It Shouldn't Have Been So Hard

It shouldn't have been so hard. Not really.

It was a matter of the smallest pen stroke, circling one word on a form. All I needed to do was circle "Yes". But I hesitated, moved to other questions, came back to that blank row and hovered still.

At well-child check ups at our pediatrician's office, they hand you a sheet of Yes/No questions to answer while you wait to see the doctor, to avoid having the nurses waste their time repeating the same list of questions of everyone who comes in, I suppose. The "correct" answers are always the second choice, the word on the right. If you wanted to you blow off the form, you could just work your way straight down the column, circling without even reading.

• Does the baby ride in a rear-facing car seat in the back row of the car at all times? No/Yes
• Do you feed the baby juice, soda, or anything other than breastmilk or formula with iron? Yes/No
• Does anyone smoke around the baby? Yes/No

Or the one that had me caught:

• Have you felt unusually sad or anxious since the baby's arrival? Yes/No

I knew I needed to say "Yes", to hopefully set the process of seeking medical help in motion. I've had times in my life when I've felt blue or adrift or overwhelmed. I've had times I knew that talking to a counselor would help give me some new perspective to help me through a stuck place. This time was different. I knew that something had shifted in my brain and wasn't snapping back into place.

And, yet. As the weeks went by and I slid deeper into the pit, something kept me from seeking out the help the rational part of my brain knew I needed. I was a living checklist of depression symptoms. But I was scared of being dismissed or ridiculed and I felt so fragile, so breakable that even the thought of that possibly happening in a doctor's office was enough to make me want to pretend everything was fine. Depression alone isn't taken seriously all too often, much less post-partum depression, much much less adoption-related depression. After all, I hadn't given birth. I hadn't had to say goodbye to a child. I had nothing happen most people would label a crisis. I was supposed to be the happy, fulfilled one in this adoption equation, rejoicing over the newest family member who so many waiting adoptive parents would hypothetically have been thrilled to have in my place.

I leaned against the wall in the waiting room and looked at the baby sleeping in his sling and was overwhelmed by despair. Things were bad, and only getting worse. Scared enough, I finally drew a small circle.

After running through the usual routine with the baby, the pediatrician turned to me. "Now," he said, tapping his finger on the clipboard over that circled word, that glaring mark in the "wrong answer" column. I stiffened. "This is what concerns me most," he said.

He asked some kind and probing questions, then broke about a dozen HMO rules to get me an appointment for the next week with a physician who was similarly nothing less than compassionate and encouraging. I left her office not with hope exactly--I was too far in the pit at that point to scrabble together anything resembling real hope--but with the feeling that something had just happened other than the sadness and anger and anxiety that had become my constant companions.

So that's where things are. I'm trying medication, which has been a new and strange (and slow) experience. And I am finally feeling like things may be getting better. I am so very ready to return back to this life I love so much, to be someone who creates and serves and nurtures again instead of just someone who exists and needs.

Thank you for waiting for me, those of you who are reading this. I am sorry that I have been gone so long.

Mother Letters

A long time ago--in 2007, before Mari, even!--I wrote a letter to a woman I've never met. A husband was collecting letters about motherhood as a Christmas present for his wife, who was about to deliver their fourth child. So I wrote something sweet and encouraging one night and sent it off to him. It was just one of those nice things you do for people on the internet. (ETA: It turns out they received over 600 letters. I had no idea it was so many!)

It turns out that the two of them went on to put some of the best letters and artwork into an e-book that was released today. The e-book is called Mother Letters and my letter is in it. I get a buck or so if you buy it from one of these two links: either for the Kindle or in PDF. I haven't seen it yet--I actually don't even remember what I wrote and I'm hoping it's not too embarassing--but I wanted to let you all know!

Eleven Years

(This is a partial repost from five years ago. Somehow it seemed just right for this year, too.)

Love commits to the journey despite not knowing what lies ahead.

Love commits to the unknown ones who will join you along the way.

Love commits to the person you are and to the person you are becoming.

Happy eleventh anniversary, Todd. Parts of this journey have been nothing like what I expected, others have been exactly as I imagined. But I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Bigger

Last year I was intrigued by the idea of choosing a single word for the year--something to set the tone, or be inspiration, capture what I thought the year might be about. It was something I had seen a number of other bloggers doing, an alternative to the usual laundry list of  New Year's resolutions. They are often inspriational, lovely word like BREATHE or CREATE.

I picked the word TRY for 2011. I kept it to myself, a private challenge to step outside my comfort zone a little as opportunities arose. Among other things it got me to my first blogging conference, BlogHer (so big! so many people!), and to the Open Adoption Symposium in Virginia, both places where online friendships cemented and grew into something even more wonderful in that offline context.

As 2012 approached, I wanted to choose a new word. I sat with the idea for a few days until one word kept coming to mind again and again.

BIGGER.

It felt like the moment to think beyond my usual routines and ruts, to push myself further--even if just a little bit--in my job, my projects, my family life. Not necessarily to try something new, but something more. BIGGER carried this exciting sense of expansion it for me.

It started off a little practical:

We finally went out and bought the new (to us) bigger car we had been dithering about for months--nay, years. The minivan that would let us take the road trips and do the activities with the kids' friends we had been wanting to do. To buy it, we used the funds we had set aside for a possible third adoption. It was a step into embracing and loving our lives and our family right now, just as it is, putting to rest the wondering and worrying over adding to it.

I began working on some new ideas at my job. I started sketching out what it would take for our family to spend a year overseas when the kids are a little older. I let a local friend convince me to join her in a proposal for a continuing ed workshop for therapists about adoption--something way outside my comfort zone--because, BIGGER. I've been working until the wee hours on setting up Open Adoption Bloggers at its own site to let it expand beyond the confines of my blog. (Tell them how great it is, Racilous!)

It was all very invigorating and exciting.

And then BIGGER took a very interesting turn...

Part two

You Cannot Be Valedictorian of Everything

I'm traveling for work this week (hello, Los Angeles sunshine!). It means full days and missing home, but also stretching out in a quiet hotel bed with a novel at hand and no laundry or dishes waiting to be washed.

The thought of cracking open my laptop right now makes me cringe. (I am tip-tapping this out on my iPod; NaBloPoMo compels me.)

I had my roughly annual breakdown the other night, ugly crying into my pillow, exhausted by the responsibilities I carry right now, certain I am failing at all of them, fearful that the only value I have is in being found competent by others.

In the light of day I don't know if I better see reality or just better ignore it.

Why I Do This

The things I've been lucky enough to be part of in our little corner of the internet make me so happy, you don't even know. The Interview Project. Open Adoption Bloggers. The Open Adoption Roundtables. I love what we together have turned those projects into.

They also take a lot of time to organize. Time I could be spending with my family or my friends. Or, ahem, the pile of clothes in permanent residence on my bedroom floor. Todd is ridiculously supportive, but I know sometimes he wonders if it's worth it, especially when I'm creeping into bed at 3:00 a.m. after matching up interview partners or glued to my computer screen during those scarce hours we have when the kids are asleep. I wonder myself sometimes if I'll look back and wish I had chosen differently.

But the thought of not working on those projects, not writing here, not reading your blogs--it deflates me. Because I believe so strongly in the ways we are collectively using social media to augment and create adoption support and education. And I can't imagine not being a part of it.

Social media changed the very shape of my family. Todd and I went into open adoption waving our pom poms and cheering to beat the band. We were open adoption cheerleaders to the core. I haven't lost that certainty that child-centered openness is the healthiest approach, but I want to bury my face in my hands at how naive our enthusiasm was. We really thought that open adoption solved everything; that there were problems and long-term pain the way infant adoption used to be practiced, but open adoption had changed that. (Agency #1 was responsible for a lot of that view, but I won't put all the blame on them.)

Because open adoption was a magical panacea, my mental version of a successful open adoption was one in which no one struggled. Everybody involved would be confident, happy, and secure. Reality hit for me shortly after Eddie was born. Being around his first family, especially Kelly, pushed all sorts of buttons I was horrified to find that I had. Then a really awkward thing happened with Kelly's parents and I was scared that if I responded the wrong way I'd blow my son's chance to grow up knowing his family of origin. I worried a lot. I chastised myself a lot. I was frustrated, anxious, and feeling like something must be wrong with me because my experience didn't match the success story I had in my mind.

I tried reaching out to the agency, more than once. They were the opposite of helpful. No one was talking about these sorts of challenges at Agency #1 or in the literature they recommended. I didn't feel like I could talk to my friends about it, because I worried they'd pity me and not understand why we wanted to forge on with open adoption. Todd and I were pretty much the sum total of each other's adoption support. So I pushed it all down inside and pretended everything was great, all the while knowing there was no way I could do this for years on end.

Our naivete almost cost us so much in our open adoption.

This post is already too long. Part two tomorrow.

One Veteran (repeat)

This is something I wrote in 2008. I wanted to re-post it on this Veterans' Day, for my dad.

He doesn't want to be in a parade or be hailed as a hero. But he has the Vietnam ribbon on his car. He gives to Amvets.  And every Veterans' and Memorial Day he wears his old Army jacket and remembers.

---

During my dad's final year of college, he was drafted into the Army. Not by lottery, but by a draft board who looked over the young men in his small Michigan town and decided which were expendable.

My dad did not support what his country was doing in Vietnam and did not want to fight for a cause in which he didn't believe. Faced with three options--prison, becoming a fugitive, or fighting in a war--he decided that risking his life in the jungle was the least frightening. Soon after graduating from college, he entered the Army.

In my parent's wedding photos, his neck is thick from basic training. My mom and dad spent part of their first year of their marriage on an Army base while he completed officer candidate school. Then she moved back in with her parents while he went off to Vietnam. He went with a single goal: don't get killed. Not to be a hero. Just to not get killed.

Growing up, my dad's veteran status was just another bit of trivia for me. It was the pieces of useful army gear we used when camping and a dad who jumped at sudden loud noises. Already knowing the ending of the story--knowing that he obviously survived to father me--made the information tame. My brother and I would string up his old green army hammock between the trees and spin ourselves around and around.

Several years ago, my dad took my brother and me to visit Vietnam. He wanted to finally learn something about the country he had been in so long ago, experience it without the fear and violence. It was right after I got engaged and my mind was full of dreams about my future life with T. We traveled across the country, taking it in. There are stores where you can still buy the detritus the US military left behind thirty years ago. I bought a green hammock for myself and thought about camping with my own kids someday.

One afternoon, after some searching and help from locals, we stood at the edge of road looking out at an expanse of grass and trees where my dad's base camp once was. There on that strip of gravel under the bright sun, just a few years older than my dad had been, the reality of my father's experience, his youth, his separation from his new wife, finally hit me. My god, they sent my dad to a war.

So this Veterans' Day, thank you to those who willingly sacrifice for the honor of serving their country. And thank you also to the ones who feel forced into service by circumstances out of their control and who find no glory in it. You all have my respect.

California Girls

I'm going to be in the Los Angeles area the week after Thanksgiving. No family with me this time. Let's party! Or, you know, have quiet conversation over coffee.

I know a lot of you cool people live there, so let me know if you'd like to get together some evening.

If a Blogger Has No Internet, Does She Exist?

I've grabbed a few precious minutes of internet access from a coffee shop to say hello. My family has been on the road yet again. We were out camping earlier in the month, came home for a few days before heading to our annual lake trip with friends, then popped home for two frantic days of packing before leaving for a three-week road trip around California (with BlogHer in the middle of that! Whoo!). I realized last night that we've spent more nights in sleeping bags than in our beds in July.

We've been without internet access on all these trips and, despite my best intentions, I haven't been able to write up scheduled posts on  top of all the packing and unpacking and trying to catch up at work. (Someday I will leave on a family trip without having pulled an all-nighter getting ready. Someday.) So please accept my apologies for how quiet it's been around here. I hope you are enjoying your summers as much as we are!

BlogHer Voices of the Year & Me

We came home from last week's camping trip (reluctantly--it was really wonderful, despite the nightly rain) to the usual post-vacation mountains of laundry, mountains of gear to put away, and mountains of unread emails. But hidden in the middle of that mountain of messages was one that still has me a bit astonished and smiling.

For a few years now, the big BlogHer conference has had a "community keynote" instead of a single keynote speaker, highlighting the talent within our blogging community. This year ninety bloggers were selected as "Voices of the Year" and fifteen of will those read their posts aloud at the community keynote address at the BlogHer conference next month.

So the news I still can't quite believe? I was included as an honoree in the BlogHer 2011 Voices of the Year in the Niche category for my post "Thirteen Ways of Looking at 'Our Birthmother'". Reading through the other selected posts, I'm so honored to be included alongside some of my favorite bloggers. Especially for a post that captures in some small way what so many of us are, I think, trying to express about openness in adoption: that it is about expanding the very ways we talk about and define "family".

A huge thank you to BlogHer and to the two judges in my category. I can't wait to hear the community keynote selections in person at the conference in a few weeks!

Where I'm From

I am from curly maple polished to a shine,

from Saltwater Sandals and Popsicles with two sticks. 

I am from striped curtains on sliding windows. 

(Thin and lemony, bubbling over my bed in the summer breeze.)

I am from the overlapping ferns of a forest floor,

the hollow of a towering rhododendron--

a hidden cove of tangled branches.

I am from Christmas oranges and hazel eyes,

from Mary and Edward and the man still unknown. 

I am from the nose-in-a-books

and the one-more-degrees. 

From we don't believe that and respect those who do. 

I am from Sunday waffles and comic strips.

From one dusty Bible high on the shelf

and the sacred roar of a wind-swept beach.

I'm from Wakefield and stout Eastern stock,

casseroles and coffee taken black. 

From the matriarch keeping secrets at the baptismal font,

the patriarchs pushed--and running--from their kin. 

I am from stories collecting to a single pool,

the only children of only children,

trunks of mothballs and untethered memories

waiting for me to add my things.

---

I first read one of these exercises--from this template based on "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyons--over two years ago and always wanted to try my hand at one. Susan's recent lovely version prodded me into finally giving it a go. If you write one of your own, please do let me know. I love reading them.

Jane + Me

I wrote a little something for the BlogHer Book Club:

William Deresiewicz, author of A Jane Austen Education, and I have at least one thing in common: Jane Austen changed our lives.

It was nearly two decades ago now. Fresh out of college, I was sharing a house with five other recent grads, living on Pop-Tarts, and working on a university campus as a student leadership advisor. And swiftly falling in love with a boy I couldn’t be with.

Read the rest over at BlogHer

Wordless Wednesday: Story of My Life

{click to embiggen; the text is key}

Living with chronic bitchface print by Kris Atomic, via Design is Mine

For Better or For Worse

Ten(!) years ago today Todd and I threw ourselves a wedding.

I wore my mother's dress

It was meant to be held outdoors, something you can do in Southern California in the middle of April.

The day before the wedding it rained. It rained and rained and rained. The pouring buckets sort of rain that Los Angeles gets on occasion. Not exactly what we had planned for the ceremony we had spent months imagining. But what are you going to do? The setting of the ceremony wasn't the point. The point was gathering with all these people we loved and getting the hell married already. So we staked out a new ceremony plan inside in the boring space where the dinner was to be held, did the rehearsal, and went on our way, determined to stay on point--the real point.

I woke up to sun the day of my wedding. The rain became a footnote in the Wedding Story, one of oh so many things that didn't go quite as planned that weekend. We laughed a lot that day.

Holy cannoli, we look so young

This is where Todd will likely break in to remind me that I actually sobbed for hours that the rain was ruining our wedding or something. But this much more practical response is how I remember it and I'm sticking to it because I've come back to this again and again in my adult life. Most things don't go the way I imagined, things both large (parenting) and small (nearly every haircut). When I've hypothetically actually yesterday afternoon fled to my bedroom so as not to lose my temper with the kids at the end of a long day and meanwhile said kids are in the hallway attempting to pick the lock--well, let's just say it's not always an enriching childhood of art projects and organic gardening we've got going here. (At least they were cooperating with each other in the lock picking project.) But I can always come back to the point of it all, try to make them feel safe and unconditionally loved, messy and improvised as that effort may be. I've been trying to practice that more and more lately: reminding myself of the capital-p Point and finding a way to make it there, letting the details fall as they may.

All that to say, in a strange and roundabout way, happy tenth anniversary to you, T.

The Ides of March, For Me

The body remembers even when the mind forgets.

Every year as summer draws to a close and August slips into September, I carry a sense of anticipation with me. Much like a thought on the tip of the tongue, it's a persistent feeling that something significant is just about here. At first I wonder I why it is that I am suddenly feel this way. Then a photograph, a glance at a calendar, a mention of something on a blog reminds me: oh, yes, this is right when those calls came out of the blue. Two years apart, from the adoption agencies, telling us that expectant mothers had picked us. Calls that led, eventually, to my little family. Although those are not anniversaries I consciously mark, something within me remembers. Every year.

It has been one year since my world turned upside down in a gut-wrenching moment. One year of heartbreak and soul-searching, of asking questions I thought I'd never have to ask and making decisions I thought I'd never have to make. One year, encircled by the love of friends and family, of figuring out life in After and finding out that I would be more than fine. Not a year I ever want to relive, to be sure, but I wrested some good out of it. I cling to that.

My mind is all Elinor Dashwood, keenly aware of how difficult that time was, but firmly giving more weight to other realities: this is not last year and much has changed, love and support surrounds me, there are far worse griefs that can befall a person. Anniversaries can be hard, but they pass; it is as simple as that. Yet my body channels Miss Marianne, throwing herself with abandon into reliving the emotion of a year ago. It wakes me up in the middle of the night to lie in sadness, leaving me exhausted in the morning. I sit staring at a blank computer screen, unfocused and unable to write. On the surface this week looks like the one before it: a string of meetings and mothering and meals to be made. I go about my days, getting things done. But underneath I cannot shake a sense of heaviness and dread. Like a constant, fuzzy memory that wants to break through. I do not like it.

The body remembers, even though the mind tries to forget.

I've watched people these past couple of weeks and wondered if they live with such internal calendars, too. If certain times of year or the weather being just like it was on that one day dredge up these kinds of emotional memories for them. I've wondered what my children may carry with them, what experiences from their earliest days still live on in their cells. Wondered how much of each of us is made up of memories lying in wait.

Wordless Wednesday: 1979, Baby

Thirty-six

Today is my birthday! I am 36 years old today, so here are 36 things you never needed to know about me:

1. I was born in the tiniest state in the Union.
2. My mom's pregnancy (the one that resulted in me) was both unplanned and (at least initially by one of my parents) unwanted. These things happen when you're young-ish and on vacation and drunk off your patooties.
3. Now I've probably made my folks sound like irresponsible, reluctant parents. But in fact they were incredible and I find myself holding myself up to the standard they set in my own parenting. And I've never in my life seen them so much as tipsy. Perhaps ending up with a baby took the thrill off of that particular activity.
4. Given that (a) my mom didn't realize she was pregnant at first and (b) it was the 1970s, it wasn't the most pristine prenatal experience. So it was interesting to be faced with those godawful preference forms during the adoption process and realize that checking off  "no alcohol during the entire pregnancy not even a drop no way" would mean refusing to adopt me. And I'm one amazing cookie.
5. I've worn glasses since I was four years old. Walking out of the opthamologist's ophthalmologist's office that first day, I said, "Oh, Mommy! The trees have leaves!"
6. I'm a little perturbed that "opthamologist" isn't recognized by spell-check. ETA: Or, spell check just shrugged at my completely incorrect spelling.
7. One thing I like about being terribly nearsighted is that I can sort of turn off the visual world at night. When I take off my glasses everything around me disappears into a softly multicolored blur.
8. Left to my druthers, I think reading would have been my only after-school activity in elementary school. "Bookworm" is putting is mildly.
9. For pets I had a series of hamsters, one mouse, and a fish won at the state fair that lived for way more years than any penny goldfish should.
10. As a teenager I donned sequin-spangled spandex and performed with a dance troupe in a Japanese shopping mall. Oh yes, I did. Our opening act was a country singer.
11. One of our routines was to Neil Diamond's "America". Oh, good heavens, the two-decades-post shame.
12. Beginning in junior high and running throughout high school, I kept a list of every outfit I wore. So that I wouldn't wear the same thing twice in x number of weeks. (The number of weeks got longer as time went on.)
13. Last week I wore the exact same outfit two days in a row. Teenage me would have been horrified.
14. I'm a little afraid of dogs. Even the tiny yappy ones.
15. I cannot stand the sound of other people chewing.
16. I almost always choose fruity desserts, like pie, over chocolate.
17. My favorite cake is lemon coconut. My grandfather died when I was three and a few years ago I found out that lemon coconut was his favorite, too.
18. Black licorice is vile and you will never convince me otherwise.
19. I wear Danskos. I love my Danskos.
20. My graduate degree was in Biblical studies and theology, if anyone ever wants to throw down some theology geek talk.
21. No, I have no idea what I'm going to do with my degree. I think I mostly missed being in an academic environment.
22. Also it's pretty much expected in my family of origin that you'll get at least one graduate degree. So I did. Family dynamics are interesting.
23. I bought a ticket to go to the BlogHer conference in August.
24. I am beyond excited to meet some of my online friends in person.
25. I am already wanting to hide at the thought of my introverted self being surrounded by all those people and the weird fixation on shoes that pops up in every communication from the conference organizers.
26. I started blogging not to better myself or chronicle my life or contribute something good to the world, but out of spite. Worst. Reason. Ever. Thankfully I got over that pretty quickly.
27. My favorite color is yellow.
28. I love tulips and daffodils.
29. I'm calmed by clean spaces, but am hopeless at actually keeping a space clean.
30. I am a night owl.
31. Right about here, I'm wishing I were only turning 30. Thirty-six turns out to be an awfully long list.
32. I still spend more time than I'd like to admit wondering whether our official family is finished at four.
33. Mari is almost three and getting more independent every day. We went out to eat on Saturday and both kids kept themselves occupied and happy through what turned out to be a longish meal. It was so nice. "But, but, but," says my brain, spinning in a hundred directions.
34. My ratio of posts-written-in-my head to posts-published is about 4:1.
35. I am munching on salt and vinegar kettle chips as a birthday treat.
36. For my birthday, I want mhowardkarp to deem me a righteous smartypants. Could there be a higher honor?

Seven Links

Via Carolyn comes a fun Friday timewaster: The 7 Link Challenge. It's harder than it looks!

1) Your first post: Like Mother, Like Daughter
This is from 2005! Puppy was a mere two months old. Don't be fooled into thinking I've been blogging since then, though. I didn't really start in earnest until 2007. Five years ago, the blog was called Unproductive Reproduction and I thought I would have a lot to say about (in)fertility. Turns out, not so much. Then I discovered I could prattle on for quite awhile about adoption (and actually needed to get some things out to stay sane). Production, Not Reproduction was born.

2) A post you enjoyed writing the most: 25 Things I Said Today
I wavered between most fun and most cathartic. Fun won. (Oh, look at that. I snuck in an eighth link. One of my all-time favorite posts.)

3) A post which had a great discussion: My T-shirt Today is a Solid Grey
Commenters building on one another, folks offering opposing viewpoints. Good times.

4) A post on someone else's blog that you wish you'd written: Before Sleep at Journey Mama
"I sit and think about small regrettable things."

5) Your most helpful post: Supporting Family Members Who Are Adopting
Self-explanatory, yes? I'm curious what post all of you would have answered is post most helpful.

6) A post with a title of which you are proud: Doing Some Unpacking
Not that the title itself is anything to write home about. (I very much dislike thinking up post titles. Ugh.) But it captures exactly what I was doing in that post: beginning to tease apart my privilege as a non-adopted person, in order to be a better adoptive parent. I don't know if proud is quite the right word, but that post means something to me.

7) A post that you wish more people had read: What's Your Damage?
Pretty much anything from 2007? Go read the archives! I have a soft spot for that particular bit, though.

Climbing Toward After

Once upon a time, when you could read all the infertility blogs over your lunch break there were so few, there was a writer who called herself Getupgrrl. I know some of you are nodding and smiling right now, while most of you are probably saying, "Who?"

She was a amazingly gifted writer. Stunning. She once wrote a post titled, "The Sound of the World Splitting Apart." I won't try to describe it because it has been years--six?--since I first read it and I couldn't do it justice. It was one of a handful of posts I've read over the years that  have never fully shaken from my memory. It was about a turning point in their battle with infertility, about a day when they received a diagnosis that closed off any possibility of pregnancy. But beyond the specifics it was about an instant when everything changes. When the world tears apart all around you, sending you tumbling into the chasm between before and after, and you know nothing will ever be the same.

I heard that sound recently, the sound of my world splitting apart. I don't know how, or if, I'm going to write my way through it. It is all rather unbloggable. But if I'm quiet right now, that is why.

Medius Aevum

Today is my birthday! I turned 35, thus joining the 35-54 year old demographic group. Next step: senior citizen-hood. This morning we took the kids out to brunch at our neighborhood diner and a walk by the river. Now I get to curl up with a cup of tea and a new book (reading in the middle of the day!) before dinner at my parents' house.

I've been remembering back to ten years ago a lot this week. Twenty-five was the closing year of a certain phase of my life in many ways. At 26 I would marry, move, return to grad school, and decide that what was looking to be a promising career just wasn't what I wanted to be doing for the rest of my working life. I was 26 when the symptoms of a chronic condition started making themselves apparent and when it began to sink in that fertility wasn't going to be a straight, easy road for me. Twenty-five belongs to my "before" in so very many respects. And although the promise of that "anything is possible" feeling which belonged to that time was so exhilarating, I like being on the other side of it, too.

If you had asked me at 25 what I thought my 35-year old self would be like, what my life would look like, I'm not sure what I would have said. I know it would have included Todd. Beyond that, who knew? But, my word, has it played out in lovely and wonderful ways. I may be one step removed from retirement in the eyes according to the great gods of demographics, but it sure feels to me like there is an enormous amount left to be played out. And maybe we'll all still be here at this blog to find out what my 45 will be like.