My 500th Blog Post - #NaBloPoMo 1

Here I go again.

Today is November 1, which is the start of another round of NaBloPoMo, where bloggers torture convince themselves that posting on their blogs every single day for a month is a good idea. I've always had #bloggoals, less lofty than #squadgoals, one of which is to post more often every year than the last.

2015 is going to be the first year I fail at that.

But I'm coming off of two really dedicated blog years. 2013 was The Having It All Project, where I had 50 guest posts written by others. The only way I could top that in 2014 was by doing not one but TWO NaBloPoMos, one of which I inflicted upon myself as a way to not get depressed after the first season of Boston's LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER came to a close. 2015 has been more about whether or not the blog even survives another year. I am hanging on by a thread these days.

So, NaBloPoMo it is. Coincidentally, this is my 500th blog post ever. Considering the blog is eight years old, I think 500 is actually a fairly low number. Considering that I'm not paid a dime for any of my efforts here, perhaps 500 is just the right number. Maybe I've been feeling blogger's block because 500 is actually a really high number.

Just so this post isn't only about contemplating my own blogging path, here are the kids Halloween costumes this year. Hannah made hers from scratch, completely by hand, whereas Marc helped Max order components for his since the character he wanted wasn't officially sold anywhere.

A Starbucks strawberry frappuchino

"Carlos" from the Disney movie, "Descendants"

It looks like I've missed a couple of Halloween years on the blog. Here's a recap from 2004-2010 and another from 2012. Recalling 2013 and 2014 was surprisingly difficult!

A skeleton and a nerd, 2013.

2014

38: Cutting Myself Some Slack

Hard to believe that another birthday is upon me, but here it is. Thirty-eight.

I have to admit that 37 won't go down in the books as my favorite year. Work has been harder than ever before. Both kids had pneumonia and Max was hospitalized for it, and then I was really sick with it too. We spent a big portion of the year renovating the house, which was the achievement of a long-held goal, but also relatively stressful to live through. I didn't write very much. I exercised even less. I had a hard time giving up something important to me. 

I realize too that a lot of it is my own attitude, tearing myself down, of not being able to be optimistic, not cutting myself any slack. Maybe it's a product of being only 38, as I have had many friends counsel me that upon turning 40, a lot of these things that I hold over myself, I just won't bother with anymore. There will be a lot more letting things go once I hit that magical age, or so I've been told.

That's another 730 days from now. And that's too long to wait.

So here, in no particular order other than the order in which they were written, are 38 things I'll be cutting myself some slack on over the next year. Maybe it'll inspire me to cut myself some slack over items that didn't make the list too. Here goes.

1. It's unlikely that my eyeliner is going to be perfect on both eyes at the same time.

2. I don't have to make the bed every day. I don't even need to untangle the sheets if I don't want to.

3. It's okay to want to wait until I see Max get on the school bus every day.

4. It's also okay to feel very stressed out by having to wait for the school bus every day.

5. It's okay to post on my blog two days in a row.

6. It's also okay to not post for weeks at a time, even if my mind still processes life through a blog post lens.

7. It's okay to think good thoughts about my friends more often than I can see most of them.

8. It's fine to be more aware of a variety of pop culture items than I have time to actually consume them.

9. It's okay that I'm not a big fan of reading books. I read a lot of things, but shorter works better for me.

10. Similarly, it's okay that I didn't make it to your book launch party. (I probably still sent you some good thoughts.)

11. And it doesn't mean that I might not write my own book some day. And want you to come to my book launch party.

12. It's okay to have more ideas than I have time for executing on those ideas. It's not okay to only be an idea person though.

13. It's okay if my "word of the year" is kind of a dud.

14. It's okay to feel sad about missing out on something, but not so sad that I miss out on everything.

15. It doesn't have to be perfect for it to count as exercise, so the need for perfection shouldn't stop me from doing it.

16. It's okay for me to watch The Real Housewives, but not of every city. That's just too much of a time commitment.

17. And it's okay for me to watch Grey's Anatomy until the bitter, bitter end (though I still think it's really good).

18. It's still okay to think about my miscarriage.

19. It's okay to go to bed at 7 pm once in a while.

20. It's okay to really, really want a woman to be President.

21. It's okay to drive the longer way home because the turns are easier to make.

22. It's okay to wear leggings as pants. Even me.

23. It's okay if the comment meant as a joke still stings a bit. It's even better to have a snappy comeback.

24. It's okay to take a sick day. (Someone please remind me I said this. I'm sure I'll deny it.)

25. It's fine not to like emojis, and to remember when "@" was the foundation for an Internet rose.

26. It's okay to embrace my strands of grey hair one day and pluck them out the next.

27. It's okay to still really like Twitter.

28. It's okay that I print out far too few pictures, so long as I keep taking them at all.

29. It's fine to use "Find a Friend" as many times as it takes to confirm Hannah's location. And to text her more than she'd like, too.

30. It's okay to talk a lot about our upcoming trip to Disney World because I am really freaking excited to go back to Disney World.

31. It's okay to coordinate the work rather than do it all.

32. It's okay to be fiercely proud of my Jewish identity and simultaneously acknowledge how complicated it can be.

33. It's okay to have a hard time finding 38 interesting things to say.

34. It's okay to want to eat the same things for lunch all the time.

35. It's okay to wear dark nail polish, even when everyone else in the salon wants marshmallow and ballet slipper.

36. It's okay to not really like wine and beer, and to hate the "drink away your problems, Mommy" memes.

37. It's okay not to throw out my old mix tapes, even if I can't play them on anything anymore.

38. It's okay to really enjoy jordan almonds, even if it's kind of ridiculous.

So that's my list. Happy birthday to me.

The Staypiece: Ten Years With One Company

Ten years ago me

This week I'll celebrate my tenth anniversary at work. Well, celebrate isn't really the right word, as there probably won't be any acknowledgement of it at all, save for the fact that LinkedIn has announced it for me to those who have connected with me there. We are not a very celebratory kind of place, which is okay by me.

I've thought a lot about what it means to stay with one firm for 10 years, and I know how rare that is in today's job climate. Before this, I was with the first company I worked full-time at for almost six years. I guess that says something about me, that I must prefer some kind of stability, and I'm certain that I do. But in both companies, I worked hard to progress through the ranks, to earn an MBA, to take on more and more than I ever thought possible for myself. That's what I think most people try to do early in their careers though, and I'm no exception to that. But 10 years in one place is still a long time.

Last month, an article in The Atlantic crossed my Twitter feed, entitled "No One Cares That You Quit Your Job." Quit pieces have become an Internet staple, and I've read so many of them over the years, from law and finance to new parents who decide to give up the juggle. A quote from the piece, which was written in response to someone leaving academia (though one can substitute some other industries):

"Here’s the truth: academia is an amazing sector with some of the best features of any job, even if it also has substantial problems. Folks on the way out might feel like they're biting their thumb at something, and those still “stuck” on the inside of this troubled-but-terrific career might feel some welcome-if-temporary solidarity. But after that, it’s just more fodder for legislators, corporations, and the general public to undermine the academy. It helps nobody in the long run.

Why should anyone be impressed that somebody can quit something? Much more impressive is figuring out how to live with it. More staypieces, please."

So this is my staypiece. I've stayed as long as I have for a few major reasons, and while it hasn't always been easy (helllloooo, 2008), I'm still living with it. Here's how.

1) The quality of the people. I've worked with the majority of my team for the last seven years, and they are people of great substance. While my bosses (now, actually, co-workers) are demanding and hold me to a very high standard, I respect them a great deal and have learned so much from them. Those high standards have trickled down into my expectations as well, and I've learned that I need to balance those expectations with being an empathetic person, which is a greater challenge than just to demand what one wants.

2) I'm good at what I do. As someone who always had to work really hard at math class, I'm stunned that so much of my life revolves around numbers. I'm still not great at calculating things in my head or recalling facts to the exact degree, but I've found that I'm better at explaining these concepts than I knew. I've done a lot of different things over the last 10 years, and having a wide variety of opportunities has helped me to stay.

3) The flexibility I prize. I've said it before and I'll say it again, being able to work from home one day a week and work adjustable hours has meant the world to me. I know the fear that I might not find the same flexibility elsewhere has held me in place for a while, but I think I'd be able to negotiate that at many other companies today. But it's hard to be a pioneer, and so not having to ask for something so important to me all over again has just been easier.

I know that I'm lucky. I've been well-compensated, and I have great benefits, in addition to the factors I mention above. I never anticipated that I'd be here for 10 years when I started, but it's been a great ride. Here's to all that lies ahead.

Do You Remember?

While filling up Max's water bottle this morning (because Heaven forbid we go without a water bottle these days), I asked him if we wanted ice in it this time, as he told me yesterday that he would like that. He said yes, and then asked me, "How do you remember so much?"

Oh, my child, how do I not remember is the real question.

I am a master at swimming in the details. I am to do lists on paper and in the task bar of my online calendar, organized by date or the general "some day." I am iPhone reminders. I am emails to myself with subject lines like "dry cleaning" and "tissues" and "glucose tabs" and "bus note." I am writing on my hand when it's ultra important and likely to be forgotten. I am remembering the thing many haven't even thought about yet.

It's not about being a mom, or even an adult, it's simply who I am. And while I admit that at times, the details threaten to drown me, most of the time, they keep me happy, safely floating along the surface.

"I remember," I told him, "because you said it'll make you super duper happy to have totally freezing water after recess, and I want to help make you super duper happy if I can. I can't get you everything you might ask for in life, but I can get you some ice cubes." And he smiled and thanked me, and asked for sliced cups of peaches for snack some time, and so I went to the store and got those too.

Ice cubes, and sliced peaches, and kipah clips, and a dessert for a party, and a present for the baby shower, and signing up for fall conferences, and the work project you didn't even ask me for yet, and staying up til you get home, just to spend a few moments together. These are the things I remember.

Open the Tab

I don't even keep the blogger.com tab open anymore. A couple of years ago, it was open all the time. Gmail, Feedly, Facebook, Twitter, Google Calendar, Blogger. Always there, prompting me to write, to look at the stats, to save a draft, to jog my mind. I closed it at some point, probably in a moment of overwhelm, and now, I have to push myself to open it again.

I've been busy actually doing things. In the last few weeks of summer, while the house was in its last stages of renovation and the kids got back to school, I squeezed in so much. Hannah and I went to an Idina Menzel concert, and I videotaped her huge smile as the crowd sang "No Day But Today." Marc and I saw a new musical, "Waitress," with music by Sara Bareilles, and I loved it and think it'll be a hit. On Marc's birthday, we attended a documentary called "Raise the Roof" on re-building a Polish wooden synagogue for a museum. I attended a Brandeis alumni event featuring Anita Hill, interviewing Letty Cottin Pobregin, on faith, race and feminism. I'd been so not-busy not-doing things like this for most of the summer, and this feels more like me again. It's good.

And I have been writing. I wrote something for Marc, that maybe he'll be able to use for an upcoming class he's teaching. I got my answers from last year's 10Q project, and have started writing them for this year (and I found the exercise very insightful and highly recommend it). Writing at work too, though for such a select and small group that it's a shame, because the writing is good. I still think in terms of blog posts; Marissa Mayer's two week maternity leave, Anne-Marie Slaughter's husband on what it means to be the lead parent, why this juggle still frustrates me when the school bus is late. 

Do you want to hear about these things? Does my voice add something meaningful to the discourse? I'm not sure. Maybe it's just hard for me to do less, when I did so much in 2013-14 to make Busy Since Birth an established thing, and now I don't write much. I'm not very good with the middle, I'm an all-or-nothing person. Maybe I need to get comfortable with middle. 

So today, I finally opened the tab again. I know it'll feel good to hit publish. Here's to the middle. 

Blank Space

I'm in need of a little space lately. Unlike TSwift, there is no blank space in my life, or so it seems.

It's week 18 of our renovation, and while I have absolutely nothing to complain about, I'm so ready for it to be over. Thankfully, it almost is. We're close, probably a week or so away with most of it being done. But since Hannah got home from camp, Marc and I have had to share our bedroom with her. During waking hours, Max is almost always in our room too. We have people in the house generally from 7 am to 6 pm, so no one is ever alone even if the kids are away. The house will be put back together soon, but for now, no space.

I'm lacking space at work too; mostly just the mental space to stop thinking about work. I'm still very happy in the role I took on nearly two years ago, but wow does it take up a lot more mental space. I find myself thinking about various aspects of what I'm working on at all hours of the day, including the middle of the night. Not stressed out panicked thoughts, but reasoning through some issue or planning ahead for a meeting. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, because I like doing well at work, but an interesting development for me.

When I'm not thinking about work, I'm thinking about the kids and the transition back to school. Middle school for Hannah--a big deal, yes, but I know she'll handle it well. Second grade for Max--fewer adjustments, but still, a new schedule with more religious school and the music lessons he's been wanting for years. The high holidays will be here in a moment, and I haven't really done much school shopping for the kids, and I don't know when I will. This summer almost feels like it didn't happen, like I was in this weird temporary state, holding pattern.

I wish I had more blank space for writing, without feeling like I've said it all already and there's nothing left to say.

In a way, I'm ready to get to fall. I'm ready for a return to structure and routine and to enjoy the new parts of our house. Maybe I'll find some space then.

Getting Over It: Losing a Friend and Finding My Voice Again

I haven't been blogging much lately, and I know it's because there's this lump in my throat that I can't seem to clear. I've been struggling for several months to get over a hurt, a kind of pain that I've only experienced a few times in my life. This pain has caused me to be less forthcoming here, and probably more withdrawn in other aspects of my life too. I've lost some confidence. I've lost a lot of sleep. I've lost a friend.

(Disclaimer: If you know me beyond the Internet, I'm intentionally being vague here. Please don't quiz me about it later. If I wanted to tell you, I would have. And don't be vain, this blog post probably isn't about you. Unless it is.)

I don't think I've lost a friend like this since the loss of some once-close college friends as the years have passed, and our lives twisted in different directions. I know that this ache is similar to the aches I felt for those friends, but in the college years and slightly beyond, I had the time to process and grieve the lost friendship. I don't feel like I've had that luxury this time around, with everything else my life now includes. But I know that I have been grieving anyway, and while I keep hoping I'm over it, I'm not.

The piece I read aloud at this year's Boston LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER is called "The Geology of Motherhood." I'd been intending to submit the piece to a new website called "The Mid," and it was featured there about a month after the show. I'm proud of the piece, but it's not "The Kitchen Sink," the piece I read in 2014. Watching "Geology" back on YouTube now, I see that the piece doesn't read all that well aloud. It was meant to be published, but to be read with eyes, not heard with ears. Or maybe it's my delivery; I watch myself, and I can hear the heartbreak in my voice. I didn't know it was there; I guess I truly couldn't hear myself that day, but I don't sound like me. I don't seem much like myself at all.

Amazing how the loss of a living, breathing person, a friend, not family or a significant other, can do that to you. Rob you of your sense of self. But that's where I was, and it's still this space that I've been floating around.

I'm tired of feeling that way. I want to be over this, to make that hard edge disappear from my voice. I want to trust, and to go back to putting myself out there, unafraid of being hurt. I've let this take up too much space in my mind for far too long. And I really doubt my friend has let this consume her the way that it has me.

I'm reclaiming "The Geology of Motherhood." It is good, and I am good. The way I'm feeling will fade. Eventually, I'll see "the gorgeous sun-soaked view" and not just "the brute forces involved." Hopefully soon.

Here's "The Geology of Motherhood" © 2015 Cheryl Stober, as first published on The Mid.

I can't remember now what made it all so scary. It was just a chapter in my eighth grade science textbook. But for some reason that chapter was the hardest one I'd ever dealt with in my life. I was terrified of plate tectonics.

Now, I wasn't terrified of the actual scientific phenomenon of plate tectonics, those moving panels of earth below the surface, and how they could crash and cause eruptions and change the landscape of our planet at any time. I really was okay with it. We don't have a whole lot of control here, and I get that. So I wasn't scared, I guess, but I remember well that I really, really didn't like it.

Perhaps it's because, even as a 14-year-old, I could already see how these shifting plates would become a metaphor for the rest of my life. A metaphor that I would keep coming back to every time there was a seismic shift in the composition of my own landscape.

What do those shifts look like? Well, when you think about it, they're easy to see. Graduations, college, career, marriage, career changes, moving, children: Those are all giant earthquakes, seismic shifts in one's life.

I remember when my son Max was about to be born, thinking what a huge shift it was going to be going from one child to two. It had been four years since my daughter Hannah arrived, and I was dreading going back to carrying a diaper bag again, to all of that starting over. My precious girl took up almost all of the airtime in our home, and I worried about how in the world I was going to add somebody else to this puzzle. I thought Max would never get a word in, that Hannah would do all of the talking for them both. I never suspected that both of them would simply talk at the same time, usually with the radio or the television playing in the background, sometimes even with my husband also trying to get my attention. There is never going to be a shortage of words in our home.

Somehow I survived that shift from one to two children and adapted to our altered environment. I've survived other shifts along the way too: when we moved from our condo to our home, when we had to renovate the kitchen that was sorely in need of updating. I've weathered job changes and escalating responsibilities and health crises, and the landscape continues to change shape and shift. I've clung to illusions, really delusions, of control, managing the details where I could pack the lunches the night before, update the calendar, pay the bills on time.

While the big tectonic shifts, the ones that cause earthquakes, are all too easy to notice, there is still a constant, imperceptible motion happening. The earth shimmies beneath our feet, but it's harder to notice things are changing when the changes are so subtle. Personally, I'm more likely to take stock, and to feel grateful for what I have, after surviving an earthquake. But if I'm always changing too, do I stop and take time to acknowledge the beauty of it as it's happening? With the landscape always changing, when do I take the time to acknowledge the view?

Lately I've felt that another shift is underfoot, and the earth is trembling in a different way than it ever has before. It's not just a shift regarding my children, although they're shifting too. Hannah's about to start middle school, and Max has conquered the early elementary years. My career is going well; I'm not coasting, but I'm also not aggressively proving myself like I did during a few epic Lean In years. I feel like I've gotten over the toughest hurdles of managing work with young children. And yet I feel shaken, unsettled.

For more than 11 years, I've been a married mother who works full time, and I have felt defined and constrained by the push and pull that society seems to dictate as mandatory these days. That I cannot possibly have it all, that I must compromise, that trying to do it all means I must be failing to please someone in this high­-wire tightrope act. So I've been diligent. I've worked so hard to raise wonderful children, who occasionally have their moments but in general are a true delight. I've worked hard at my job, progressing through the ranks, achieving more than I ever thought possible for myself. I try to keep my home a pleasant place to be, and I work at my marriage, trying to grow alongside the partner I have chosen to build this life with. And yet.

The shift I'm feeling now is that it's not enough. I have an awful lot of "all," but I'm not enjoying it nearly as much as I should. I have been working so hard, and there are moments when I have reached the summit of a peak, this land mass formed by violent collision of the paths I have taken and those paths I have not taken. But often, even at those peak moments, the gorgeous sun­-soaked view I expect is obscured by clouds. All I can see is the hard work, the brute forces involved.

There is still time. I know this, because I know that there are more peaks still ahead of me. Those peaks may come in the form of my children, or my career, or some as-yet-unknown part of myself. And I'm lucky to be realizing this now, because I can work on finding more joy along those newly­ carved trails. I can hope for a glorious moment at the peak, of course, but I can also stop staring at my feet as I stagger forward and, instead, take in the scenery. Life, and especially motherhood, cannot be spent waiting just for those peaks, because the valleys can be just as beautiful. A mother knows that it is not enough to take stock after an earthquake. There is so much beauty to take in, even in the hard work of shifting the landscape.

We cannot control the changing geology. The waves move faster, the result of some deep underwater shifting, and the sands erode. The shift I'm feeling is telling me to slow down. To promise to try not to be scared, to find a hand to hold and, once in a while, a reminder to stop and take in the new views along the way.