The Feed Falls Flat

In the far northwest suburbs of Chicago, my teenage nephews attend school.  Because I have a love for all things “book”, I dive in and explore their required summer reading each year. It’s a win-win…I get to keep up with the nephews and find some great new literature at the same time.  Last year, we read Divergent, so I was convinced I would be rewarded with another treat this year, when I eagerly downloaded and began to read, The Feed, by M.T. Anderson. 

I’m not sure I could’ve been more disappointed. 

The concept of the book is to draw parallels between the setting and activities of the era (which is an undetermined amount of time in the future), to modern day meta-data mining- and to point a finger at the many ways we are each controlled by major corporations.  Control is possible because nearly everyone has an implanted chip that allows a constant stream of data to be visualized or listened to by the individual. Personalized data on what to buy and where to visit is delivered to anyone with a “feed”- while awake, while asleep, while eating, while thinking (or not thinking as is more likely for the majority of characters.)

All of this seems intriguing, and to be honest I’ve found myself contemplating the possibilities and implications of being connected to my own feed, yes…that mysterious monster Facebook. How did they know to recommend I friend someone from my early teen years, who I haven’t seen in 15 years?

The problem I have with the book is that it is a young adult novel.  I am a highly introspective 37 year old woman who obsessively looks for meaning in all that I do and read and watch on TV.  The complexities of created language (such as ‘going mal’- something reminiscent of getting stoned through an overload on the feed, ‘unit’- an insult or an exclamation of awesomeness, ‘meg brag’- a descriptor of how very high end an item is) and the seemingly dangling details of a civilization that has nearly destroyed itself, left me feeling that a teenager reading this book would quickly put it down. 

It is no Divergent, and certainly no Hunger Games, where the dystopian nature of our future is explained just enough to make teens angry and just enough to draw them in farther.  Those pieces gave enough background and uncovered enough detail to start discussions, to start arguments, to cause anyone of any age to easily make connections to the life they are living right now. The Feed does not do any of these things.

Today I saw my nephew, the one reading this book along with me.  I ungasked him what he thought.  His response? “It’s stupid…the description on the back made it look really interesting, but it’s not.”  This comes from the mouth of a very normal teenage boy. He’s athletic, thoughtful, volunteers his time for others, and he totally missed any possible point. It’s just as I feared.  There isn’t enough relatable material for teens to make sense of the analogy.

So to M.T. Anderson, I say this: you missed the mark.  There were missed opportunities; you could’ve done so much more with this piece. You missed a chance to give me a sensational, award winning, heart pounding, anger inducing, dystopian novel.  Instead, you gave me…meh.

The Universe Shoved

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's a simple question, right? Teacher, firefighter, superstar, tooth fairy...any of the above are so common to hear.  My answer was always teacher; I ALWAYS wanted to be a teacher.  I never really had a good reason why, until I got to high school.  I wanted, desperately, to be like some of my favorites- imparting wisdom, helping students find their passion, and coaching a team. 

You may not know this, but I am obssessively stubborn about achieving my goals.  I ended up doing almost exactly what I set out to do. Sure, my major in college changed and I ended up teaching at a different school than I originally planned, but all in all I'd say I achieved according to my plans. I teach at a large suburban high school, sister school to the one from which I graduated (where I wanted to end up teaching). 

For twelve years I coached the winter guard at this school.  I never knew what impact coaching would have on my life.  At the time, it was something I needed to do for myself, something that helped me express my creative side, something that gave me an identity before I had a family, and something that reminded me who I was after the girls were born.  One day last fall, I had an epiphony while making one of many weekly treks back to school for practice; I didn't need to coach anymore.

My life was being fulfilled in other ways.  My health was on the upswing and with that came new happiness. My kids were becoming little people, and bringning a different kind of fulfillment than they could offer when they were infants. My team had reached the goals I'd set when I started coaching- we were considered some of the strongest competitors in our circuit.  Whatever I had been grasping at, whatever need coaching was helping me achieve, whatever goal I'd hoped for- it was met, it was fulfilled, it was done.

When I told the other coach, who happened to be my dear friend Megan, it was like our innermost thoughts had been working together without our knowing it; she too felt ready to move on.  So we did.  We finished the season with another victorious title, we cried with our team when we broke the news to them, and we walked away without regrets when the new coach took the reigns.  We haven't looked back.  Until last week. 

As teenager after teenager wandered into our lunch period, tearful and mourning, a connection and bond was renewed.  You see, we became exceptionally close with the team members and their families from the years of 2008-2012, so when one of our families tragically lost their oldest son, we all gathered and mourned together.  How could something like this happen to such a wonderful family? How could something like this happen to someone so young and full of life? How can we be there for our friends in their time of need?  It was then that I understood why I ever coached, what need the act of coaching fulfilled in me. 

I needed to be part of a community.  I needed to learn from families that loved their children with all the ferocity with which I love mine.  I needed to see how different parents handled different situations.  I needed to be influenced.  At the time, I thought I was coaching so I could make a different kind of impact than what I could do in the classroom.  I didn't know it then, but coaching was a learning experience for me every bit as much as it was for the kids.

To those families who showed me support as a coach, I thank you a million times and more.  I learned from you what it is to support my kids; it isn't about wanting things my own way, it isn't about making my kids the team princesses, it isn't about believing my kids will always be right. It's about exposing my kids new people, new skills, and new challenges.  It's about teaching my kids they can't and won't be the center of every universe throughout their lives, even if they are the center of my universe at home.  It's about getting to know the other adults who will be involved in my childrens' lives and growing a trusting relationship with them. It's about letting them go and trusting the world will do right by them.

And to the devestating loss of one dear family? It is an awful thing that we watch you live through.  It has reminded me though that life is short, too short.  It reminds me that my polka-dotted, freckle-spotted faces will grow and my favorite little spots will fade.  One day it will be just myself and the husband and then what? I will be satisfied that I stole enough cuddles and put my energies in just the right places.

Great Expectations

Expectations.  Everyone has them, about all sorts of things.  We walk to through life looking for something to fulfill us, to help us reach an expectation: childhood dreams about grown up lives, picket fenced houses with impeccable interiors, flavors a food should introduce to the palate. Expectations are great, so long as we realize they may never come to fruition, at least not in the 'perfect' way we imagined.

Lately, I've seen quite a few friends feel let down.  Today, a co-work was let down by the taste of my lunch I offered to let him try.  As it turns out, he did not care for quinoa black bean burgers- not even a little.  My husband tells me all the time that something like this burger is a frankenfood: we call it a burger, dress it up to look like a burger, but it never tastes like a burger. It doesn't bother me one bit, but I think it has to do with expectation. I expect my quinoa blackbean burger to taste like quinoa and blackbeans, others expect it to tast like a burger. I think this is the source of some pretty  massive let down in aspects of our lives that are a bigger deal than my shared vegan lunch.

I expected to find a great husband, have perfect children, and live in a pristine home.  At one point in my life I might have said some of this didn't come true.  Today I feel like I have it all.  It's all about the perception of what's truly important in our expectations. What makes the husband great?  What makes the kids perfect?  What makes the home pristine?

If you walked into my house, as I've said before, you probably wouldn't think Pottery Barn Magazine style.  Toys are always laying around, despite our best efforts to keep them picked up.  Drawings made by my kids are my pricelss artwork and all of my walls are covered with it.  Stacks of papers that come home from school get taken from backpacks and left piled on the counter until cleaning day.  It's not what I expected, but it's reality. 

My kids have a daily routine of disputing which version of Squinkie game to play: will today be The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe or will it be The Voyage of the Dawntreader? Will the part of Aslan the Lion be played by the lamb or the cat? Will they play regular Barbies or Narnia Barbies? We're pretty into Narnia right now, in case you couldn't tell.  I can't say I enjoy the daily bicker-festival, but I know it's reality.  I know they will still grow up to love one another and the game of choice is always decided, in the end, as something that makes them both happy.  But if I expected something more of them, if I expected there to NEVER be a disagreement, I would be one very unhappy momma. 

And what about my husband?  Perfection? I guess that depends on how I define perfection.  He's a wonderful human being who loves me very much.  He almost always makes me coffee in the morning.  He loves to take me golfing in the summer.  He plans the best vacations.  He knows what I like and what I don't like.  He knows I don't like gadgets for birthday gifts.  He knows I'm sentimental about things like our engagement, our wedding, the birth of our children.  He knows I have a thing for purses. I surely could find something wrong with him, but I choose not to.  Sometimes the irrational and demanding part of my brain tries to shout about the lightbulb that wasn't changed fast enough or the morning he finished my leftovers without asking.  At those times I remind myself that my expectations for having my leftovers for lunch are stupid.  The rational part of my brain reminds me that he got up early to bring me a special breakfast treat; time that could have been spent changing a lightbulb was instead spent doing something exceptionally sweet...for me.  Who cares about the lightbulb when you put it that way?

Friends, we must be careful, in this goal-oriented world, not to confuse our goals with our expectations.  I should not have expected to buy a nice house and have a happy family, it should've been my goal.  That means I had to work for it.  Nothing falls into our laps in this world, nothing.  What we can expect in life is to hit bumps along the road to achieving our goals.  We cannot expect our goals to happen as if by magic.  Strive to find understanding with our significant others, strive to see eachother's perspectives.  Work hard as parents, teach the children the art of comprimise; maybe the Barbies could be giants from Narnia that snuck out of the wardrobe to wreak havok on Earth. Keep trying the burgers, one day the recipe might be a success and make everyone at the table happy.

Our relationships are ever changing and growing. Our lifestyles evolve over time. And our quinoa blackbean burgers are ever a work in progress. If we keep these things in mind, our fiendish expectations may not hurt so much when they don't come to pass. If we keep these things in mind we may just recognize the happiness that was there all along.

Finding Balance in the Midst of Chaos

I teach high school students.  They can be a rough crowd by nature.  Their everyday gruff exteriors can pack a punch on the mental stability of your average high school teacher.  They have just about the worst diets imaginable, are burdned with baggage that would make you cringe or cry, and have all the hormonal angst you and I remember from the days of our own potentially crippling teenager-ness. Yet, for some reason, I trusted the independent study Autos students to work on my brakes today. 

One of the brightest stars of my career is toiling away, as I type, trying desperately to get the job done perfectly.  He will be mortified if something isn't just perfect.  While I wait, wheeless, I opted for a run around the lake on the property next door.  I would usually be on my way home, but motorless as I am it seemed like the perfect thing to do with my time.  A mid day workout? Unheard of. 

The air is clean, the sun is bright, and the lake is glistening as the tiny waves ripple like sparkling diamonds.  It was the perfect chance to clear my mind before picking up the kids.  It is the perfect way to recharge from a stressful morning.  It was a serene moment to myself, the kind that happens all too rarely.  It was the kind of moment that made me start to think.  Uh oh. 

I got to thinking about the fact that moments like I just had are rare, but why? All teachers have planning periods.  We usually use one for lunch, and the other to plan, grade, or organize.  We tell ourselves it is our time to get our things together so we can face the rest of the day.  But in reality, there is no break, there is no downtime...at least not for many.  I remember how my first few years of teaching came with the unwritten rule that eating at your desk was the way to self-fulfilment; that by pouring yourself into your job you would become the best teacher you could be.  In recent years I have come to feel differently. 

After I finished my run today, just a quick 20 minute workout, I felt rejuvinated.  I felt that if I had to work a longer day I could.  The time I spent oxygenating my muscles and centering my mind was the time I might have once used to 'get something done'.  By choosing more desk time, I was always choosing more stress, more anxiety, and more baggage. 

The husband often uses his lunch break as a time to go to the driving range, something that seems quite foreign to me. The idea of LEAVING the premises during the workday? It seems almost like breaking the rules.  I mean, how could I regularly excercise during the workday, even with the time desginated as my own?  I would finish the day sweaty and unkept.  How unprofessional would that be?

My answer to myself?  Very professional.  It would be the ideal way to show our students, many consumed by countless hours of video gaming and some who believe high fructose corn syrup is naturally occuring in all fruit (yes I really did have MANY students tell me that this year), that  healthy and successful adults do more than just work every second of the day. That part of what makes us successful is our ability to manage our time and the constant strive to maintain our own mental balance; neither of which is truly possible without dedicating time to living a healthy life (diet and excercise included). 

When my wheels were returned to me, my student asked why I had changed clothes.  "I went for a run", I told him.  "A run? Here?" he replied.  Yes, a run...here.  And I felt like a new and better person for it.

Going Public and The Best Cream of Broccoli Soup

So I know this very successful blogger.  She's savvy, snarky, and so very artistic she makes my head spin.  She has a keen eye for party planning, is an amazing organizer of fantastically fancy dining events, and is sometimes showcased as a sparkling TV personality. For all those many reasons I was terrified to share my tiny little blog with her.  What if I have a typo? (I am certain I do.) What if I sound stupid? (I really try not to.) What if, in all her infinite blogging wisdom, she finds my little endeavor lame? Then last night it hit me: she'd point out my weak spots, pat me on the back for the good stuff, and give suggestions to make it better. 

I'm not sure I would've come out and shared the link on my own, without any prodding. But after sharing a Facebook status about the best Cream of Broccoli Soup I've had in years (ok, the only Cream of Broccoli Soup I've had in years), my blogging guru friend gave me the kick I needed..."Would you just start a blog already?" she asked. Without that question, I'm not sure I could've or would've shared.  Up until last night, this little piece of me has been doled out to a few friends here and there.  I shared with some family, but even that was done after many months of pining, of struggling with the thoughts that "they may laugh, they may think this is stupid".  With the urging from an idol, I bit the bullet and posted a link to this blog filled with whatever errors may exist. Then I watched neurotically as my 'pageviews' count increased. I didn't know who read my thoughts, I didn't know their opinions, and I was terrified by that fact.

Turns out I am the sensitive type, ever fearful of rejection or condemnation or anything that resembles failure.  Over the years I've worked hard to conquer that character flaw and last night I gave myself one more kick in the ass to say, "get over it already, you're a grown woman with nothing to lose!" So now this blog has been viewed by many friends, maybe they'll share with many more- maybe not.  What really matters is that I put myself out there in a way I couldn't have a year ago, 6 months ago, or even 6 days ago. 

So, thanks be to Jen Luby, diva of party design, master of fashion and wit...this Cream of Broccoli Soup is for you.

Best Cream of Broccoli Soup

1 medium onion, (I used white)

1/3 cup green onions

1 medium carrot
1 clove garlic (unless you LOVE more)
2 teaspoons thyme

3 cups Yukon Gold potatoes

8 cups Vegetable Stock
1 cup water
1/3 cup nutritional yeast (completely delicious!)
4 cups broccoli florets

salt and pepper to taste

Chop and combine both types of onions, carrots, and garlic.  Sauté, using just enough water to keep from sticking, until onions become translucent.  Add thyme and chopped potatoes (I cut them into small cubes so they will cook more quickly) and sauté another minute or two.  Stir in vegetable stock and water.  Add nutritional yeast (this will give your soup a great salty/smokey/cheesy flavor and provide you with tons of vitamin B-12). Bring the pot to a boil, then add broccoli.  Cook until the potatoes are soft.  Using an immersion blender, blend until smooth- or whatever consistency you prefer.

*The basis of this recipe came from Forks Over Knives: The Cookbook. It did not have many of the ingredients that my version does, but the recipe from that book did look fantastic also.  If you've never looked into that cookbook, I highly recommend doing so.  Also, check out their website on maintaining a 'whole-foods, plant-based diet"

Goodbye

A very large reason I write this blog is to air my feelings and get them out of the way.  It seems like a good venue to say what I think; it's fairly anonymous, I try to be constructive, and most of what I'm thinking turns out with a happy ending for myself and a tasty recipe for you.  So imagine how frumpy I feel that two of my last three posts have dealt with death, aging, and the downsides of change.  Usually, I am struck by some amazing dietary discovery or awed at the power of maternal relationships, perhaps wowed by some newly published peice of genius.  Recently though, I've been overcome by the effect one little dog had on my life.  I'd like to be able to leave it at my last post, one of my final thoughts being that 'he would love me fiercely until his end'...but I can't.  I feel like I owe him more than that.  I feel like I owe him one last goodbye in a very public way.  Right here.  Right now. 

My family and I said goodbye to my long time friend on Thursday, February 28.  The previous evening, my husband and I had made the decision to call the in-home euthanist, we would have her conduct the procedure on Friday.  However, the night of February 27 was a terrible one for the little guy.  He couldn't lay down without coughing.  He couldn't jump on the bed.  He couldn't stand without gagging.  Everyone told me I would know when it was time and no more than 30 minutes into our regular bedtime routine, I did. We made it through the night before I said it to the husband, "if she can come today, I think we should have her come.  Tomorrow is too long for him." And just like that, the end was scheduled.  Scheduling the moment your loved one will die; when it's put like that it sounds barbaric.  In reality, it was anything but. 

I arranged for my dear friend, Megan, to take the girls to dance class.  I didn't believe they needed to watch him pass away.  They needed to hear what was going to happen, to understand he wouldn't be there when they came home, and to hug him one last time- to say goodbye.  Understandably, it was a rough day for them at school and the ride home was filled with tears.  I explained why I wouldn't be taking them to dance and that 'Momo', as she's been known since their birth, really wanted to be part of their day and help us out.  They understood that much.  They hugged Sparty one last time, scratched his ears, and told him they loved him before they headed out the door- keeping the rest of their day as normal as possible.

Nancy, anesthesioligist by morning- in home euthanist by afternoon; she promised to make our needs work with her schedule and arrived at our home at 3:30pm on the dot.  What a human being, to be able to do this work everyday.  She remembered him from the vet's office, she shared in our heartbreak, and she explained how things would proceed. We would hold him in a blanket, scratch his ears, and she would adminster a sedative to help him relax, help him not be afraid. She would wait outside for about 10 minutes; we would have the time to say goodbye. He would have time for the sedative to go to work and then it would happen.  She would administer the chemical that would end his pain and suffering, that would end our time with him.   It would take about one minute and he would be free to run and jump once more. Of all the woulds that were about to happen, I kept telling myself that jumping and running were the woulds that really mattered.

Since being diagnosed with cancer, Sparty did not enjoy being held like he used to.  There was a time when he would eagerly jump, literally, into our open arms.  That hadn't happened in quite some time.  Even picking him up to place him gently on the bed caused him discomfort and he often shied away, until he realized he couldn't do it on his own.  But this time, when I came for him with one of his favorite fleece blankets he stood patiently, looking at me with those chocolate brown eyes filled with love and understanding.  I almost felt he was inviting me to help him, to carry him through just a few more moments while wrapped in my embrace. He didn't squirm when we sat down.  He got up once after the sedative, he appeared to feel he was going to throw up- which Nancy said was common.  But he was almost eager to settle into my arms once more and didn't leave me again until Nancy carried him out the door.

I remember holding him.  I remember Nancy taking him from me. I remember one last look in his eyes. And then I was doubled over, hanging off the couch, screaming.  The husband, Kevin, must have let Nancy out and then returned to pull me into a hug.  We sat and hugged and cried and remembered.  

I've never been able to completely wrap my mind around death.  One day, your love is here and you are happy.  The next day, there is a massive and gaping whole in your heart and soul- your loved one never again to be seen on this side of heaven's doors.  It makes so little sense. 

In the time since Sparty's passing, his ashes have been returned; we will bury him under the tree where he used to bark at the birds.  The girls asked that we plant some blue flowers for him on his birthday, which is their birthday as well.  They feel that blue was probably his favorite color and that he might just like some new flowers in our garden. We also learned that his third litter-mate, Brady- a beautiful blue IG, is currently in kidney failure.  Brady still lives in Michigan with the breeders, Dick and Marilyn and we've remained quite close over the years. For them, there has been too much loss in so little time. Fortunately, we have the souls of 6 year olds living under our roof to help shed light on what's really happening. 

When discussion turned to Brady's untimely health problems, Izzy proudly proclaimed with a big toothless smile, "Well, at least Sparty will be in heaven so they can play together!" And I thought, That's it! Yes- Sparty is there waiting for his brother...what a beautiful way to see it.  So there it is, an explanation for the eternal mystery.  Maybe death isn't so hard to understand after all, maybe it's just one of us going ahead to wait for another that we love. And with that, I wiped one more tear.  But this time, it was a tear that saw the beauty only my child could show me. My comfort and clarity is found and tomorrow will be that much easier than today. 

So goodbye my dear friend, my best buddy, my fuzzy little guy.  Thank you for bringing me comfort, may you bring that same joy to another as you wait for me on the other side.

Change

I have a few talents, as I mentioned elsewhere in the archives.  Change?  It's not one of them.  It's different, it's unknown, it makes me cold.  Not the kind of cold that leaves you comforted by a warm blanket, the kind of cold that leaves you chilly in your soul.  I can change my hair color without missing a beat, I can change my mind about what to eat for dinner, I can even change the book I'm reading if I don't find it satisfying.  It's major life changes I don't really like, cringe when I see them coming, and am never really sure how to prepare for.

I've already written about how sick my little Sparty is right now.  He did really well for a few weeks, but last night things changed.  It was hard for him to jump on the couch, hard for him to get comfortable laying down, everything was just a little off.  I'm not going to kid myself.  I know a major change is headed our way and my eyes are opened wide enough to know that this change is coming quickly- maybe even light speed quickly. I've known for a while it would happen, that my cuddly little guy is slowly slipping away. I thought I was prepared, turns out I'm not. 

Watching him fade makes me realize how fleeting every moment is.  I remember watching soap operas when I was a teen, anyone else remember the lines: "Like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives"? As I write this now, I see the hour glass of my life and the sand tumbling all too quickly through.  For eleven years I have lived in this home, a fantastic friend and neighbor, only steps away.  For ten years I have lived in this home, two little dogs following me room to room.  For six years I have lived in this home, the sounds of little footsteps padding through the hallways.

The fantastic friend and neighbor is moving tomorrow, I am saddened to see her go. One of my little dogs approaches the end of his life, I am melancholy for my immenint loss.  The little footsteps that once padded through the halls are not so little anymore, they get bigger every day. 

I wouldn't change any of these moments for any amount of money.  But, being the uber sensitive gal that I am, they all play a number on me when the moment slips away.  I see the grains of sand as my moments in time and see them slipping through, escaping the bottleneck, and landing atop the other precious life memories who made me who I am.  Even if I could put a stopper in the hourglass, stop time from moving forward, I know the sands of time must keep moving.  If anything, as I've aged I've learned to relish the moments as we live them.  I may not sound like I'm doing much relishing today, but I'm trying to make a point to remember why I loved each of those major landmarks in my life...

For eleven years in this home, I grew a friendship that has been extremely important to myself and my children.  I didn't know it when my neighbor moved in, but she was going to help me through a few very trying moments.  She was a shining beacon when I was having difficulty becoming pregnant; pep talks, spirit bossts, hand holding- she did it.  When my kids were born and grew, our kids became almost inseperable.  Through countless conversations at one or the other's kitchen table, she inspired me as a parent and gifted me with her friendship. What a gift.  I knew it then, I know it now.

For eleven years in this home, I was followed from room to room by two of the most loving little dogs I could imagine.  They loved me when I didn't always love myself, they comforted me when my dreams of having a child were only that - dreams, they have looked at me with a warmth most people can't muster.  Every challenge I've faced over the last ten years was faced, not only with a loving husband and family to talk me through, but with the wordless love and gestures only a dog could offer- gestures that soothed my heart and soul. Could I ask for anything more? I'm not prepared to lose one of the pups, but I am content in knowing that he will love me fiercly until the very end.

For six years, I have listened to the sounds of childhood and heard those sounds age each day.  As I write this now, I hear raucos shouts and squeals of joy, and size thirteen feet running through the upstairs hallway.  If I could freeze my girls for a moment in time, I wouldn't.  Even though I get misty eyed (ok, maybe waterfall eyed, rainstorm eyed, terrential downpour eyed) at the thought of them growing up and beginning their own lives, I cherish every day of the process. What a contradiction I am.  Despise change and love it all at the same time?  It is ebery moment of their six years of life that make me adore them more every day, and it is in their growing that I am getting the most satisfaction.  They are growing.  They are GROWING!  They are not helpless little babies.  They are people who can tie their own shoes, brush their own teeth, and read their own books.  My girls, who will forever be 'babies in my heart' (as I tell them all the time) are smart and capable and amazing.  Isn't that whay every mother wants?

Stopper the hourglass? No. At first it sounds like a great idea, but the next great moment of life would never come if the sands stopped moving.  I know there are people and events and moments yet to be encountered that could change my life just as drastically as those I've mentioned in this note.  I just have to be willing to let the sands flow, keep my eyes open for the new possibilities, and await the days of my life that are yet to come.