Love Means Never Saying "I'm Sorry"

Of all the Hallmark card sayings, the empty expressions, the meaningless phrases I’ve ever heard, this one is probably the biggest crock.

My husband and I have been together for almost a decade.  I say I’m sorry all the time!  I am constantly making mistakes; contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, perfect.  I mess up, I apologize, and I try to learn from my errors.  I am also a mother of a toddler who watches everything I do now, so I am trying to be a role model.  I want the people who are brave enough to love me, and those who do not really have a choice, to want to be around me, to continue to love me.  So I humble myself, I think about what I’ve done, I apologize, and I hope to fix it, make it up, heal the wounds I have caused.

I have not always been this way.  I used to throw plates, and cut with my words.  When I was much younger, I would use my extensive vocabulary and skill with language to make people feel low, to hurt as deeply as I could.  Why?  Because I was wounded myself, I suppose, and misery loves company.  I have looked back on the damage I have caused, at the casualties I have left behind, and I feel sorry.  I have regrets, and for the people still in my life, strong enough to have stuck it out, I hope I have apologized enough, in enough ways, to move forward without looking back.  For those no longer in my life, I hope the hurt I have brought has not led to further hurting.

I am sorry.  I do have regrets.  Another ridiculous expression:  “Live life with no regrets.”

Really?  If you could go back and accidentally hit that person with your car, you would do it all again?  If you could ignore your children while you catered to your own selfish needs, you would still sit watching that program on television while your daughter begged you to have a tea party with her, still do those drugs, still push those babies away?  You wouldn’t fight harder to go to college?  Pay more attention in class?  Hold your loved ones closer?  Tell them you love them more often?  Say I’m sorry quicker?

I would. 

But we cannot go back.  What we can do is move forward, acknowledging our mistakes, and trying to make them better.  We can hold our loved ones now.  Tell them we love them now.  And say we’re sorry when we hurt them.  For we will hurt them, no matter how hard we try not to. 

I swear it seems like as soon as I learn from one mistake, I make a new one.

And there is a clear difference between the “yea yea, I’m sorry” that you give a sibling or friend when you are younger and your parents make you apologize (or when you are older and you still act like you are younger), and the genuine regret you show when you actually feel it.

We all know the difference, both the givers and the receivers, so the false apologizers know what they’re doing when they say “what? I said I was sorry.”  Or worse, “well, I don’t always want to be saying I’m sorry, because I know I’m going to mess up again, and it’s going to start sounding meaningless.”

What?  No.  You say you’re sorry when you mess up.  Period.

Unless you are not, in fact, sorry.

In which case, I am.

I Am Not Black

I know.  I know.  Yet another shocking confession.

But this is an issue I have been thinking about, pondering on, mulling over in my mind for years and years.  And years.  The older I get, the more I learn, the more I experience, the louder the beat of this particular drum becomes in my writer's mind.

I grew up in a neighborhood and went to schools in the San Francisco Bay Area that were predominantly white, black, and hispanic.  The white people in our area were mostly middle class and I just never fit in with them; the white girls from my elementary school went on to become cheerleaders and wear pale pink cardigans in high school while my parents could barely afford to buy me one pair of shoes from Mervyn's a school year, much less pay for cheerleading fees. The hispanic girls hated me; they pulled my hair as I walked down the halls of my middle school and ridiculed me for my beat up shoes and hand-me-down sweaters.  Black people took me in.  I'm not really sure why.  For all intents and purposes, I was the ultimate enemy.  I dated black boys and represented everything that black girls supposedly hated, a white girl taking one of their men.  That's what the movies tell you.  But I hadn't seen any of those movies yet, and I just knew that I felt at home with the black kids at school and in their homes after school.  

Once, when the Chicana girls at school came after me, my girlfriends surrounded me, forming an outward facing circle around a dirty, low-class, white girl with no other friends and a sure beating in my future if not for their help.  Later that year, those same would be attackers beat another girl so badly that she needed stitches in her vagina from repeated kicks to that area while she was lying on the ground already knocked out senseless.  Right after school.  Right off campus.  

My best friend in middle school took me home one night to stay over.  She had an older brother and a single mother, and they treated me like just another of her friends.  I had a crush on another boy who lived in the same apartment complex, Mondo, who had been flirting with me at school.  Finally, away from I home, I had the freedom to take a walk with this boy, and after wandering for a few moments, just the two of us, we snuck behind some bushes in the complex and began kissing.  I was thirteen.  Kissing was all I had ever done and all I had ever planned to do.  Mondo had different ideas.  He quickly shoved his hand down my pants and before I knew what was happening he had his penis out and rubbing against me.  I freaked out.  I tried to end this encounter, but he grabbed me, pushed me against the wall, and held me there.  Fortunately, it was early evening and we were in a fairly public place.  Someone walked by, I yelled out and broke away.  

When I got back to my friend's house I told her and her mother what had happened.  I wanted to call the police.  I was terrified.  I had been violated.  

At that point, the mother gave me a lesson in white humility.  No, I would not be another "white girl victim of big black brute."  I do not remember exactly what she said to me, but my experience with this strong black woman relating to me the impact of my own actions as a soon to be white woman stuck with me much more than the scary moment behind the bush with the violent boy.

Mondo went on to impregnate another white girl a year later and then beat her up at school when he found out she was pregnant, throwing her to the ground and kicking her in the stomach repeatedly to ensure abortion of her fetus.  

I realize now, years later, that some see his crime as typical of an "angry black man."  For me, it was simply an atrocious act carried out by a horrible person.  My perspective was probably due to the fact that most of my filter was through black friends.  "Can you believe he did that?"  "Stupid white girl."  "Yep, he's gonna be in and out of jail for the rest of his life."  

I was Diggy in Save the Last Dance, the one white girl in a sea of black faces.  "Oh, that's Diggy.  She thinks she's down."  And Diggy responds, "please, I am down."  Yea, that was me.

I did.  When I was in high school, and even beyond.  I thought I was bad.  I would raise my eyebrows and say things like, "I wish you would!"  "I wish he would!"  I picked fights because I was so hard.  Sometimes my little sister would say things to me like, "you think you're black," or "you wish you were black."

No.  I do not remember ever wishing I was black.  But I do remember liking black people a lot more than white people.  I knew there was a war going on, however discreet, however insidious, and I knew which side I was on.  It wasn't the white side.  One of the great loves of my life was a black man who said to me once, "admit it, Shanna, you're racist."  

"What!?"  I distinctly remember this moment, sitting in his car, looking over at him in the driver seat, astounded.

"You hate white people."  And he laughed and laughed.

And I have to admit, at the time, it rang a little bit true.

But that was before college, before years of education and maturity, and working through generalizations and sweeping hatred.

My freshman year in high school, my English teacher let us write an essay on any autobiography we wanted.  I chose The Autobiography of Malcolm X.  Back then, I understood his hatred.  I understood the anger.  It was only after a long time, decades of life really, that I understood the matured point of view he adopted later in life.  When I was younger, I would have been that one white girl, "the little blonde coed," he talks about who walked up to him and asked how she could help his cause. 

In college, English majors had four options to choose from as emphases in our field.  I chose minority literature, "New Voices."  I studied Black Literature, Hispanic Literature, Native American Literature, and even, finally, found my way to Women's Literature.  But Black Literature, Black History, Black culture, have always been the subjects that rang the truest to me.  I found my love of Women's Literature, in fact, my way to feminism, through Black Literature.

Now, I am still that white girl walking up to Malcolm, but I respond to the answer he says he wishes he would have given her, to work from within the white community, to change minds and hearts within our own community.  I understand when he says that black people have to head their own communities, lead their own people, to the exclusion of white people in many cases, because of the deep seated psychological superiority/inferiority complex within us all that has been actively at work for centuries.  I recognize I have power in society as a simple matter of being born white.  I do not apologize for being white, and I think the idea that anyone does is simply ridiculous.  I see these websites and articles entitled "never apologize for being white" and shake my head.  

Right, we are overrun with people apologizing to black people for being white.  That is the big problem we face in society today.

The truth is that I do not really have any black friends today.  My friends are mostly white, hispanic, and Iranian.  This reality is one that at times shocks me, considering my youthful days, and also one that saddens me.  I want my daughter in school with people from all backgrounds.  I want her to feel part of a world full of color, not like the brown girl in a sea of white faces.

I realized right before Christmas that all of her dolls and figurines are white.  

"Ahhhhh!!!  She needs black dolls!  She needs brown Little People!"  

"Honey, she's twenty one months old.  We have time to get her more dolls."  My husband, ever the voice of reason.

Many things have come up recently that have made this blog post weigh heavily on my mind, and I still have not said all I want to say, nor am I even sure I have said what I want to say effectively.  

The Duck Dynasty "scandal" was one thing.  How a man can go on record and say that black people were happier before civil rights, that he knows this to be true because he worked side by side with them in the cotton fields, and they never complained is beyond me.  In fact, he says, they sang happy songs. 

Really?  A white man with an audience of millions teaching other white people that black people were so much happier "before welfare and other entitlements," is a detriment to society.

The other big thing that has stuck in my craw as the white girl fighting against racism from within my own community is the Black Girl Dangerous article on Beyonce's latest album.  I was with Mia McKenzie all the way through her article on Black feminism versus White feminism, mysogyny, hypocrisy, and unity, until the very end, when she says:

"One of my favorite scenes in all of Beyonce’s new videos is in “Partition” when she drops that napkin just so that white woman has to pick it up. I read it as an incredible moment wherein a powerful black woman flips the script on white women who are constantly trying to put her in “her place” and in one subtle movement puts them in theirs."

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mia.  Really?

So, here we have Malcolm in his younger days then, ready to respond to me, "nothing," when I ask what it is I can do.  

If the point is to "flip the script" and put white women in our place, then what?  White people's place is to pick up the droppings of black people?  To now be inferior to black people?  To further the dichotomy, the segregation, the hierarchical structure, just inverted?  And then what?  Then after a few hundred years of that arrangement, whites will say, "okay, now we're even."  Or the "script" will be flipped once again, after years of bitter resentment and white people will once again subjugate black people, and the cycle will continue.  

I have this same issue with women claiming superiority over men.

Working toward equality does not allow for racial superiority or gender superiority of any sort.  

I am not black.  I cannot ever empathize with the struggles, with driving while black, shopping while black, living while black.  I can only sympathize, listen, read, observe, and work from within my own community.  

I teach my students about black history.  I buy my daughter books with children of color, dolls with different skin color.  I take her to my city parks where she will encounter children of all colors.  And, yes, I do hope to befriend mothers of color along the way.  Because I think our experience on earth is enriched by our differences, not by our similarities.  I learn more from people different from me than from those similar to me.  I learn from people who challenge my beliefs.  

And while I know that regardless of what I say, how carefully I choose my words, there will still be people out there who would read this and say "she's white.  She can never understand."

Fine.  But in my attempt to get there, closer to understanding, further in my fight towards equality, I will listen to Malcolm.  Not Mia.

I know my place.

Christmas

Ultimately, it is about family.  Isn’t it?

And family means all sorts of things to all sorts of people.

To me, family means choices.

Today, I choose not to fight.  I choose not to pick this battle or that one.  I choose to let go.  I choose to love and laugh even if deep down I want to yell and complain.  I choose to breathe in family, to remember how grateful I am for their presence in my life, however limited or overwhelming it may be, depending on the day. 

This Christmas has been a different one for me than any other Christmas, and I do think it has most to do with my immediate family:  my husband, my brother, and my daughter.

My husband is my rock.  He is home.  After eight years together I can say that wherever he is, home is.  So this year, after all this time, I feel like I am home for Christmas because we are together.  My thirty sixth Christmas is the first Christmas I have celebrated in my own house, and felt like I was having Christmas at home.  He heals my wounds, he keeps me steady, he shows me that life is meant to be lived to its fullest, and that you can always come home at the end of the day to recover and begin again.

My brother is my reason.  Whenever I begin to feel irrational about things, I think of what I must look like through his eyes, and it calms me down (mostly).  He is the advocate of the underdog, the savior of the picked upon, the shoe’s on the other foot guy.  Usually I do not even have to hear his thoughts on an issue, I know what he will say, and I bounce my ideas off that.  He reminds me that life is not pure emotion, and that the world does not revolve around me and mine.  His logic brings home that after all, it really is about the ones we love, and that we should love better, without exception.

My daughter is my sunshine.  I cannot be sad long when she looks me in the eyes, grabs my face in both of her tiny, pudgy hands, and says, oh so seriously, “Baby have more cookie.  One more.  Last time.”  She holds her finger up, shaking it up and down, to emphasize the point.  Watching her see the tree with presents under it for the first time, letting her open each present in her own time, which ended up stretching out her present joy for hours, letting her eat cookies for breakfast, cheerios and yogurt melts right before dinner, giving her her own little mug of milk next to her mama’s and papa’s mugs of coffee in the morning, letting her walk next to her stroller instead of sitting inside of it for some of our walk, all of these allowances and tiny pleasures took us out of our usual rigid routine and schedule and made today a real celebratory holiday.  She had a day full of sunshine, so I did as well.

I am not religious.  At this point I do not think I ever will be.  But I believe Jesus lived.  I believed he had a message full of hope, love, acceptance, tolerance, and yes, activism for the poor, the weak, the downtrodden.  Jesus is a hero of mine.  I have admired him for years.  God?  I remain agnostic on that point.  Awesome?  Absolutely.  White?  Absolutely not. (oh, wait, that’s another post)

In the end, this Christmas has been the best Christmas I have ever had.  Because I see the message of Jesus in my husband, in my brother, and in my daughter.  And I ask myself, what would Carlos do?  What would Teno do?  What would Celaya do?

Live fully.  Love hard.  Laugh loud.  That’s what.  And so I will as well.

Writers Gotta Write

Yes, we do.

But we also have to not die.  At least until we are published.

I have not blogged in ten days, and it has been a difficult ten days.  Writing is constantly on my mind.  I am always writing.  In fact, before I went on my hiatus from writing I had at least four separate blogs running through mind at different times, sometimes blending, separating, blending separating, like entwined branches of a twisted old tree.  Katy Perry's lyrics will spark a topic in my mind and I will not be able to stop myself from writing in my head.  When I was in college, I would write while doing the dishes, laundry, dusting, while I was out running, or driving to school or work.  I can see the words unfolding on the page.  I imagine the delete key, backing up, nope, can't say that, uh uh, don't really mean that, and so on until I finally get in front of the keyboard and begin spilling my thoughts onto the page.

The problem is that in my life now, it can be a great distance from my mind to the keyboard.  In terms of immediate need, Baby takes top priority, then Work, then Self, then Husband, then Brother.  And by immediate need I mean that Celaya will not sit idly by while I write; I cannot write from work; I cannot write unless I know I'll sleep at least 6 hours that night (I typically write at night); Carlos deserves my attention; and by the time Teno comes out to talk to me about whatever show he is watching, or insist that we finally watch The Conjuring after weeks of him waiting, I simply cannot turn him away so that I can write.

When my life is normal, I have no problem saying, "no, I have to write."

But life has not been normal lately.  My perfect balance has been pushed to its limits and it has taken everything I have as a thirty five year old woman well versed in what happens when life loses its balance to maintain my balance.

So I've slept.  I've spent time with my husband.  I've walked-wandered-strolled-stopped to look at butterflies with my toddler.  We all finally sat down to watch The Conjuring.  All of my Christmas shopping is done (see upcoming blog on Christmas).  In short, I have worked on getting firmly back to the Woman Wife Mama place I am so hell bent on occupying.

And I have returned to the keyboard, to talk about the very thing I have been missing so much:  writing, and why I have been missing it.

One thing I have heard much from other writers, and something I have noticed myself often, is that good writing comes from loads of reading.  So while I have not had time to sit down and focus on writing at my desk, I have done a fair amount of reading in the last few weeks, all of which has given me food for additional thought.  The easiest thing to read in order to keep reading as a busy mother and wife who works is an article, essay, or blog.  A few days ago I happened to be having a conversation with a coworker on the essays of female fiction writers.  She was recommending a local author, Rebecca Solnit, whom I have not read (she is now on my list).  I was extolling the work of Jennifer Weiner, whom she has not read.

I remembered reading a book by women artists on turning 30 when I was 30 and thinking that one of my favorite essays was by Jennifer Weiner, an author I have loved since I happened across her book, Good In Bed.  I love her voice.  I love her activism.  I love her philosophy.  I was fortunate to have a free schedule in that moment and looked her up online, only to find an incredible piece on her website specifically for people looking to get published.  I have included her link below.

http://www.jenniferweiner.com/forwriters.htm

While I am certainly not looking to get published at this point, I do think about what I would write if I were to write a novel.  Fiction?  Fictionalized memoir?  Book of essays?  Fantasy with socio-political bent?

I am not sure, which is why I have dozens of beginnings to stories and essays saved on my laptop, but I have neither truly finished nor sent anything out.

What I do have is this blog, which is, to me, my lead in.  Here, I can work through ideas of all kinds to exercise my writing muscle, without stressing too much about perfection in terms of structure, development, and organization, all the while keeping those things in mind because I simply cannot help it.  Does this post have a clear purpose?  Does that post flow well from idea to idea?  Does the beginning wind appropriately through the middle and toward the end?  All of these critical questions are in my head as I type away, cut and paste, delete, and, ultimately, post.  Too many commas?  Probably.

Most of what Weiner says in her essay for writers I had either already heard, or already intuited, but again, I enjoy her writing; it is nice to be reminded of things like:

"a writer writes. If you're going to be a writer, nothing, not even a difficult major, can stop you. You'll write poems, you'll write stories, you'll begin a novel about suicide or bisexuality or a suicidal bisexual that will forever languish in a shoebox beneath your bed, but you will write. You'll do it in your spare minutes, you'll snatch time before work or eschew prime-time TV after. You'll think of stories while you're walking the dog or driving to work. You'll do it because it's your passion and your calling, because doing it makes you happier than almost anything else, because, really, you don't have any choice."

And she's right.  I have been writing for as long as I can remember.  I journaled when I was much younger.  I created entire books full of alternate versions of my own life so convincing, it would seem, that when my younger sister found one of my journals many years later packed away in my parents' garage, she went to my mother crying.  "Mom?  Is there something you want to tell me?"  She asked through tears.  You see, I had written an entire journal as a twin girl from Mexico who had been forced to lie about my identity, dye my hair from its natural black, wear contacts over my crystal blue eyes, and be separated from my twin.  My real name was, apparently, Christina.

I have always found ways to write, fiction, non fiction, poetry.  I love typing, writing in cursive, and simply thinking about what it is I want to write.  

But, in addition to not dying, writers also have to live.  Weiner includes in her tips for writers necessities like: troubled childhood.  Check.  Miserable love life.  Been there.  And, one that really struck me, get a dog.  Okay, not for a second would I compare my daughter to a dog.  But the intention is the same.  Weiner writes about having the time to think through your thoughts as you walk your dog, and honestly, life with my dawdling toddler usually gives me a ton of time to think.  She is admiring a tiny pebble stuck in mud, and for much of the time I am admiring her admiration of this awesome object in a new situation she has never encountered before in her twenty one months on earth.  But I am also picturing words, thinking through ideas, scrapping bad ones, and so on.  

I need the moments with my daughter, the shopping excursions in San Francisco, the trips uphill to the park, the late night movie fests, to be alive as a person and do things worthy of writing about as well as to have time to reflect on the life I have lived, am living.  

Reflection.  That is probably the most important piece missing when I do not write.  Time for refection. I have been living.  I have been sleeping.  I have had no concentrated time to reflect.  Because I felt as though I had been missing valuable moments of Celaya's life in my five week crazy hustle bustle schedule, I hyperfocused on her admiration of the pebble.  I made sure to look her in the eyes more often, to listen to her words more intently, to wait through her stuttering little voice until she found the write words so her own communication could blossom.  I poured myself into my home and my family in an attempt to make up for having been gone the extra time. 

And I have, I believe made up.  After almost two weeks of radio silence from Shanna As Writer, I am here, writing once again.

I am not an avid fan of poetry, more of a distant, fondly appreciative relative, but William Wordsworth's words on reflection have stuck with me over the years since I first read them in college:

". . . Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings:  it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility:  the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquility gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.  In this mood successful composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on . . . the mind will upon the whole be in a state of enjoyment."  ("Emotion Recollected in Tranquility")

You have powerful feelings about something that originates in your ability to have calmly reflected upon it (Katy Perry, anyone?).  You continue to reflect on those feelings until the calm transforms into contemplation.  From contemplation you begin to write.

If I am not writing, if you are missing my blog (as I most surely am) it is because one of those key ingredients is missing from the recipe for writing well.

And I will either write well, or not at all.

At least not that anyone can read.

Inappropriate Language

"Tell Uncle, 'Bullshit'."

"Bullshit."

"I can't believe you just told your kid to say bullshit."

"Well, she's gotta learn when to call bullshit."

This exchange took place a few weeks ago between my brother and me, and, obviously, my 20 month old non-stop-talking daughter.

I do not regret teaching her to say "bullshit."  It was appropriate at the time.  Teno was unloading some serious BS on me, and we called him on it, my toddler and me.  It is something I would say in the situation, and I do not plan on raising my daughter in the do as I say and not as I do fashion.

I do not have a problem with curse words.  They have their place.  "Shit" is my most frequently used curse word, but, to be completely frank, when I am very angry, I will employ "fuck."

Yep, it has happened in front of my daughter, and yes, you guessed correctly, she repeated right after me.

What did I do?  Nothing.  What could I do?  I moved on.  She doesn't walk around the house cursing, she has never randomly repeated those words.  She picked up on a moment.  She engaged in the conversation.  There is only pride to be found in her engagement with language.  As she grows, I will teach her the appropriate use of those words.  Not that they are taboo, or evil, or punishable, only that there is a time and a place.

I remember once when my sister was a teenager and her father was railing at her for some slight.  He was being relentless, pushing at her, allowing his infamous temper to spill out onto her.  At one point, she got up from the table they were sitting at and said, "you're an asshole!" and stormed off to her room.  Of course, as is typical in these situations, a huge fight ensued, and the focus of the conflict centered on her calling her father an asshole.

This shift of focus is a problem for me.  He was, in fact, being an asshole.  Did he look at himself for one moment and ask himself if her estimation of him was correct?  No, of course not.  As Mathilda's father says, "You're small; I'm big.  You're weak; I'm strong.  You're stupid; I'm smart."  Kids are taught to behave as their parents tell them to.

Unfortunately for many parents, what kids actually learn about life comes from what they observe, not from what they are commanded.

Language is not bad or good; it is simply all too often used incorrectly.

While I will not teach my daughter to never say "shit" until her eighteenth birthday (at which point she must move out, take full responsibility for herself, get a job, find some place to live, and oh yea, get an education, and otherwise do whatever she wants, except drink an alcoholic beverage), what I will teach her is not to say she is sorry if she is not.  I want her not to say "I love you," if she doesn't.  I will teach her to think before she speaks (goddess knows it took me years of foot-in-the-mouth disease to figure that one out).  If she says she will be somewhere, or do something, then she should do it.  I want my daughter to learn about the importance of words.

Words mean something.  They have power.

When I get really angry with my husband I will tell him:  "I hate you!  I don't really hate you, but god I just hate you right now!  I don't hate you.  Ugh!"

Call me Sybil.

But I need to say those words sometimes because it is the only way I can express just how angry I am.  They are the only words I have for that level of frustration and rage.  I am trying to hold it together, not to throw a temper tantrum (like the much younger Shanna would have), and I push those words at him. But because I am more mature now, because I understand the full import of words, especially those ones, especially in a marriage, I have to include my disclaimer.

I have found myself often wishing I could grab the words out of the air as they are coming out of my mouth, racing toward my intended victim, and eat and swallow those words back up.

Too late.  The damage has been done.  And it seems it takes a thousand more words of making up to ameliorate the few angry ones, the hurtful ones.

In addition to not saying things she doesn't mean, I want my daughter to learn from me to say things that must be said, even when it is difficult to say, and probably difficult to hear.

My student's often come to see me without having done the homework I have assigned.

"So, do you not care how you perform on the test then?"  I'll ask.

Many of my students do not know how to respond to this.

"Um, yea I do," is a common response.

"Then why are you not making the practice a priority?"

"Because I don't have time.  I'm busy.  I have a ton of homework at school."

"Then maybe you should not be taking the test right now."

"I have to.  My parents are making me.  This is my last chance."

"Well then, suck it up, do the work, and celebrate when it's over.  It's a few weeks of your life, and once you take the test, it will all be behind you, and you'll be glad you made the time.  Or don't.  Don't do the work.  Don't invest the time.  Go in, do the best you can, and don't worry about it.  But do not, I am telling you, do not lament the fact that you didn't do well, that now you can't get into that school you really wanted to get into.  Life is a series of choices, and this one is yours to make, now."

I have given a version of this speech so many times and in so many different scenarios over the last several years that it is starting to feel rote.  But I think it works.  I think it works because my students typically do well, typically try harder, and typically come back for more abuse.  I have a reputation for being a tough tutor and teacher.   But more importantly, the words work because I mean them.  I mean them with every fiber of my being.  I speak from a place of experience and of genuine interest in my students' success.  My words are true.  They hit home.  One of my students said to me the other day, "I like all the tutors here.  Everyone is great.  But you are my favorite.  You don't bullshit me."   

As to your nagging question about what I am going to do when Celaya gets to school and starts calling her classmates and her teachers on all their bullshit?

I'm thinking of homeschooling.

People Suck

I actually do not believe that, not even on the rare occasions when I say it.

But sometimes I do just have to say it.

People do disappoint me sometimes though.

I have recently been writing about how paranoid I get about my daughter's well-being, about the overall goodness of people, and about my need to control everything.

Life slapped me in the face with a big wake up call today.

My bike was stolen from the BART station.

My daughter came down with a cold a few days ago, and I seem to have picked it up from her (thanks, baby).  I was thinking I would wait for my brother to come home from work with his truck so I could drive to work.  I had woken up this morning with an aching sore throat and a runny nose before sending him a text message about using his car.  And I know that he was trying to make it happen, but I started feeling better, packed up my backpack, and headed off to work on my bike anyway.  I figured I could use the exercise and the fresh air.

My night at work was great.  I had a few in depth conversation about how I believe people are inherently good, that when someone is down, most people reach out to help.  In the bigger picture of life I have been helped out in small and large ways throughout my life, and I try to do the same.  I think most people are like that.  I even think that people we think of as "bad" have goodness in them that has just been buried deep and needs to be dug out.  Now, this generalization is not all encompassing.  Obviously truly evil people (like those who talk in the movie theater) are excepted from this inherent goodness brush I'm painting with.

So there I am, riding high on people's goodness, my coworker and I chatting about language acquisition and Christmas traditions as she drives me to the BART station.  I get out of her car, "see you tomorrow!  Thanks!"  I head over to the bike parking station... and nothing.  No bike.  No lock.  No trace of my bike ever even having been there.

I am, at first, dazed.  I know in the back of my head that my train will be arriving shortly.  I ticket myself back out of the BART station (the turnstile charged my ticket five dollars!) and notify the attending agent that my bike has been stolen.

"Huh, okay, you want me to call the BART police out to file a report?"

Thanks for the sympathy, man.

"No.  I have to catch my train."

"Okay," he says, handing me a brochure.  "They take the reports over the phone, too."

Great.

I head up to the platform call my husband and share this moment of trauma.

"Huh, that sucks," he responds, in a distracted voice.  "Do you want me to come get you?"

Really?!

I've been violated!  Someone stole from me!  It was your freaking bike Carlos!

These are all the things that go through my head, but instead I just say, "no, thanks.  I'll take a cab."

It is strange.  At this point, I am not feeling angry, or offended.  I'm sad.  I'm sad that someone was able to take something from me that I thought I had carefully protected, inside, in a safe place, with a big fat U lock.  I'm sad that no one seems to be surprised or moved by this major event that has just occurred.

It didn't ruin my day.  Sure, the bike cost over three hundred dollars, but in the grand scheme of things, it's three hundred dollars.  I have two other bikes at my disposal.  I know my brother and husband will help me with transportation when I need it.  The things that run through my head after all of this are not about revenge, or even recovery, they are about how healthy my daughter is, even with a cold.  I think of how fortunate I am to have people who love me.  I feel pure joy at the fact that I am not desperate.  I am a bike commuter by choice.  I am not without resources.  Even if I lost two more bikes in two more days, I could go out and buy another bike if I needed to (not a three hundred dollar one, of course).  I can still get to work.  I am still able bodied (and minded).  My mind does not linger on the thing I have lost, but how it does not even register on the scale against what I actually have.  

Then, I arrive at my hometown BART station, and there are no cabs outside.  I call the cab company to come get me:

"50 to 55 minutes," reports the dispatcher.

"What!?" I cannot disguise the shock and dismay in my voice.  "Forget it."

So, I call my husband again.

"Yes, I need you to come get me.  I'm going to start walking."

"What!"  He cannot disguise the shock and dismay in his voice.

"It's Castro Valley, on a main street.  I'll be fine.  I'll walk toward you."

So, there I was, walking briskly down the boulevard in 36 degree weather at 10:30 at night.

And the dispatcher from the BART police station calls me back.  I file my report.  He gives me the rundown:  "It's very rare to recover a stolen bike."

No shock there.

While I am on the phone with him, walking down the street, Carlos picks me up, I get in the car, my phone call is winding down, the officer gives me my report number and says, "I'm so sorry this happened to you."

I heard it in his voice.  He genuinely sympathized with me.  That is what I was looking for, something good in someone I did not know.  He felt bad for what I had been through.  People do not suck.

"Thank you," I respond.  I hang up the phone and think about connections, humanity, empathy.

I think about need, sacrifice, perspective.

I reflect on a FaceTime conversation I had had with  my mother earlier in the day, my daughter pulling my large, heavy, hardcover Harry Potter books off of the shelves and letting the spines "crack!" against the floor, only to lift them up to the shelf and go through it all again, "crack!"

"Celaya!  Don't throw mama's books on the ground!" I call to her from across the room, heading over to her with my iPhone in my hand.  "Can you believe this little toddler?  Look what your granddaughter is doing."  I say to my mom.

My mom gives me a look so typical of her, lips pressed together, quite matter of factly, and says, "that's why some people don't have children.  So they can have nice things."

"Ha."  I look back at her, with a look that I know is typical of me, smirking, eyebrows raised.  "I'd rather have no books."  Then watch as my daughter heads over to the christmas balls dangling from the tree branches, too shiny to resist.

And I know I would.  I would rather have no books, no bike, no jewels, no iPhone.  I'll take my healthy baby, my healthy family, over it all, no contest.

As we turn on to our street, Carlos downshifting to pull into our parking lot, he says to me, "Well, honey, obviously somebody needed that bike more than we did."

Yes.  Obviously.

Losing Control

One of the worst feelings for me has always been to not have control.

Here is a typical exchange between me and my husband:

Carlos:   Do you have to cook large meals every single night every single time you see your family, both at our house and at theirs?

Me:  Yes.

Carlos:  Why?

Me:  I don't know, that's just how I've always done it.  That way, I know what we're having, when we're having it, and besides, everyone likes my cooking.

Enter my brother-in-law:  Do we have to have Mexican every night?

Me:  I'll make burgers.

Carlos:  Why do you have to make anything?  Why can't someone else make something?  Why can't someone else take this on?  For even one night?

Me:  Um.......

And there is my problem.  I really don't have an answer to his question.  In the last few years, I have pulled way back.  I have been able to let others help.  I have learned to delegate.  I have learned to order pizza.  Even better, I have learned to let someone else decide that we are having pizza and then order it.

Most of the time.

With my extended family, it is very difficult, because I am the oldest, and because I am a child of divorce, a child of a very emotional mother, and a natural type A personality, I just tend to take over.

I wrote a couple of years back about how I had to learn to let go while I was pregnant.  I realized that I was vulnerable and that I needed my husband to be the partner he had been trying so desperately for years to be.  

But I am still, at heart, a control freak.  

My normal schedule requires me to be at work 3 late afternoons and evenings during the week and one Saturday morning and early afternoon.  These hours make it so that, six days a week, I get to wake up with my daughter and "create" her day.  She is my baby.  I plan her meals, her naps, her bedtime.  When I leave, I post a note on the fridge, every work day, with detailed instructions as to what time she will eat, which portions of the meal she should have more of, when she should get her bath (don't forget to brush her teeth!), how many books she should get before bed, and so on.  By the time I get home, she is asleep.  When she wakes up, we bring her into our bed, and she is my snuggly fresh morning baby once again.

Saturdays are different.  I do not create (read:  control) her day.  She is home with her father.  He doesn't really brush her hair.  He dresses her like a ragamuffin.  They make a huge mess of my house.  She is a different baby when I come home at around 5 in the afternoon.  

But I have allowed myself to enjoy it.  I laugh at her crazy clothes.  I smile at the pictures of her my husband posts on Facebook, thinking, well, she will definitely experience both sides of the gender perspective.  

Recently, however, I agreed to teach classes all day on Sundays.  It was only for five Sundays, I reasoned, and I could unquestionably use the extra money right before Christmas.  The added bonus is that I really love teaching these reading classes for my second part time job.  

And I have really loved teaching the classes.  I have not, on the other hand, enjoyed two day times away from my house.  By Sunday night I am a ball of homemaker stress.  The things that are so cute on Saturdays are so irritating by the end of the next day.  

Have you guys not done your chores this week?

Why is Celaya's high chair tray still dirty?

Didn't I ask you to get the Christmas ornaments down?

Why are these lights still not up?

Really?  You couldn't make the bed?

Do you actually think that dirty diapers belong on the floor?  That that is their home?  There's a diaper pail, you know.

A full dishwasher and a sink full of dishes?  REALLY?!

And, to use my toddler's favorite expression, "toys everywhere!"

Now, mind you, this really is mostly my fault.  I am aware that my brother needs constant reminders.  And I specifically tell my husband, "don't worry about anything but keeping the baby happy and healthy."  To be fair, my men always get the things done that I ask, and remind, them to do, and my baby is smiling and laughing when I get home.  The logical part of me acknowledges these facts.

But don't be fooled by my seemingly calm, reasonable demeanor.  The I-wouldn't-have-done-it-this-way factor that runs strongly throughout the very fabric of my being bubbles up to the surface by Sunday night.  And the control freak mother in me demands that I check Celaya over and over from head to toe for peculiarities that might have cropped up over the weekend.  Is that a flea bite?  Why does she have a flea bite?  Why is her runny nose even redder than this morning?  Have you been using paper towels to wipe her nose?  Why is her diaper so heavy?  What if she gets a diaper rash?  Is she acting strangely to you?  She seems a bit delirious.  What's that smell?

I know.  I've said it before.  You've probably said it before.  Poor Carlos.

So, fortunately, today was my last Sunday.  The classes were great.  The time away from home was not.  I can willingly go back to being humorously tolerant of my little family's Saturday chaos. 

Why?  

Because I can run around and restore the order to it all on Sunday.

I'm Not Perfect

I know.  You're shocked.

But the truth is, I am not making a confession.  I am repeating an oft heard justification for bad behavior.  There are others.

I did the best I could.

I tried.

I've got to look out for myself.

It's not my problem.

Often these disclaimers also come with the empty "sorry."

Because if you say you're sorry, and proceed to use one of the above disclaimers as a dependent clause, you're really not all that sorry.

It's kind of like saying I love you after someone said it first, and you just didn't know how else to respond.

A word of advice:  just say thanks.

I remember vividly the day I ran away from home at fifteen.  A lot of what came of that decision was good.  I know with certainty that if I hadn't left, I would not be where I am today.  And I am beyond content with where I am today.

But one of the few things about leaving that was heartbreaking was leaving my younger sisters and brother.  I was intricately involved in their lives, the day to day baths, feedings, walks to school, playtime.  My sisters were 12 and 5 and my brother was 2.  I cried for weeks after leaving because I would picture their little faces and voices without me, wondering where I was, why I wasn't there.  I knew I was a big part of their lives.  I also knew I would have died inside if I'd stayed.

On that first day, at my aunt's house, where I took refuge, as I was lamenting my abandonment of my siblings, my aunt said to me, "they are not your children.  You are still a child.  You cannot be all things to all people.  You have to take care of yourself first.  Get strong.  Then you can try to help them."

She was right.

I did take care of myself.  I got to a good place.  I went back and tried to make a difference.  I hope I have.  I think I have.

But never, not once, did I ever say "I have to take care of myself first," as a response to a request made by my brother or sisters, or my mother, or anyone.  Even when I knew it would be difficult for me, I still gave everything extra that I had.  I have learned that taking care of myself first is a necessity.  I do believe the airline rule applies to real life, always:  put your own oxygen mask on first.

The problem is that people today seem to use these phrases as excuses for selfishness.  And there is a big difference between being selfish and taking care of yourself.

You know you could have been there.  You know you probably should have been.  You just didn't feel like it.  So you justify your self absorption with lame excuses that you've heard other people use.

To be clear: it is understandable, even expected, to offer other people these justifications.  I use them all the time, like my aunt did with me.  I tell my husband when he is down on himself about a class that as long as he tried his best he should be proud of his work.  When my daughter gets frustrated while doing a task, trying to fit a puzzle piece or a block into its appropriate slot, I encourage her to ask for help, not to get frustrated, not to be so hard on herself.  At this point, now when she starts getting frustrated at a task and I say, simply, with a warning tone, "Celaya....."  She responds, "What do you say?"  And then answers her own question:  "Help, Mama."

The problem I have is with those people who do not even try, yet are so quick to tell you, "I did my best."

"Really," I'll ask my students.  I know you went to that party the night before your test, and I saw you two days before completely unprepared.  You did not do your best.  At least acknowledge your failing, your laziness, your disinterest in the obligation.  Then there might actually be hope of moving forward.

I have had a real difficult time facing this reality, that others are so reluctant to fulfill their obligations, so much so that it has taken me months to finally put it down in words.

I personally have the exact opposite problem.  I am quick to find a flaw with myself, quick to apologize, quick to please.  Tell me what I can do to make it better.  I have always given more to others than I even had inside myself.  I have worked long and hard to learn to give only what I can.

When I was younger and I let someone down I would lie and then try to make it right.  "I'm sorry I didn't make it.  I was buried at work.  Let's have dinner.  Let's have coffee.  Come to my house for a movie and cookies."  I hated letting people down, but I truly did not have enough to give all the people I had surrounded myself with.  So I flaked.  A lot.

Now I am the first to say, "I'm sorry.  I'm feeling lazy.  I'm flaking."

And I have good friends who will do the same:

"I'm not going to make it tonight because I just don't want to go out.  I'm tired, and I want to stay home and be alone in front of the television."

Totally understandable.  I read the above as, I still love you, I do want to see you, but I really have to take care of me right now.

I get that.

What I don't get is this:  I know you're my sister, daughter, friend, niece etc., or that your daughter is ostensibly one of those relations to me, and I know it's your birthday, your daughter's birthday, Christmas, your wedding, but I'm too busy.  I forgot.  I meant to be there.  Sorry.

It's even worse when it's via text.

And ten times as bad when there is no call (and accompanying fake apology) at all.

Then, when you attempt to discuss the issue, hey, I needed you here, I was counting on you, I missed you, I would like you to be more involved in my daughter's life, you get the disclaimer:

That's not my problem.  I'm doing my best.  I have other things going on.

It all feels like excuses for bad behavior, self justification for self absorption and self involvement.  And it hurts.

I have had students break down crying in front of me because they really are doing their best, and the pressure has crippled them.

I have seen my husband overcome with anxiety worried about whether or not he is a good enough father or husband.

The bigger problem with people who cannot be counted on to be there for the ones they supposedly love in important moments is that it makes the person who has been let down feel guilty.  It makes you feel like it is your own mistake for depending on them.  How dare you have expectations?

So this question has been running through my mind recently over and over:  why don't people want to be accountable?

Two things came up in the last couple of weeks that made me finally decide to write about this:  FDR and my brother.

Today a quote was posted on Facebook by Franklin Delano Roosevelt:  "The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have little."

This quote reminded me of the Native American history research I've been doing lately and the quote I came across by one anthropologist:  "If even one man has riches, no person in the village will go hungry."

Some people feel accountable for others, feel a sense of community, even among strangers.  If someone stumbles, I try to stop his fall.  If someone falls, I try to pick her up.  If we all did this, we would all do this.  It is a cycle.  Unfortunately, the cycle works the other way, too.  Someone who has been let down often finds himself letting others down.  The reasoning goes that people are not reliable, so why should he be?

I, on the other hand, have been let down many, many times in the past, but, thankfully, I have also been helped up many, many times when I have fallen.  As a result, I work hard to help others avoid falls and to get back up after falling.  The flip side is that I also have trained myself not to rely on others.  And this issue I have is where my brother comes in.

Living with Teno has taught me not to despair.  I was, when he first moved in, quite hesitant to ask him for help with anything major, anything personal.  On the rare occasion when I did ask, he was so quick to assist me in any way possible, and so matter of fact about it not being anything close to a hardship, that over time I have learned that I can, and should, rely on him, and as an extension, on others.

My brother is one of a handful of people I have met in my life who actually wants to be counted on.  He likes being dependable.  He is proud to be a good person, good friend, good brother, good son.  It is what makes him who he is.

My brother watches my daughter for me a few hours a week and refuses any offer of payment, insisting that he will only find a way to get the money back into my pocket.

I sneak him Red Bulls and Chipotle burritos instead.

I do not mean to say that he never complains, or that he does his chores every week, on the day I ask, without question.  I certainly do not mean to say that.  He does not have a reputation for being a procrastinator for no reason, nor is my own reputation for being a nag one that I have not earned.

But this gracious attitude of his is distinct from what I am used to.

Walking out of Target today, he noticed on his receipt that he had not been charged for his T Shirts.  Of course he hesitated a moment.  Who wouldn't?  But he ultimately turned around, walked back inside, and notified the cashier of her mistake.

Teno was my saving grace when I had just about given up on much of humanity.  I frequently found myself wondering what humanity there was left in many of us.

He hopes to buy a car soon, and he commented to me, in passing, that he was going to keep his truck around so that then I could use it whenever I needed it and not have to worry.  As a bike commuter with a toddler, this offer was a tremendous weight off my shoulders as I head into the winter season.

For him, this statement was, again, just matter of fact.  I am confident that it would never occur to my brother to say to me that my own personal struggles are not his problem.

He does not expect anything of me in return.  But he knows that when he needs me I'll be there.  And now, finally, I realize that so will he be when the tables are turned.

It is refreshing.  And I am not unhappy to have been wrong.  I should have had more faith.

Albert Einstein said that "We can not despair for humanity, for we ourselves are human."

As to those who let me down, to those who let others down in general, that is, in point of fact, their problem.

Learning Curve

I have had about a hundred different employers.

I've worked in every type of restaurant.  I've had some jobs, like sandwich maker at Togo's and mashed potato server at Boston Market, for less than a week, and others for years, like working in banking centers at Bank of America, or Bartending at Chevy's.

The main reason I have bounced around so much is because I tend to learn quickly and bore just as quickly.  Even at Bank of America, I blew through so many positions that my regional manager had to create a new one for me:  Bay Area Utility Representative.  Essentially, whenever a banking center needed a position filled temporarily, for a day, a few days, a week, I would be off to the rescue.

And then I got bored of that.

Finally, after climbing my way up to Banking Center Manager by the age of twenty five, I realized that there was nowhere else for me to go.  I certainly had no interest in working at the regional level; middle management sucks.  And I couldn't conceive of working in an office cubicle somewhere in research and development, tucked away, unable to work with the public.

I had to go to school.  If I wanted to continue to grow in a career, to continue learning and moving, I had to get an education in something I was passionate about:  education.

It took me a long time to understand what it would take, and once I learned this lesson, I got myself into, through, and out of college with a Master's Degree and highest honors in six years.  And I now find myself with two jobs that fit perfectly into my life; I am continually challenged and never afraid of becoming bored.

The story is the same with the men in my life.  I have had more than a handful of serious relationships, and a couple handfuls of not so serious ones.  I have no regrets about the men I spent time with, only the duration of time I spent with some.  Dating, like employment and education, is a process.  There is a learning curve involved wherein you fine tune what you are actually looking for in a life partner versus what feels good right now or what is just downright bad for you.  Don't like being the girlfriend of a player?  Don't date guys like that last one.  Not interested in having a guy fall all over himself to please you, even at the expense of his own dignity?  Avoid men with those qualities next time.  Each time a relationship ended, I tried to do better the next time.

I have always understood that people are lucky to find a good fit once, and incredibly fortunate to find it twice.  I was just hoping for once.

In short, if not for my learning curve, if not for all the bad fits that came before, I would never have found my way down the turbulent, heartbreaking path to Carlos.  I never would have been able to appreciate the qualities of his that perfectly balance my flaws, or the ways in which apparently my own qualities help him become an even better husband and father (he gives me a lot of credit).  

Lately, I have come to see also how crucial the learning curve is to motherhood.  I was not a paranoid pregnant person at all.  Pregnancy was actually a brief respite in my long line of paranoid experiences.  I was at peace, comfortable in my skin fully and completely for the first time.  I was born to be pregnant.

I am nowhere near that calm as a mother.

It does not help that my daughter was born blue, rushed off to Children's Hospital and kept under observation for a week.  She had a cardiologist before her legal name was even written down on paper. She was Baby Girl Mathews Mendez with two tiny holes in her heart.  In reality she was a big, fat, 9 pound, remarkably healthy baby in a room full of underweight, premature, babies preparing for life threatening surgeries.  But all I knew was that I couldn't take my baby home yet.  I had to visit her, from a wheel chair because my C-Section incision still caused me pain.

Celaya has been quite healthy for her twenty months on this earth.  I was just commenting to my husband on how it has been months and months since she has had even a cold.

But her very first cold arrived as soon as we brought her home from the hospital.  I was terrified.  What if she stopped breathing?  What if she vomitted up her breastmilk and became malnourished?  What if she got pneumonia?

Her first stomach virus was the same.  She woke up from her nap and threw up her lunch all over me, the rocking chair, the carpet.  I flipped out.  I called the doctor, whipped off her clothes, sent someone for popsicles, pedialyte, soup, crackers, everything I could think of.  I sat up with her all night, holding cool compresses to her feverish brow.  She was just shy of her first birthday and I was praying real prayers that she did not have some rare infection or disease that would put her back in the hospital.

She was fine.  It was a simple stomach virus that passed in a couple of days.  It has made her stronger, more resilient, healthier.  She has a solid immune system.  But it took me 20 months to get to this point.

Hey, it took me 15 months just to get to the point where I was comfortable enough to leave her alone in her room all night, finally training her to sleep through the night.

So here we are today, and I am now a seasoned expert; Celaya is teething.  Apparently incisors come in around this age.  She's drooling like crazy, crying a sad, pathetic, pained cry.  She has a small fever.  But I'm a pro by now.  When she awakens in pain in the middle of the night, I give her some Tylenol, bring her into bed, comfort her, keep her hydrated throughout the next day, and, knowing in my gut that she's fine, plan to head off to work as usual.

She's emotional all day, but in general, doing well.  I give her some more Tylenol, leave instructions with Teno for her favorite Baby Einstein videos, kiss her sweet little cheeks, and drive away.

Teno sends me cute pictures of the two of them cuddled up and watching videos.

Great.

My schedule at work is packed.

And then I make the big mistake.  I call home to check on Carlos and the baby during my break, and Celaya is crying in the background.

I start second guessing myself.  What if I'm under-reacting?  What if she has appendicitis?  What if she cries so hard she gags on her own vomit?  What if Carlos gets frustrated and leaves her alone to cry by herself, lonely and scared without her mother?  Her irresponsible mother who went to work instead of staying home with her sick baby like any good mother would.  What if she can't fall asleep without me?  What if her fever skyrockets and Carlos doesn't realize?

And on and on.

I get happy baby videos at work from Carlos about an hour later.  He had given her a bath and some Tylenol and she was better now.  I get home later and learn that, while she had had a difficult afternoon, she did eat a little and she went to bed fine on her own.  She had been resting peacefully ever since.  No catastrophe.  Papa took care of everything, just like the good father I know he is (when I'm being logical).

My baby is healthy.  All babies teethe.  There's no reason to freak out.

This time.

So I guess the learning curve on motherhood is pretty long.

Paranoid? Me?

Ever so often I wander throughout my entire apartment checking every closet, double checking the locks on every outward facing door and window (not the balcony ones), peering under beds and behind couches.

Just in case.

Just in case of what you ask?

Burglar.  Rapist.  Killer.  Serial Killer.  Torturer.  Now add kidnapper to my list.

I've see enough episodes of Criminal Minds to freak out every once in a great while.

And this is the mellowed out paranoid version of me.

Most of my friends have heard the stories of how I would lie in bed at night when I lived alone in my twenties and imagine someone rappelling from the roof onto my fourth floor balcony, using a glass cutter to get into my locked windows or door, just to torture me.  Not kill.  Because that was too easy.  Torture.

For a couple of years I couldn't watch scary movies at all because they gave me horrible nightmares and I was rendered incapable of sweetly sleeping.

All of this terror from a woman who, as a girl, loved to be scared.  I looked for scary movies, sought out ghost stories, was obsessed with vampires and witches.  I used to stay out way past curfew, wandering the streets, just to be out in the dark.

I never did drugs.  I wasn't even interested in the bad boys I hung around with, often ditching them just to wander alone at night.  At fourteen.

My poor mother.

I thought I was immortal.

Then, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, I fell to the earth from my lofty position of untouchability.  Everything was a danger, and real danger, too.  Every man walking after dark was out to harm me, every noise in the night someone coming to get me.  I still wasn't really afraid of the supernatural, but the real life possibility of a human being intent on hurting me was an imminent, overwhelming threat in my mind.

Ultimately, I think this bizarre experience I had in my twenties is what has turned me into such an adventurous person.  When I was a girl, I would take on any stupid, crazy dare.  As a young woman, I hid under the covers.  And as a compromise between the two, as a grown woman, I will confront any real life challenge.  Now I pull back the shower curtain when the uncanny feeling strikes me.  I charge into the dark room to face my fear.  I ride my bike home from BART at night, reminding myself that not every man walking past is dangerous.  I get on the plane.  I climb the mountain.  When I feel the fear start to creep up on me, I face it, directly.

This coping mechanism is another reason I am glad I had my daughter at a later age.  Because that is precisely what I employ, a coping mechanism.  I have not eliminated my tendency toward irrational fear.  Just the other night as I lay in bed, awakened in the middle of the night by whatever random apartment noise, I imagined myself being beaten bloody in front of my daughter by a neighbor.  I visualized it happening.  I saw myself telling my daughter to run, hoping that she would get away, that someone would come save her.  Why this 2 AM scenario?  Because I hear him screaming and yelling at his girlfriend/wife in the apartment below me late at night and have called security to file a noise complaint.  My paranoid brain just cooked up this highly unlikely, insanely improbable violent scene from a tiny kernel.

But, instead of being incapacitated by these images, I tell myself I'm being ridiculous, change the channel in my head, and go back to sleep.  I still call security when I feel it is necessary.  I still call the cops on suspicious people loitering in the park across the street.  And I still walk the streets with my head high, encouraging my daughter to do the same.  Because I am a mother now.  "Mother," in my head, means courage and strength.

Would I love to trap her in a bubble?  Sometimes.  Keep her safe, inside, protected?  Of course.

But then what am I teaching her about courage and strength?  Nothing good.

So we venture out, we cross busy streets, she climbs jungle gyms, she runs willy nilly in her little boots (me worrying the whole time that she'll face plant into the concrete), and I encourage her to be bold.  I swear I will not put the worrying images in her head that I carry around with me.

She is currently going through her fear stage, fear of loud noises, of doors opening and closing, of bugs, of things she once thought nothing of.  And I remind myself that I must show her how to overcome her fears, how to face them, how to seek out the loud noise, to walk through the door, to chase the bugs.

I thought of how much she learns just from watching us when I saw her kick Lucas, our big orange cat, in the butt a few weeks ago as he was heading out of the room.  Her father does this often, just a light tap with the side of his foot, giving Lucas' ambling shape a little scoot.  When I pointed her mimicking behavior out to him he commented that he never realized the impact of our thoughtless actions on her and that has to be more careful about what he does now.

The other day I had the chance to stand up and be brave in front of my daughter when I walked through the kitchen and, glancing up toward the ceiling, noticed a spider with a body roughly the size of a nickel directly above me.  At first, I'll be honest, I ducked and hurried through the entryway.  Then I announced to my highly observant, ever watchful toddler that "mama has to kill a spider, so stay here."  I set her down just outside the kitchen and let her watch as I went for a broom and a big book.  I knocked the spider down from the ceiling, prepared to drop the book on it once it fell, but, to my dismay, the little bastard darted under the stove.  So I did the only reasonable thing; I thrust the broom quickly several times under the stove, making big sweeping motions, bringing up every cobweb, refrigerator letter magnet, and old broken piece of glass I could get to.

And lo and behold, there came my fresh kill, the dead body of the big, juicy spider.

Now, I know it's just a spider, and not a killer neighbor or a jagged piece of concrete, but I was my daughter's hero in that moment.  She was amazed and in awe of me.  And this confidence, that admiring gaze, her pure trust in me to be courageous is enough to keep me battling back my paranoia demons and walking boldly into the next challenge, be it big or small.

For days afterward, spontaneously, my 20 month old daughter would remind me, "mama kill spider with a broom."

Yes.  Mama did.