closet that no one ever sees. Maybe they don't scrub their sinks every day? Or, maybe the women who do don't also have some of what I have: the happiness that fills me up when I'm making something or the strength I feel from going on a run. Maybe they can't be happy sitting in a cluttered bedroom reading with their six year olds.

Or maybe they can, and none of that matters because my life is mine and not theirs. Maybe they are so busy feeling awful for whatever it is they feel awful over that they don't really see my mistakes. Maybe they, too, have conquered or at least cornered their Inner Mean Girl.

Because, you know? Those kindness fairies made me see that I am enough. They made me believe that maybe I do have an Inner Clean Queen. And more than anything, they showed me that I am also worthy of being loved. It took me at least five minutes to write that last sentence and I'm still not sure I should leave it there. Does it sound conceited? Does it sound pathetic or strange? I'm not sure. Maybe I should already know that by now. Or maybe I just needed to be reminded.

I do know this: my kitchen was perfectly clean by the time Kendell got home. And even though he joked "were the kindness fairies being ironic?" I chose not to listen. I chose to believe they were right about me. And I'm chosing—I hope I chose every day—to remember that and to use it to keep the cat-o-nine-tails in a closed-up corner of my psyche.

And that, dear blog reader, is the long story for why I love my neighbors—every single one of them, but right now, whoever is the kindness fairy is loved the most.

{What I Love} no11: New Socks

OK, I know this is sort of banal. But I also can confess: I have a thing about socks. New socks.

Kendell, who decidedly does not  have a thing about new socks (or so he thought) has a hard time understanding this little thing of mine. "Why do you need more socks?" he asks, probably rightfully. "You have a drawer of them."

True. Socks I've carefully washed and then not dried too hot because I'd like their newness to last as long as possible. You know how it feels....when you slide a new sock on? A brand new pair in all its cushy, soft glory. Ahhhh. Such a lovely moment.

Last week, Kendell—who really, really needed new socks but took awhile to pick the exactly right kind, finally bought a package of new socks. And even though he'd deny it, he knows. He looked at me with that look, the first time he pulled on his new socks. that "ahhhhhhh" look. Cushy, soft, glorious.

(I thought about naming this post something about how I love being right, but I didn't want to push it toooooo far!)

{What I Love} no10: cute running clothes

(Please forgive the lapse in blogging. Kendell and I were out celebrating a milestone this weekend, which I shall blog about tomorrow.)

While I prefer that people might think of them in the euphemistic ideal of "muscular," when you come right down to it there's just no way to put it other than this: I have large thighs. In fact, they're downright disproportional. . . if I ever find a pair of jeans with a size 6 waist and a size 8 thigh I'm buying at least five pair. Until then, I'd say I like shopping for swimsuits more than shopping for jeans. (Which is saying a lot, because when I shop for swimsuits I have to try to cope with the other disproportional part of my body.)

I've mostly come to accept this fact about my body. I try to think of my thunder thighs in affectionate terms. They're strong! They can go forever, be it a day-long hike or an extra-long run I'm asking them to carrying me through.  They are...well, that's all I've got. They're strong!

Not very pretty, though. And definitely not easy to shop for. Forget the jeans: sometimes exercise clothes are just as complicated. Especially those cute tiny shorts so many runners are able to wear. If I went out in shorts like these? Well, I'd come home bleeding from the chafe. Because one of the perks of big muscular thighs is that no matter how much weight you lose or how in shape you get, your thighs still touch. Which means that when you run? Your thighs rub together.

So cute, tiny running shorts? Never going to work for me. I've worked around this by shopping long and carefully for longer running shorts. I have three pair I bought four years ago at Target. They're really starting to get worn out but, despite the fact that they have no pockets ("lack of pockets" is one of my running-clothes tirades), I keep wearing them because they work.

Still, despite the large-thigh issue, there is something motivating in finding cute running clothes. It's simply easier to get out the door when you feel like you don't look sloppy as you're slogging down the street. And I'll freely confess that I probably do own too many running clothes. But I feel a little bit justified in buying them anyway because A---I'm a careful shopper (READ: I always buy stuff on sale) and B---if a cute new running top lifts up any flagging motivation, it's money well-spent. My heart, lungs, and brain all agree.

I used to look at the runners in running skirts with envy. Those tiny little shorts under their skirts? Would never stand up to my inner-thigh chafing. Ever! But then I discovered, one lucky day at my local running store, the magic that is Skirt Sports. I say "lucky" both because I learned about the existence of a longer running skirt with 5" shorts underneath AND  because said skirt was on sale. (Plus it was pink. Happy sigh.) It is the perfect skirt for me. The shorts under the skirt even have pockets. Pockets! and prettiness!

I love my pink skirt. I wore it when I achieved one of my running goals at the Hobble Creek Half Marathon. I wore it for one of my Ragnar legs. I wore it for every single one of my long runs while training for my marathon, and of course, I also wore it for my marathon. It made me feel strong in a feminine sort of way.

But one skirt won't last forever. And when I found another Skirt Sports skirt on sale, I bought it for myself for Christmas. I was saving it for the perfect day when I A---actually went running (I haven't been very diligent since "winter" set in) and B---the weather was good. That day was Friday, when I'd been home all day with one kid struck down by walking pneumonia and another who'd been barfing his guts out all day. The second Kendell came home I was gone. Mostly because it was so beautiful. Fifty-two sunny degrees is abnormal February weather but I decided that to waste it would be unpardonable (and wouldn't make it snow anyway).

I felt exhilarated and happy and energized for about a half mile, and then the reality of not running for six weeks hit me hard. My lungs hurt and my infamous thighs felt weak. But I finished my three-point-two-five miles and I'm certain my cute new running skirt:

totally had something to do with it! (My favorite pink headband didn't hurt either!)

What is your opinion on exercise clothes?