I Accomplish Nothing Because I'm an Over-Achiever

I accomplish nothing because I'm an over-achiever. It's really as simple as it sounds. In my ripe-old age I've discovered that it is because I can't limit myself to doing one thing that I really do almost nothing. I've tried to accomplish things. I've worked, studied, labored, and worked some more. It does no good. As it turns out, accomplishments are boring.

My day starts simply enough. I get up early in order to have time to myself and get some things done. However, it's incredibly difficult to grade while watching a television show, listening to music, or doing anything more interesting than reading the same assignment over, and over, and over again. Shocking, I know. Still, knowing that I can't simply grade by itself doesn't convince me not to turn on the radio or the television, so on my media go. Thirty minutes of "Gilmore Girls" later, I'm well into my second cup of coffee, my third internet forum, and . . . well, at least I've stapled the assignments properly. Sometimes I find myself bored by the routine-nature of these habits. Today, for example, I chose to give Ellie breakfast while I watched my show. Of course, I also washed my hair in the kitchen sink, unloaded the dishwasher while the conditioner set in, and then rinsed it out while my next shot of espresso blended nearby - you know, for variety's sake.

Then I'm off to work. I can't stand driving to work. Twenty to thirty minutes of my day - one way - invested in doing nothing more than taking myself, car, and books, across fifteen miles of concrete. Public transportation is not an option , so I have no choice but to drive or quit. I make the drive, yet I still have to multitask. I refuse to engage in anything too distracting during the driving parts, but I've fixed this. I do my makeup at the red lights. I can't do my makeup at home because it's not actually possible to do anything else while doing makeup, but there's nothing else to do at the red lights either (it's an added bonus that this prevents me from going overboard in my daily cosmetic devotional). Between red lights I've recently discovered the opportunity to brush my teeth. Sure, I get a few odd glances, but better askance looks from the car next to me than watching my students mysteriously stop sitting in the first few rows (and I can't find a way to multitask while brushing my teeth at home either).

Now I'm at work. As my colleagues can attest, I've discovered the joys of socializing, Pandora, and meals all while grading and reading. My grades get done, my vitamins get digested, my work-related socialization is covered, and I don't go crazy trying to find the cure for the common cold in an attempt to busy my brain (while still reading the same assignment over, and over, and over again).

However, eventually my work day is done. I've done my lesson plans and grading. I've prepared myself, dogs, and daughter for our day. I've worked my at-home career and my at-work career, and I've done it all without ever only doing one thing at a time. Except, of course, for my dissertation. It simply isn't possible for me to write my dissertation while multitasking, and not even a research project of my own choosing (and for which I've attended school for far too many years) can garner enough of my interest to mono-task (unless it involves devising new words - as I believe I've just done).

As a result, my day-to-day work is completed while my long-term work remains stagnant. Many onlookers will make assumptions about my downfalls in laziness and procrastination, but hopefully this blog will serve as enlightenment for them (and for my committee). I am not lazy. In fact, I am far from it. Instead, I am so invested in over-achieving in every moment of my day, that the dissertation is really beneath my levels of capability. At least . . . that's what I will continue to tell myself until I give up and do it. I may never graduate. I may never finish anything. Instead, I'm trying to use this blog to motivate myself to change my multitasking, underachiving/over-achieving ways before my dissertation becomes a means of multitasking while I'm in line at the unemployment office.*

Incidentally, I have watched one of my three television programs, talked to two people on the phone, and comforted one dog while writing this blog. But I haven't written my dissertation.

Stages of Grieving

Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, author of "On Death and Dying," identified five stages on the grief cycle which was later extended to seven stages: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. Let me start by protesting the very idea of a grief "cycle" because it implies that at some point you must return to the beginning and start all over again. That being said, I have a larger objection to the idea of the grief cycle because it has a larger implication that with acceptance comes the end of the grieving process. Grief, for many, is a lifelong process that travels not in emotions but in life stages. It changes in magnitude, growing and shrinking and growing again as life stages pass, but grief as an activity does not end with mere acceptance. With this in mind, now seems like the perfect time (if there can be such a thing) to explain my own theory on the grieving process.

My friend Nicole Lynn Edwards died exactly ten years ago today. Together, we left school during an open hour with the intention of traveling to the mall and then returning to school in time for our last class of the day. She wanted her paycheck, and I wanted a light shirt to replace the sweater I had put on that morning. We went to Coral Ridge Mall, entered through Sears, and I spent my time in the clothing racks while she went to retrieve her paycheck. She came back, and we decided to peruse the jewelry and lotion displays for a few moments while we waited for my turn to pay. I purchased a sleeveless navy blue shirt, but we agreed that I would wait until we returned to school to change. As I paid, we realized that we were nearly out of time and would surely be late for our last class of the day. We ran out to my '88 Oldsmobile and decided together that we would be better off taking a shortcut on the old gravel road that connected the Coralville Strip to Melrose Avenue, just a half a mile or so from the entrance to our school. We even joked as we went that Megan, Nicole's best friend, would not approve because she never drove down Deer Creek (or "Stoner" as it is better known) road. We turned out of the parking lot of the mall, and that's the last thing I remember. I can remember details down to the clothes we wore, the song on the radio, the conversation we had, and the cigarettes we smoked, but after we made that fateful turn . . . nothing.

The rest of my memories are a fog of people telling me what happened, visitors drilling me with questions, and nurses and doctors treating me with varying states of sympathy and frustration. There were police officers assuring me the crash was not my fault. A semi was traveling back to the quarry on that road and veered into the lane of oncoming traffic in order to make a turn a little bit easier. He hit my car head on. The waiting room was filled with people from my high school, all there because they were apparently so close to me, but when I awoke from my coma, my family soon learned that I didn't know who half of my "close friends" were. There's nothing like life-threatening drama to make a person popular. Once I was awake and communicating, most of these people disappeared. By the time I was transferred to a physical rehabilitation center two and a half weeks later, everyone outside of my family was gone. While in rehab, I had one visitor: Megan. She who was closest to Nicole and, outside of family, was most affected by the events of the day, was also the only person who would travel the twenty miles to see me again.

At this time in my life, my injuries seem mundane. I know the story, and I've told the story more times than I can count. Doctors, friends, acquaintances, most of them ask, and nearly half of them actually listen to the response. I've found myself abbreviating my answers in the interest of time: "My legs were more or less crushed" takes a lot less time than, "The impact of the engine fractured every bone in my right leg, shattered my left femur, tore my left PCL . . . " With no small amount of irony I can say that life is short, and who has time to explain all of this time and again? I've stopped talking about blood loss, lung damage, broken ribs, and brain damage completely because it's less interesting. After six years of these explanations I finally acquired a copy of the initial report and carry it with me to every doctor I see. Now my medical forms are like a job application, and instead of filling out every job I've ever had and every bone I've ever broken, I can save us all some trouble with a simple, "See attached." I only wish I had come to this conclusion before encountering a doctor who failed to see the humor when I answered, "Have you had any surgeries?" with "You could say that."

But I digress. All of this information is about myself, and that's not what I carry with me now. Injuries and surgeries become old hat after a while, but grief stays with me in different shapes and forms. Grief is like a mark on the wall as your child grows up. You keep marking every few months, every few inches, until finally they reach the age of majority and cease to grow. You may stop marking then, but you still don't paint over the marks because they've always been there. After a while you stop looking, but milestone events like graduations, weddings, and grandchildren make you return to the marks to remember how it used to be and all the time that's passed. You may move over the years, God knows I have, but you find yourself marking the wall all over again in your new house, and the path continues.

My initial grief was of the obvious kind. Guilt, shock, and depression enveloped me like nothing I had ever experienced before. I began drinking heavily and engaging in behavior that became more fun for others to talk about than participate in, and within a few months I dropped out of high school to make more time for my new lifestyle. I used my new surroundings and beverages of choice as a way to continue my grieving process, but all that came from it was some lost chances, some lost friends, and a bad reputation. Still, I thought as I rebuilt my life that surely the worst had passed and now I could begin again. I drank through most of the last day of high school, also the first anniversary of Nicole's death, and then prepared to move on.

I moved on to college (thanks in large part to some last minute assistance from Mike Rose, a man to whom I will always be grateful), but my grief came with me. There I didn't grieve through guilt but through the idea that this was another stage Nicole would not experience. I remembered listening to her talk about how she would work for a year, and then she and Megan would travel for a summer before starting college together. I worked and studied and did what I could, but everywhere I turned I was still "that" girl. I was the one in the car accident, the one who was out of control the year before, and in one truly awful moment in a bar, I was labeled the girl who killed Nicole. On the second anniversary, Megan and I, along with my sister, took a day of silence to remember. We grieved not only the loss of our friend but also this new and exciting stage of our lives that Nicole would never experience.

I knew after the second anniversary that I would need to leave Iowa City and as many of the memories as I could. I used graduate school as an opportunity to leave, and Tracey and I moved to New York. Another anniversary came and went, but even on the other side of the country I found myself caught up in thinking of how Nicole wanted to leave Iowa City some day, how she and Megan had plans to see more of the world, and how I was once more experiencing such an incredible life that Nicole would never see. So went the third stage of the grieving process.

In an attempt to avoid making this my own memoir rather than a description of grief, I can abbreviate my own life now to say that marriage, more graduate school, and buying a house were all moments, months, and years when I have thought of Nicole and what she will never have the opportunity to do. I look at my life and see blessings, but all too often I close my eyes and see her face in the senior picture on her headstone, and I think of all the things about this life that I don't understand. On December 3, 2007, my grieving process changed again.

That day was a Monday, the day that changed my life forever for the second time. On that day, I received my greatest blessing, my daughter. I experienced what I had previously only heard and I felt what I only knew through secondhand descriptions of a love greater than any love I had ever felt before. My baby daughter, my Ellie, is the greatest gift I will ever receive. With her I felt a renewed celebration of life and love, and I thought of how much I want to live and flourish with a greater purpose of making her life better.

On the second day, though, while she was still in the NICU, I began to think of Nicole again. Rather than grieve for her as her friend, her peer, or her classmate, I began to grieve for her as a parent. I began to think more of her parents, whom I had thought of before but in different ways, and I began to only imagine the grief and despair her parents must have felt after losing their oldest child. It was then that I realized that I would not find freedom from grief through time or emotions, and I would not and will not experience grief in a cycle of emotions but rather in a path of life stages.

Today is the tenth anniversary, and somehow I feel like this is a moment I've been waiting for since that first day. I've set myself up in a way to believe that with this landmark would come an incredible sense of relief. Well, the day is half over, and the time of the crash is nearing, and I don't feel relief. I do, however, feel clarity. A long conversation with a stranger several weeks back has helped me to realize that grieving is not something to "get over" and it's not something to "grow out of." Instead, grieving is a way of remembering. I remember Nicole, and I remember that day, and now more than ever as a mother, I remember her family. I will continue to remember on the milestones, the graduations, birthdays, and grandchildren, and I will continue to remember and grieve on the anniversary of the crash. I won't cycle, and I won't limit myself to five or seven psychologically-approved emotions, but in acceptance, I also won't forget.

Rant - Pure and Simple

Lately I find my life full of situations where people say something, act a certain way, or perform a specific duty, and then they are surprised by the outcome of their own choices. Cue insanity music. My two year-old understands the basic idea of actions have consequences: flip a light switch, there will be light. Turn the faucet, there will be water. Open the back door, there will be dogs. In all her godly ways, she understands the ripple effect of her own actions. Why, oh why, is this so hard for the rest of the world? I'll start with the nonpersonal (for me).

Rachel Uchitel had an affair with David Boreanaz. Then she had an affair with Tiger Woods. Both of these affairs have since received a great deal of public attention, and, as a result, she has been smeared up one side and down the other with adulterous mud. People around the world are hurling names at her about how she is a mistress, prostitute, and more, and she, circa the Great Protector of All Adulterous Females that is Gloria Allred, is amazed and offended that people would call her such names. Um, Rachel, sweetheart? When you see a spade . . . But that's besides the point. She acted a certain way and people are calling her on it, full stop. However, the truly ironic part of all of this is the offense she and a dozen other mistresses/flings/whathaveyou have expressed to the media because each thought SHE was the ONLY one because that's what HE told her. To recap: you're having an affair with a married man. He has a very public relationship with his wife, yet he sleeps with you on the side. And you're surprised that you're not the only one? He's already cheating! Exactly what did you expect and how on earth could you call it cheating on you when he slept with the others? Is that what you called it when he slept with his wife? I can't keep up.

I have the same frustration with my students. We have class; I assign a paper. I give you two months to research said paper. We have activity after assignment after sample writing to make sure you fully understand what you are doing. We have class after class to explain how to research, how to write, and, most importantly, how not to plagiarize. You take this class and these assignments, and then you sit down to write your paper. In the process, you copy and paste sections of articles from all over the internet into your paper. That's right. You highlighted, copied, and pasted text from a source into your paper. You throw in a few transitions, a couple of polished claims against the downfall of society, slap on a works cited page, and happily submit it to turnitin.com (a website whose sole purpose is to detect plagiarism) and go on your merry way. Two days later finds you wailing in my office because you can't believe I am doing this to you. After all, you didn't mean to plagiarize. Again, let's recap: you copied and pasted someone else's writing into your paper in order to avoid writing it yourself. I'm sorry, how is that not intentional plagiarism? Why don't you write a paper on that and get back to me? When you retake my class next semester.

So there are the many problems of acting and accepting consequences in celebrities and college kids; all's well that ends well, right? Except, of course, that now this same problem is occurring in my daughter's education, and I refuse to accept that. Let's see, you admit my daughter to your school. You label her as "gifted" and put her in a room above her age because she is too advanced for her own age group. You design each room to hold a child for six months before moving them up to the next level, and then you don 't understand when I don't want my child held in the same room for a full year? You tell me - again - that she is obviously gifted, but you just don't have room for her in the proper room because you commited to having other children in that room. You tell me she has obviously advanced beyond all of the other children in her room, but she is helping the other kids? Let's be clear here. With all due respect, I don't care about the other kids. I care about my kid. I care about my kid conversing with other children who are able to converse rather than having her speak in full sentences to a child whose most eloquent response is "bah." I didn't say gifted, you did. I didn't say advanced, you did. I didn't even make a judgment on which room she should be in, you did. This is not the case of an overly-anxious mother who is convinced her child is the greatest ever. This is a very basic case of: we pay for you to educate our daughter, and that is not what's happening. We talk to you about this problem and how we are all now facing the consequences of you commiting to too many children in a single room, try to come to a solution, and then we go on our merry way. Your solution, however, also appears to involve a card from the teacher in the advanced room offering thanks for our (now regretted) Teacher Appreciation gift along with a little note about how she looks forward to seeing my daughter "in the fall." Congratulations, your solution is now just a little behind the maturity of a solution my two year-old could design.

Actions have consequences, folks. This is not a tough concept. Yet each of these examples shows people who are apparently surprised to see that not only do their actions have consequences, but people might actually be displeased by the consequences that come! If this is the kind of logic that educated adults use on a daily basis, my two year-old is much more gifted than her school realizes. Perhaps Rachel Uchitel, my student, and the director of her school should go back and try the light switch again and then build from there.

Optimism vs. Naivete

I have been told on more than one occasion that I am naive. I try to believe the best in people, and I often give people more credit than they necessarily deserve. I have faith in the good side of humanity, and I trust in each person's ability to redeem themselves if redemption is what they really want. To me, this is optimistic and far preferable to the alternative, but to others, I am apparently - hopelessly - naive. I admit that sometimes I may deserve this title, but other times I am shocked by the audacious person before me who feels compelled to make such a sharp judgment against someone they barely know (and thus my optimism works against me!).



The first time I recall being labeled naive, I was a junior in college. I had just transferred from my community college, and I was taking Playwriting I. The instructor was a less-than-pleasant man who wanted so badly to be artsy and unusual that he wrote page-long descriptions of one paragraph assignments and then read them to us as a class, each one topping the last on how we needed to "play" with the assignment, "dance" with the requirements, and, finally, make our products "sparkle." Yes, he used those words in exactly those ways.



As the class progressed, I found myself disagreeing on more than one occasion with another student, a man who spent more time instructing people on how to pronounce his last name than he did actually working in theater. On this day, however, we were debating the purpose and motivation of writing. This man, a self-proclaimed artiste, explained that it was necessary to put his art aside in order to cater to the masses (cue dramatic music). I, of course, disagreed. I replied that, while his method may have worked wonders for the likes of Louisa May Alcott and Margaret Mitchell, it was unlikely to produce a satisfied artist. Instead, I explained, I wrote (and write) for myself. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it, and if I never stage a play or sell a novel, so be it. The disgruntled artiste promptly told me I was naive for thinking any successful artist behaved in such a manner. Just as I came up with a response more artistic than "Bite me," the instructor cut us off. That was the last time I engaged in a conversation with that student.


After I finished my undergraduate work, I moved to upstate New York to work on my M.A. After a long semester of semiotics, hermaneutics, and hundreds of hours ensconced in theory that I promptly forgot, I found myself taking a very enjoyable class on literature by ethnic women. As a starting piece, however, our professor assigned "The Yellow Wall-paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Now this professor was an incredibly impressive woman who deserved no small amount of praise for her work and intellect, and I would have been happy to worship her accordingly had she not been so busy telling me how much praise she deserved. That being said, the overall class was great and I still build upon the foundation of knowledge she set for me. With this particular story, however, our ultra-feminista professor lectured us on how all women fall victims to men much like the woman in this story. She wailed about the loss of livelihood that each woman experiences when she sacrifices (yes, sacrifices) her self and her future at the hands of her controlling husband (cue more dramatic music). When I tried to explain how I felt that surely not all women lived like this, I was once again branded "naive."

So, there you have it. Call me optimistic, call me naive, call me whatever you want. I will continue to believe in the good side of humanity and assume that everything is going well, and I will be happy. You will be next to me, judging me, labeling me, and ultimately calling me naive. Luckily, I'm optimistic that you will change your mind.

From the Mouths of Strangers

Everyday I drive to work and use the back road to get there. Each day I pass a sharp curve in the road with a guard rail, and each day I notice the blue and orange ribbons on the guard rail. I slow down, think about the ambiguous accident the ribbons must represent, and I go on with my day. I have done this everyday that I've driven to work for the last three years. Today, I found out why.

Today was a different day for me. I taught, I held office hours, I grew frustrated with a student, laughed with some coworkers, and left. Today, however, I stayed late to have lunch with a friend of mine, a man I always refer to as Gorgeous (because he is!). We talked and laughed, and overall it was a very enjoyable meal, but the result was that I left work much later than usual. I took my usual route home, thinking all the way how much I wanted to get home in time to rest for just an hour before I picked up Ellie. As the saying goes, we make plans . . . God laughs.

Today I found myself immersed in surprising midday traffic, and when I passed the guard rail with the ribbons I barely glanced over, yet I saw just enough to realize there was a man with the ribbons today. I don't know what compelled me to do this (although I have a guess), but I stopped. I turned my car around, and I returned to the ribbons. As I walked up to the man, he noticed me and offered a greeting. As he did so, he began to cry. I greeted in kind and asked him if he wanted to talk about what brought him there today. His story changed my life.

To protect his identity I will refer to him by his initials, P. J. C. I soon learned that PJC comes to this spot every month, close to the 21st, and puts up fresh ribbons and flowers. On January 21, 2007, PJC and his two sons were on a lengthy and enjoyable motorcycle ride together, partly to rejoice in the fact that they all lived close to each other once again (the oldest son, B. J. C., had just returned to the area two weeks earlier). PJC lead the ride up until they reached the train tracks at the intersection right before the guard rail. As the train neared its end, PJC motioned for BJC to take the lead. He did, but, tragically, he was overzealous in his enthusiasm on an unfamiliar road. He lost control of his bike on the curve, slid along the pavement, and died instantly. PJC and his other son, R. J. C., did everything they could for him, but it was too late. At the young age of twenty-five, BJC died.

I listened to this man talk for two hours about who his son was, what he did with his life, and the miracles the man and his family have experienced since losing their oldest son. He spoke of yellow butterflies representing lost loved ones in his wife's family, and as he did so, two yellow butterflies came to our spot on the road. He spoke of numbers representing importance in his family and reappearing in various parts of their lives. He spoke of favored songs played in unlikely places, best friends and former bosses offering tributes, former girlfriends coming from near and far, all to help remember and honor his son. As he spoke, I found myself caught up in the story he had to offer about bereavement and loss turning to hope and faith.

I don't mean for this story to sound overly sentimental and optimistic. PJC and his wife are far from "over" their son's death, and he said with some confidence that he will still be on the side of the road around this time next month. However, he will do so knowing his son is in Heaven and he is there for a reason. After he finished, he asked what brought me to this spot, and so I offered minimal details of my own story. We connected, this stranger and I, and we don't even know each other. We shared stories, we cried, and then we parted ways with only the promise of prayers for each other's future.

To many, this story will seem overly trite and unlikely. To others it may seem like a foolish decision to stop on a highway to speak to a strange man. Still others will see this story as evidence of His work as they already know is likely to happen. To me and to him, PJC, it's another day, another moment to grieve, and another person to share an experience we can only pray will remain a mystery to our well-intentioned friends and family. And it's another reason to thank Him for the strange and unexpected gifts He brings to our lives, including this experience.

Follow the Trail

I really try to practice what I preach. If I tell my students not to use Wikipedia, I don't use Wikipedia. If I tell my students to turn things on time . . . well, I try to turn things in close to on time. What I tell my students most often, however, is to follow the trail. These three words tend to answer most of their questions. Why am I failing? Well, let's see. You earned an F on your paper. You earned on F on your paper because it was half the required length. It was half the required length because you didn't know how long it was supposed to be. You didn't know how long it was supposed to be because you sleep through every class. So, to answer your question, you are failing because you sleep through class. And, problem solved!

I use the same approach to politics. Recently I had an argument with a close family member whom I often respect and admire, but this conversation left me baffled. Close Family Member (CFM) was excited because of a new bill that states an individual can not be responsible for more than 15% of the cost of COBRA. "That's great!" I told her, "where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would have to cover the rest, which left me asking again, "But where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would receive a tax credit for the 85% they paid for the individual COBRA plan. I, of course, asked again, "Where's the money coming from?" Somewhere in this plan, someone is paying for this. My tax dollars? Yours? Cuts in a budget that we otherwise consider important (such as education or defense)? I don't know, and neither did she. My point remains the same. You have to follow the trail if you want to fully understand a subject. The same is apparently true of my latest ventures and vexations.

My husband and I are in the process of trying to adopt. That's right. We are "in the process of" merely "trying to" adopt. We did the research, found an agency, followed the steps, filled out the application, and prepared for our meeting. Then we learned that they are only licensing families who will adopt children over the age of ten or sibling groups. In other words, they won't license us. No problem, there are many agencies out there. I tried going directly to Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. They are only licensing families willing to adopt sibling groups. I called another agency, and then another, and then another. We are ready to adopt. We are ready to take all the classes in the world in order to provide a home and family for a child in waiting. Unfortunately, the agencies are not ready for us. Each agent and/or representative said that the highest need for adoption right now belongs to sibling groups, so they are reserving their resources for those groups. I understand this, so I felt it was best to take my own advice and follow the trail. I am, after all, entirely new to this area and not well-versed in who is adopted each year versus who is entering the system. Here is what I found:

3,000+ Children currently available for adoption in Texas
29 Percentage of African-American children in "Substitute Care" in Texas
12 Percentage of African-American children in all of Texas
1 Number of meetings required to start the application process
30 Hours of classes to take before being cleared for licensure
4-6 Months typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child
1-2 Years typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child is unwilling to take a sibling group and/or a teenager
7-17 Age of children most likely waiting for adoption
$1,000 Cost that must be paid in installments in order to adopt
$1,000 Cost that is refunded to the family once the adoption is complete

I saw pictures of children, read profiles, and learned more about the countless young people waiting for true homes and families. I read stories about successful adoptions and adoptions gone wrong. I spoke to agents about children with behavioral disorders, abusive histories, and disabilities as a result of abuse and neglect. I followed every trail I could find, and each time I found obstacle after obstacle in the way of adopting, but at the end of the trail was a child who needs what I have to offer: a safe home and a family.

I know that we will adopt and soon enough we will have a child, but I will admit that facing all these obstacles almost a year after we got started (and admittedly put everything on hold) is discouraging. Equally discouraging is the number of people stating that we don't need to adopt because we can have biological children (true), we will put our family through considerable hardships by adopting (true), and so we shouldn't adopt (false). Which, of course, takes me back to following the trail. I admit to not knowing enough about adoption just yet, but I am learning. Meanwhile, I can't but wonder if more people wouldn't adopt, and if fewer people would object, if only they were willing to follow the trail as well.

This is where the trail starts: http://tare.dfps.state.tx.us/search/SearchResults.jsp

It's Not Where You Look for Answers but Where You Find Them that Counts

It's not where you look for answers but where you find them that counts. This statement, if read to my students, would seem to contradict nearly everything I tell them about how to do research, what counts as credible, and why they can't use Wikipedia. Yet faith changes things. In this instance I am not talking about answers to questions but answers to prayers, so perhaps it would better to replace the word "answers" with "blessings." It's not where you look for blessings but where you find them that counts. That's better. I've found this to be true after weeks of praying and searching for help for my little sister. I did all of this work, asked all of these people for help, and yet it was someone to whom I'd only mentioned this problem in passing who presented me with a solution.

Let me start with another story to explain. I don't know who wrote this story or even who told it to me, but here is the story that first opened my eyes. There was once a man who lived in a deep valley. This man was a good Christian who went to church and prayed to God. Soon the man learned through weather reports that a vicious storm was coming, sure to flood the entire village. Everyone was advised to leave. As neighbors packed and panicked, the man said he was staying in his home because he was a good Christian and God would take care of him. Soon the storm came and the valley flooded, and the man went to the second story of his house. As he did so, rescue workers passed in a boat and urged him to come with them, but he said he was staying because he was a good Christian and God would take care of him. The valley continued to flood, forcing the man to the roof of his house. There, a helicopter passed and rescue workers called out, urging him to come with them. He gave the same response. Soon the valley flooded beyond the roof of his house and the man drowned. In Heaven, the man turned to God and expressed his disbelief stating, "I have served you well. Why would you let this happen to me?" God responded, "I warned you with reports. I tried to save you first with a boat and then with a helicopter. What more did you want?"

In many ways, I have been the man in the house. My little sister has experienced many problems recently that are not my place to put here, but I can describe my search for a solution. I felt my church was the best place to look, and so I began by calling a woman in charge of a ministry designed to help in similar situations. The woman's identity is not important. She has done so much for our church and helped in so many ways, but for whatever reason I did not hear back from her. I then turned to a pastor associated with our church. Again, his identity is not important, but he has played an important role in my path with this church. He heard my story and offered to help, but I did not hear back from him either. Finally I turned to a woman who I have often considered a friend, and I asked her for help. On this day I skipped the church service in order to reach this woman where I knew she would be. She offered to help, and I did not hear back from her either. Frustrated, I felt the best I could do in the moment was ask my Sunday School class to pray for my sister. In this way, God heard my prayers.

On this day, there was a notice in a church bulletin about a young girl who had problems like my sister's, who found help through a church-based program. One person in my Sunday School class, a woman I cannot thank enough, saw this notice and thought of my sister. She notified me that day, and with my classmate's help, my sister's story is beginning to change. Now when I pray for my sister, I also give thanks for this woman from my class, the bulletin from the church, and the mysterious ways in which God answers our prayers.

I asked a question, and I looked for answers. Instead of asking God for help and watching for His answer, I looked where I thought His answers would be, and as a result I almost missed the answer he provided. If it had not been for my Sunday School friend, there is a good chance I would have missed his answer altogether. I learned an important lesson through this experience, and I hope I remember to use this experience as I search for future answers (and blessings).

You Can't Even Count on Fluff

I admit it. I read fluffy literature. And I don't mean I read fluffy literature as in once a year or so I pick up a novel that will eventually have to be part of my secret collection of crap books that I won't admit to owning (including a few leftovers from my Sweet Valley High days). I mean I read fluffy literature on a regular basis. Does it have shopping, shoes, or Choos in the title? I probably read it. I read fluffy literature on a regular basis not only because the sheer lack of depth provides a welcome relief from the serious, quality literature I read for school, but also because I genuinely enjoy fluffy literature. I believe in year-round beach reads, and I keep them front and center on my bookshelves right next to the likes of James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. However, I feel I have an oft-written understanding with these authors. I will pour what little money I have into their books, recommend them to other people, and continue to support their tried-and-trite stories in exchange for the small little formula that equals good fluff: a trendy outfit, a night with too many drinks, a handsome stranger, and a happy ending. Is that really too much to ask? Apparently so.

In recent months I have found myself inundated with previously loyal authors who have since failed to provide me with the key ingredient to fluffy literature: the happy ending. (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT. However, if it's any consolation, the books I am about to spoil are clearly not worth reading because they have messed up the balance of cheesy stories and satisfied readers.) I have been a loyal follower of Jennifer Weiner since the very beginning. I stood "In Her Shoes," kept her with me because she was "Good in Bed," endured "Little Earthquakes," and finally said "Goodnight, Nobody" for several years before she ruined our otherwise harmonious relationship in "Certain Girls." Here we see Connie Shapiro, a character first introduced in "Good in Bed," who has at long last found her suitable partner, a wonderful man who helps to raise her daughter from a previous relationship. Together they begin pursuing their own baby via a surrogate mother, only to have the husband die suddenly from a heart attack mere weeks before they discover they are expecting. That's right, he died. No warning, no foreboding, nothing. One day they are happily ever after, and the next day he's in the happily ever afterlife. Jennifer Weiner, we are through.

I consoled myself past this novel and continued my pursuit of modern day fairy tales only to find the balance of my literary universe disrupted again by Kate Jacobs. Now I will be the first to admit my expectations should not have been altogether too high when picking up a book with the assiduous title, "The Friday Night Knitting Club," but I still had hopes. Georgia Walker, an honorable woman who ran her own business while raising her daughter all by herself after her husband deserted her so early in their life together. Now that her daughter is approaching her teenager years, Georgia finds herself rejoined with her ex-husband. They rediscover their love and his reliability just as her business finds a new level of success accompanied by a growing circle of close friends. Then, of course, she discovers she has cancer. Two hundred pages and a few short months later, she, too, dies. One minute she's improving, the next minute she's fireplace fodder. Thank you, and good night. Kate Jacobs, our potential reader/author relationship perished alongside your main character. You may have gone on to rejoice in the growth and ambition of her young daughter, Dakota, but I'm not going to take my chances. Fool me once . . .

Most recently, and the book that prompted this blog, is Jill Mansell and her latest novel "Miranda's Big Mistake." The fluffiness should have been guaranteed in the novel. There is nothing about this title that indicates hidden depths, insightful glimpses into human nature, or newfound philosophies on navigating life and love in the 21st century. Instead, the title implies 60,000 words on the most riveting aspects of what is more than likely a bad haircut, a one night stand, and eventually finding Mr. Right in the form of a famous race car driver who finds love in a young hair stylist despite her low income and small social status. Upon winning his biggest race to date, Mr. Wonderful will come racing to her said, prepared to finally reach the culmination of their growing love . . . until, of course, he gets into a car accident with a semi on his way to her home and dies instantly (simmer down, Freud, I understand my predisposition to dislike this particular plot twist). Another love grows, and another bites the proverbial dust. And with this crappy twist, Ms. Mansell, please accept my sincerest invitation to join Ms. Jacobs and Ms. Weiner in my fireplace. Along with your main characters, may each of your books return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Now perhaps I am overly bitter about these books. Perhaps I should accept that even the fluffiest of novelists has a deep burning desire to be more than a featured spot on Target's "Recommended Beach Reads." I can understand that. However, as an avid reader with severely limited time and a dissertation that has yet to write itself, I do feel that in exchange for my $12.99 per book you could at least allow me the privilege of a title that indicates this shift in literary styles, perhaps a new genre, or at the very least a pseudonym that acknowledges you are not going to ride on the wings of your previously fluffy fables in order to sell your newfound devotion to heavy doses of reality. Is that really so much to ask for?

Parenting in Public: Part II, Restless in Restaurants

By now you, my four faithful followers, have doubtlessly read my diatribe on children in grocery stores and have decided either a) I am overly cynical about children and should not be allowed in public during daylight hours, or b) I am overly honest and have finally put into words what you have also thought during your grocery-shopping-to-the-soundtrack-of-shrieking-children experiences but hesitated to say out loud. With that, I am going to use my insider information to enlighten you on what actually happens when parents bring their children to restaurants. Let's begin with the obvious.

Imagine the scenario: you're settling down in a booth with your significant other. You've had a long, hard week, and all you can think of is how nice it is to finally relax with the person you love. You'll have interesting conversation, a good meal after which you won't have to clean up, and by the end of dinner you will feel so refreshed you'll be ready to enjoy the rest of your evening. As you lean back into your booth, you feel a thump against the back of your head. Assuming it must have been an accidental bump as the person behind you also gets settled, you let the incident go unnoticed. Till it happens again. And again. And again. Upon the fourth thump you realize that the thumping is not from some well-intentioned adult but from an overly boisterous and uncontrolled four year-old behind you who is using your head as the recipient of his makeshift drum stick. You wait a minute, confident that his parents will realize what he is doing and punish him appropriately. After several minutes, you turn around to ask for help only to realize his parents are enveloped in their own quiet, relaxing evening on the other side of the booth, completely unaware of and unconcerned with their son's latest antics. Over the next forty-five minutes that feels more like three hours, the young boy grows increasingly restless and appeases himself with shrieking, singing, and an ill-conceived but long-lasting one-sided food fight. At the end of this time, you finally accept that his parents have chosen your side of the booth as his babysitter/personal entertainer for the evening, and you leave the restaurant $45 poorer but with a stronger-than-ever headache that will surely survive the weekend despite your best defenses of Excedrin and Advil. That, my friends, is only Round One.

What hapless customers again fail to realize is that your experiences as a fellow customer/guest only make up a small part of the overall effect a child has on a restaurant. As a server, I saw the head-thumping child on more than one occasion. However, I also saw his parents distract him during the day by letting him drink straight from a bottle of steak sauce. I saw his mother pacify him by breast-feeding him, uncovered, while she continued her conversation (and, yes, I'm still talking about the four year-old). I saw his father change his diaper on the table where you have since eaten a meal, and I then found that same diaper four weeks later when I pulled the booth away from the wall to clean behind it. Rest assured that these were not the regular occurrences you fear them to be. We'll call these experiences Round Two. After all, how much trouble can one little boy really cause all by himself? Round Three introduces the next round of havoc-reaking when the tiny terror that is Snowflake brings his siblings.

Together, the siblings - or Snowflake, Precious, and TinyTyrant as I will now call them - bring us to a deeper level of hell in the restaurant world. It takes nine boys to make a softball team, but it only takes three to get a decent game of tag around the tables whilst the servers walk by balancing endless plates of hot food and trays of drinks sure to break if they fall. Yes, I saw this game. Yes, it happened more than once. Of course, many parents realize that unsupervised boys will cause such trouble, and no one wants to be associated with such embarrassment. The solution? The parents who request a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant from their own children. This was a weekly occurrence and a different family almost every time. Whereas Snowflake could only start a decent drum beat with the back of your head, Precious can accompany him with the silverware-to-plates instrument, and TinyTyrant will be right there with them and his oh-so-adorable solo. This, my friends, is Round 3, also known as the inner level of restaurant hell.

To be fair, these children do not account for all children I saw while working in a restaurant. There were plenty of children who were well-behaved, controlled, and even cute. There were also plenty of parents who were aware of their responsibilities to the patrons around them and more than happy to control their children as necessary. However, every time Tracey suggests we have a family dinner in a restaurant, these are not the children I remember. Likewise, no matter how well-behaved (read: trained) my own daughter is, I don't want to surround her with these children anymore than I want to risk her becoming one of them.

So there you have it. After seven years of working in public service positions, I came out of these jobs with almost no savings, very little resume padding, but just enough resentment toward my experiences to ensure my daughter never gets to go anywhere. In a world of paradoxical irony, I imagine someday Ellie will take her own children everywhere she goes, refuse to control their behavior for fear of damaging their fragile ideas of self-worth, and ultimately be the mother of the children I couldn't stand in the first place. And those kids will be my grandchildren.

Parenting in Public . . .and All That It Entails

After two years working at a grocery store and five years working at a restaurant, I am well-versed in parenting in public. I've seen the scolding, the threatening, and even the public spankings. I've seen the hissy fits, the laughing fits, and the parents' fits. I've had four year olds tell me "Please" and "Thank you, Ma'am" for every motion I made, and I've also had four year-olds who threw themselves to the (questionably clean) ground because I wouldn't let them run my register. After twelve years of various stages of employment, I've learned the hard way how to maintain patience at work (for the most part), accept the crazy parenting methods of the world at large, and, of course, keep a surgical mask on hand for potential cleanup issues. Yet the real result of my many experiences is not my own expertise on working in public venues, but rather it is what not to do with my own child. Unfortunately for Ellie, my overly precautious parenting methods often mean she doesn't get to go anywhere at all. Allow me to defend myself.

I was fifteen years old when I began bagging groceries under the illustrious title of "Courtesy Clerk" at Fareway. For $5.50 an hour I bagged groceries, unloaded carts and loaded cars, and "faced" shelves by pulling all the products to the front. After two months of older customers snapping at me for not asking the tired-and-long-since-extinct question of "Paper or plastic?" and teenagers trying to "get to know me" so that I would vouch for their age at the tobacco counter, I was sure I would spend my adult years running a home-delivery business for groceries just to alleviate the pressures of the overworked and underpaid courtesy clerks. Then, of course, came the day I'll never forget: the Day the Toddlers Wouldn't Stop. It was amazing.

I had heard toddlers screaming in stores before, and I had seen countless kids come through the aisles, but once summer break hit I found myself working day shifts as early as 7am. I quickly learned that with the day shifts also comes the day customers, aka the day moms with their day kids and day frustrations. Lord help us all. (Side note: I am by no means suggesting that all daytime mothers and their children are like this, but the population is large and far-reaching. If you are taking offense already, this probably applies to you.) Cart after cart came through the aisles with screaming children, crying toddlers, and a whole hoarde of terrorizing tyke tyrants in between. There were some respectable moms who, upon seeing the imminence of midget mutiny, hurried back out of the store, reprimanded their children until they succombed to good behavior, or a combination of the two. Unfortunately for me and my fellow employees, these mothers were more the exception than the rule.

The most amazing part of this day, however, was not that these children were so awful, and it wasn't even that the mothers were so awful at handling their children. Instead, it was amazing to see the sense of entitlement that seaped through every person, patron, and parent. They not only allowed their children to behave in such uncontrollable fashions, but they walked along blithely as though no one else in the world was affected by their scenario. A few mothers even commented to each other on how they would only be in the store "a few minutes" so surely the employees could handle it (all the while failing to realize that each employee was treated to eight hours of tantrums that would only last "a few minutes," because just as one tantrum ended, a new child was sure to arrive with a new objection to be voiced to the world). After three months of bagging and an ill-fated return later in life to spend a year running a register, Fareway and its customers single-handedly cost my daughter nearly any chance she had of going to the grocery store.

I have similar stories to tell after working at a pizza place in a mall food court, but my best stories will come from years of waitressing at a steakhouse all too often treated as the angus answer to Chuck E. Cheese. Rest assured, more stories to follow. They will undoubtedly make you laugh, grimace, and reconsider ever eating in another public venue.

A Tribute to My Best Friend

My best friend is an amazing man. He is loyal to a fault, protective to no end, and always there for me when I need him. He cuddles me while I sleep, and he always offers to go with me when I leave my house. He is a bit messy, and his hygiene habits leave something to be desired, but I still call him "Handsome" every single day. I remember the day he came into my life, and I will be devastated when he leaves me, but I know we will find each other again in Heaven. My best friend is exactly what I dreamed of when I was a little girl and he's everything I could hope for as an adult, and that is why he deserves this tribute. Here's to you, Rebel Lee Donels, you are the best friend, companion, and dog, and I am thankful for you everyday.

Rebel's life didn't start out so easy. He was born in an unknown location in Iowa, and he went to live with a family that had another black Lab, Bear. Bear was three years older than Rebel, but they grew very close over time. Their family didn't have any people kids, but Rebel and Bear loved their owners and that love was reciprocated. As the economy grew weaker, however, Rebel and Bear's parents lost their jobs, and soon their bills became too expensive. As a result, Rebel and Bear were turned over to an animal shelter. They were five and eight years old respectively.

At the shelter, the volunteers and coordinators encouraged people to consider adopting both dogs in order to keep them together, but that proved too much for the interested adoptive families, and Bear soon found a home. After four months, Rebel was transferred to a foster home where he lived for four weeks before I found him.

When Rebel and I first met, he could not have been less interested in me. He had a new field to explore, a tennis ball that was yet to be destructed, and the scent of many dogs who had come before him. His foster mom stayed as long as she could, but she soon told me I would have to take him and leave or she would not be able to give him up. I asked her then if she wanted to keep him, but she assured me she wanted to continue her work as a foster parent and could not have any more permanent dogs in the way. As we walked to my car, Rebel allowed me to take his leash without fuss and then leaped joyfully into my car. I took that as a sure sign of happiness to come, bid his foster mother goodbye, and went on my way with my new/old dog. I just knew we would be instant family. Needless to say, I was wrong.

Rebel chewed through two metal kennels, tore out a towel bar, ripped a door in half, dislodged four electrical outlets, and defecated across two hundred square feet of carpet. That was week one. I took Rebel to the vet to see what I could do differently and found myself returning to my home with my $10 dog and $200 in Prozac and anti-hysteria pills. We worked with Rebel as much as we could and after a while found ourselves settling in with our new family. We soon learned that we settled a little too quickly.

After four weeks of Prozac and other medications, Rebel seemed to find comfort in his new family as well, and he liked to stay close to us as we went about our days. In the evening we all sat together on our three seasons porch and played cards while Rebel and Emma continued their silent battle of who had the best sleeping spot beneath our chairs. As we settled for another rousing hand of Spite and Malice, Rebel began moving across the floor in what can only be described as a water-free doggy crawl. At first we laughed at this humorous new move we didn't know our dog was capable of making, but we soon realized he was moving without complete control of his body. We tried everything we could think of in talking to him, holding him, rubbing his ears to calm him, but nothing made a difference. Within minutes we were on our way to the emergency animal hospital.

It would be impossible for me to recreate the events of that night, but I relived them again the first time I took my daughter to the emergency room. Rebel shook helplessly, panicking when aware and vomiting when he wasn't, but there was nothing we could do. We watched as the vet injected him again and again with medicines designed to overtake the seizure and help him relax, but nothing seemed to work. The doctor explained that Rebel had either a brain tumor or epilepsy, but the only thing that mattered in the moment was gaining control of his seizure. After three hours, the vet reached what he called his last chance shot. If this drug did not put Rebel to sleep and put an end to the seizure, he would have to put Rebel to sleep forever. The drug worked, and we were told to leave and return in the morning. We had known Rebel for four weeks at that point, and we were inconsolable.

Rebel's story and his chances improved dramatically the next day, and since that time Rebel has taken Phenobarbital twice a day everyday with extra pills on the days he has seizures. We will never know if his original family knew about his epilepsy, but we do know the shelter would have had him euthanized if they had known. This is not a sign of cruelty on their part, but rather it is the sad result of too many dogs with too little funding. Rebel's medicine is $15 per month, and that would have been too much for them.

So that was Rebel's beginning, and since then we have only grown closer. Rebel moved to New York with us, and he stayed with me when Tracey and Emma went to start our home in Texas. He continues to stay close to me at night when everyone else has gone to bed, and he barks and growls as necessary when new people arrive. He lays with me on the bed, and he is always ready for the next car ride. He listens to my secrets, and he saves his kisses for when I need them most. Rebel is truly the best friend I'll ever have. But he isn't perfect.

A tribute to Rebel would not be a proper tribute without the full story. Rebel barks. All the time. He has good instincts when it comes to remaining silent while Ellie sleeps, but he considers a phone in my hand as a personal invitation to commence barking again. He also eats a fortune in rawhides every month, and if I fail to supply him with rawhides with proper frequency, he will bark even more. He takes up too much space on the bed, and he finds a way to lay in exactly the right position to make sleep impossible for me. He doesn't jump on strangers, but he jumps on me (whether I want him to or not). He also likes to take himself for walks when an open door or gate presents itself, but he insists this is not the horrible fault I make it out to be because he always comes home. He has Big Black Dog Syndrome, also known as the ability to scare people based entirely on his appearance, but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care about scaring people because Rebel is not a People-Pleaser in the traditional sense of most labs. Most labs are known for wanting little more than making their people happy. They have held the title of the most popular breed in America for twenty years running, and they are the most likely breed to be adopted from shelters and rescue groups. They work as service dogs and as therapy companions, and yet Rebel is not concerned with any of this. He doesn't care about making friends with new people in my house, and he doesn't care about working or cooperating any more than absolutely necessary.

Instead, Rebel has one concern, and he takes it very seriously. Rebel will get up in the middle of the night, stop in the middle of a meal, and give up a great game of tug-of-war in order to take care of his one responsibility, self-designated though it may be. That is, Rebel would do anything for me. I'm his best friend, and he is mine, and that is how it forever will be. So this is my tribute to you, Rebel Lee Donels, best friend and black lab extraordinaire. You are twelve years old now, and I know you can't be with me forever in the physical sense, but you will always be my very best friend.

Realty Reality

I hate real estate. Actually, that's not true. I have a love/hate relationship with real estate. I love the possibilies. Bigger rooms, smaller rooms, more rooms, less rooms. Coriander vs. granite. Hard wood vs. carpet. Tile vs. linoleum. Crown molding, wainscotting, or both? Wooden fence, chain link, or iron? The list is endless. I love walking through new houses and considering how I would change the furniture, what color I would paint the walls, and how I could raise my children there. This, of course, is the buying end of real estate.

However, I hate the selling part of real estate. I hate putting my house on the market, waiting for the phone calls, packing all my things under the guise of staging only to unpack them when my house doesn't sell. I hate watching people traipse across my floors, putting their foreign hands on my belongings, all the while knowing they probably won't be buying. Not my house, anyway. I hate hearing them have the same conversation I had in what could have been there house about how they want to change the paint we just applied, tear up the carpet we just put down, and ultimately undo all of our "improvements." In the end, however, none of this really matters. I can get over all of this regardless of whether or not my house sells this time around. No, what really gets to me is the open house and the 21st century neighborhood busybodies.

I know what many of you are probably thinking right now. Busybodies? Seriously? When did we jump back in to the 1950s and how long are we staying? But busybodies they are. You see, I grew up watching countless sitcoms from the 50s and 60s and I saw the endless jokes about the women sitting in their windows, watching the neighbors to see when they left, when they came home, and what new items they brought with them. The ladies got together for coffee or tea when their underlying purpose was to see their competition in the best housekeeping, cooking, and all around housewifery. They made friends with each other, sure, but they also kept a mental list of who had the newest hat or the latest dress and whose husband was the most solicitous of his wife's many needs. Ah, the good old days.

Today, however, we no longer use such underhanded means to spy on our neighbors. We don't borrow cups of sugar, and we don't sit on the front porch to greet each other by name. I knew all of this coming into adulthood. What I didn't know was that these activities had been replaced by much more patient busybodies than we've ever seen before. These women aren't in a hurry to find out the truth about me or my family. Sure, they'll sit by their windows while the moving van is unloaded (taking note, no doubt, of the second-rate moving company and the worse-for-the-wear furniture), but they won't be in such a hurry to gather the nitty-gritty details so quickly. They'll live beside me for years without ever feeling the need to see inside my house or monitor my daily living. Then one fateful day as they are leaving for work or to collect their children, they will notice the telling sign in my front yard: For Sale. Jackpot. With a for sale sign will come the inevitable open house, and that, my friend, is when the 21st century busybodies will make their move.

Make no mistake; this will not be just any old cursory visit. An open house is a full on invitation to the neighborhood to come to my house, examine the details, collect all the dirt, and ultimately put to rest the many questions that have infiltrated their minds for the past four years. It's impressive, really, because these women have not only found a way to gather all of this information without putting in the effort of forced friendship or reluctant socializing, but they have also made it so they can gather all of this information without supervision or interference. Sheer genius. Domestic espionage at its very best.

As I prepare to (potentially) put my house on the market for the second time, these are the memories of our last real estate experience that are racing through my head. All of this makes me want to reconsider putting my house on the market, reconsider ever moving again, or at the very least open my house to the world with a personal invitation to each of my neighbors to come in and view my personal life. This time perhaps I could provide a special handout just for these neighborhood busybodies with directions to my personal closet, a copy of this year's tax forms, and a pricing list of all the major components of my house. You know, just in case they missed anything last year.

Making it Work as a Working Mom

Starting when I was four years old, my aunt Shannon asked me repeatedly what I wanted to be when I grew up. Each time I would answer, "A mommy!" much to her chagrin. "No!" she responded, "you have to be more than that! You have to have a career!" Needless to say, I didn't listen long. As a teenager, I eschewed the very possibility of having a family. "No kids for me!" I vowed as I planned my future with one dog and a posh apartment in New York City. I married in my early twenties amid renewed conversations about my familial intentions, but my husband and I knew what we would do. We would have kids, as we had planned, and we would both work. Although I never spent a day in daycare, I knew childcare would be an integral part of my future as a parent. Then, of course, came the time when I was pregnant.

For nine months I found myself surrounded by surprising questions about whether or not I would stay home once my daughter was born. I say surprising because it wasn't until I moved to Texas and saw the true definition of the Bible Belt that I also saw how being a stay-at-home mom is not only not a rarity, but it is very much a career choice that women make for themselves with unexpected (for me) frequency. As I grew closer to delivery, my dear aunt returned to this conversation and half-jokingly wondered if she hadn't planted the seed of my determination never to be a stay-at-home mom. I can't say for sure what made me so determined, but determined I was.

After Ellison was born I found myself caught up in my love for my tiny little person, but I was still determined to go to work and still equally flabbergasted at how women could want to stay home (in much the same way other women are astounded by my preference to work). I wanted some time to be with her before returning to work, but standard maternity leave isn't really possible for instructors. Typically speaking, a professor/teaching fellow either takes the semester off or works the duration. Ellison turned six weeks old to the day on the same day the spring semester started, and off to work I went. For her first day in daycare, she was there for two hours. For the first hour I sat on the floor, held her, and cried. She slept through the whole thing. On the second day I had less time, so I cried the entire way to work. I did the same thing on the third day, the fourth day, and every day after that for the first three months my daughter spent in daycare. I cried, I worried, I wondered if I was making the right decision all the while knowing I did not want to be a stay-at-home mom.

It's funny when I reflect on what so many stay-at-home moms told me about what pushed their decision. They talked to me about missing the first smile, the first laugh, the first step. They talked about the possibility of her getting hurt or growing more attached to a teacher instead of me, and so much more. Yet none of this dissuaded me from returning to work. When Ellison was old enough to begin crying when we dropped her off, I, too, began crying again everyday I left her in the arms of another woman. But I still knew I wanted to work.

Today, Ellison is two years and two months old, and she is in preschool. I still work, and she still spends seven to eight hours of her day with other caregivers. I don't regret taking her to daycare and I don't regret choosing to work, but I understand better now than ever before what I really worry about missing. I didn't miss her first smile, laugh, or step (or, if I did miss these things, no one told me), but if I had, she would have done it again, and she would not have realized I missed such a momentous occasion. In the same way, I don't worry about her experiencing an extra cold this year because of the other children around her, and I don't fret over the time she tumbled in school while trying to play in the bathroom. At least, not anymore than I would have worried otherwise.

Instead, when people question me on the events I may miss because I am a working mom, I think about days like today. Today, my daughter was dressed and ready to go when she decided to grab her favorite book and say, "Mommy, we read this first. Then school." If you're reading this blog, you probably can't imagine her large blue eyes looking at me so matter-of-factly, and you definitely can't imagine the innocence in her small little voice as her head bobbed in agreement with her words. Yet these are the moments I worry about missing. How can I possibly tell this perfect little person that we can't read today because Mommy chooses to read to other people instead? What about yesterday when I went to prepare her breakfast and found my speed impeded by my thirty pound daughter who insisted, "I hold you!" while I cooked? These, I fear, are the moments I don't want to miss, and they are the moments I don't want to hurry through in an attempt to get to my out-of-the-home job.

When I first started working I was certain that those hours I spent crying after I dropped Ellison off were undoubtedly the hardest I would endure as a working mom. Needless to say, I was wrong. These hours are harder. These hours are also different because now I know what I'm missing. I still love my job and I would still rather work than stay home, but I have a better understanding of what it means now to leave my child with someone else and miss out on "the moments." I work fewer hours outside of my home now (one of my privileges as an instructor), but I also take comfort in the knowledge that I appreciate each and everyone of these moments because they are so few. I never tire of my daughter, and I never think her messy hands, runny nose, and ear-splitting screams are anything less than adorable. I treasure all of these things because, as her mom, that is also part of my job.

Which, of course, brings us back to when I was four years old. I said I didn't want a career, and I was wrong. When I was a teenager I said I would never have or want children, and I was wrong then, too. When I was pregnant I said I would never regret working, and for once, I was right. I don't regret working anymore than I regret the dissertation that isn't progressing as it should because today, just when it was time to rush out the door to spend hours reading Alice Childress, August Wilson, and the likes, well . . . today I sat down on the floor and read Dr. Seuss instead. And I don't regret that either.