City Mystique

“Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.”

--from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

I love Chicago. It’s been 5 years and 5 months since I moved here, and I feel as though the city has seeped into my soul. I love the natural beauty of the lakefront, and I love the engineered splendor of the architecture. I love the hundreds of free outdoor activities in the summer, and I love the festive atmosphere of the streets and stores in the winter. I love the easy accessibility of downtown, and I love the diversity of the sprawling neighborhoods. I was terrified to move to Chicago, and honestly, I probably never would have done it if I had felt like I had any other viable alternative. But now I am truly happy here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

That’s why the past couple of months have been more, shall we say, pensive than I expected. It’s been a little more than three years since I finished my master’s program, and I’ve been asked many times if I am thinking about going back to school for a doctorate. This question never really comes a surprise to me. I have always been good at school. “Smart” has always been a part of my identity. I’m sure many people – even me, at times – expect me to someday become Dr. Katie.

I am not opposed to the idea of it. I think that studying a subject that I really cared about could be a personally and professionally satisfying episode in my life. Once I put some space between myself and my master’s program, and after I got over the emotional trauma of finding a job, I started to entertain the idea of entering a doctoral program.

The first step was to identify and narrow the field I was interested in. That turned out to be easy. Based on my experience in the Learning Sciences program, I think the ideal program for me would be in cognitive science, with an emphasis on mathematical learning and education. With that in mind, I started to research programs. In a pretty exhaustive search, I found one program that I felt was in line with my requirements; that is, there appears to be only one program in the country that is specific enough to my interests that it would feel worth it to me to invest the time, money, and energy to apply, let alone enroll. It was the Mathematics and Science Education Ph.D. program offered jointly by two universities: UCSD and SDSU – both in San Diego.

I visited San Diego earlier this year for a completely different reason, and I have to admit that I really liked it there. It was really lovely. Easy to walk, lots to see, and the feel of a big city but without the gritty, intimidating feeling I get from New York or Los Angeles. And the weather? Glorious. I would miss snow at Christmas time, but I’ve never been a fan of cold, and the climate of San Diego has its appeal. I found I could entertain the idea of living there.

What I could not entertain, however, was the thought of leaving Chicago. I really do love it here. Beyond everything I said at the beginning of this blog, the nature of this city has really helped me to come into myself. Living here forced me to face a lot of my anxiety demons and learn how to do things on my own. It forced me to figure out the things I really care about and the things I could let go.

I moved here as terrified, panic-stricken Katie. Now I am comfortable, usually-not-panicking Katie. I’m Chicago Katie. And I like her better than the old version of me. Even on the bad days, when I feel myself slipping back into feelings of ineptitude and helplessness, I can go and take a walk to remind myself that living here on my own is not something a helpless person could do. No, I just could not entertain the thought of leaving. I put the thought of the doctoral program out of my head.

Then, yesterday, I was looking at train schedule in and out of Kalamazoo, MI in an attempt to find a way home for the Thanksgiving holiday. I spent my undergrad in Kalamazoo, and I found myself thinking about my time there. When I started my freshman year, I looked forward to trips back to my hometown, because I felt safer and more confident there. I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever really live anywhere else. Later on, once I was comfortable, I hated being away from Kalamazoo, because I felt safer and more confident there. Kalamazoo became the place I could never possibly leave. Even after I graduated and got a job in Chicago, I told myself the move would not be permanent. I couldn’t possibly leave Kalamazoo.

I think you see the pattern here. It’s really kind of silly for me to think that I could not learn to be happy, safe, and confident living somewhere else. In fact, my record shows that I learn to really love almost anywhere I find myself. And each place has, in its own way, changed me for the better.

So, I don’t fear that I’ll regress into someone I don’t want to be if I move away. But I would miss it here. There’s no question about that. And I do wonder if, assuming I move away, Chicago might lose its mystique. If I go away, am I running the risk of never being able to come back? Would Chicago ever be the same for me again?

The answer is likely no. I no longer have any desire to live in either Saginaw or Kalamazoo. I can’t picture myself living there the way I can picture myself living in San Diego. However, after some reflection, I realize that Chicago would probably never go back to what it was before I moved here, either. Every time I ride the train through Kalamazoo or drive through my hometown, I get a little flash of excitement as memories flood me. Even though both places feel a little empty because most of the people I knew there are gone, they are still just a little bit magical for me. I’m sure Chicago would inspire the same thrill for me if I ever left.

I’m not saying that I’ve decided to move to San Diego, or even to apply to the program. There are a number of other compelling reasons why I don’t want to do that. I have a job that I love with the potential to advance into the very things that the doctoral program would prepare me for, without having to sacrifice thousands of dollars or four years of my life. My family is near enough to be accessible, and that wouldn’t be the case if I were in San Diego. And even though I always end up being successful in school, I don’t always handle the pressure well.

All I’m really saying is that the idea of leaving Chicago doesn’t scare me any more. As speaking as someone who has spent much of her life being afraid, any day I can cross a fear off my list is a good day.

Alone

"[P]eople are rarely at their best when they are alone. They usually put their masks of politeness, good order, and good breeding aside. What's beneath? Some warty monster? Some disgusting thing that would make people run away, screaming? Sometimes, perhaps, but usually it's nothing bad at all. Usually people would just laugh if they saw us with our masks off -- laugh, make a revolted face, or do both at the same time."
-from Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King

For the last four years, I have lived alone. While I never much minded sharing space and was lucky enough never to have an intolerable roommate, the day I got my own apartment was a liberating one. I got to arrange all the furniture! I got to choose what to hang on the walls! I got to decide if and when I ever needed to wash the dishes or pick my pajamas up from the bathroom floor! I got to decide! JUST ME!

Looking back, I think I was justified in being excited about those things. These were the things that finally made me feel like I really lived somewhere. Not just rented one room and shared the space with someone else. Really lived there. That was exciting.

However, there was one other thought that has, since then, occasionally led me into trouble:

I can sit and do nothing all day, and no one will judge me!

Having suffered from both mild and extreme forms of social anxiety in the past, the idea of no one knowing what I was doing was very appealing to me. And on some level, living alone has been good for me that way. I spend much less time worrying about what other people will think about how I spend my time.

Unfortunately, there have been occasions when I take this "No one can see me! I can do whatever!" thing a little too far.

For example, on Saturday I was at home for a little while between errands. I decided to have a snack. I pulled the end of a cucumber, half a tomato, and an almost-empty bottle of ranch dressing out of the refrigerator. I decided that I didn't feel like cutting up the vegetables, nor could I be bothered to get a plate. I settled for squeezing the ranch dressing directly from the bottle onto the veggies, and biting pieces off as I would bite an apple. I sat on my couch (not at the table I was so excited to get, mind you) and made a lame attempt to catch the drippings in the plastic container the tomatoes had come in. I didn't have a napkin, either. When the dripping got bad enough, I did grab a tissue from the box next to me -- but not soon enough to stop if from getting on my shirt.

And how did I attempt to get the tomato juice and dressing off my shirt? Did I change my shirt so I could rinse it out? Did I at least get up and get a real napkin? Oh, no. I tried to lick the food off.

That was the moment, when I found myself licking my shirt, where I thought, "Wow. Really, Katie? If I were watching someone else do this, I would be really disgusted." I never, ever would have done something like that if someone was around to see me.

That is a particularly ridiculous example, but there are plenty of other times when I have similar thoughts. There was one Sunday a couple of years ago when I spent the entire day -- the entire day -- playing ridiculous, pointless online computer games. I never left my apartment. I never even showered or changed out of my pajamas. And again, I can remember thinking, "Really, Katie? This is what you are doing with your life today?" The thought alone was not enough to get me up off the couch -- but the shame of having a roommate know I was wasting a day probably would have been enough.

I am a different person when I am alone. I'm definitely not at my best. I'm lazy, sloppy, and apathetic. And at the moments when I realize just how lazy, sloppy, and apathetic I am being, one thought usually follows. I should see it coming, but I never do.

"No wonder you are single."

I hate myself every time I think that. It's an attitude I try to avoid. I don't think the world should view coupledom as some sort of status attained through hard work and discipline. (Maintaining a relationship, yes. Starting one, no.) I don't think couple status is something granted to the worthy. I don't believe that I am single because I do ridiculous, embarrassing things when I am alone.

On the other hand, there might be a lesson to be learned here. What I do or do not do while I am alone in my apartment probably has little effect on my personal life. However, the fact that I spend a substantial time alone in my apartment doesn't improve my chances of meeting anyone, either.

The goal shouldn't be to completely block out the lazy, sloppy, apathetic version of myself. She probably needs to show herself once and a while.

But the fewer opportunities I give her to show up, the better. If I don't want to be alone... I probably should not spend as much time alone.

Zero

"After Stanley taught Zero the last six letters of the alphabet, he taught him to write his name.
'Capital Z - e - r - o.'
Zero wrote the letters as Stanley said them. 'Zero,' he said, looking at his piece of paper. His smile was too big for his face.
Stanley watched him write it over and over again.
Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero Zero ...
In a way, it made him sad. He couldn't help but think that a hundred times zero was still nothing."
-- from Holes by Louis Sachar

Zero is something of a mathematical oddity. In principle, it seems simple enough to understand. Zero means nothing; it's what you write when there isn't anything to count. But try working with zero, and you'll soon find that it doesn’t play by the rules. Add it to something, and it doesn't make the something bigger. Subtract it from something, and the something doesn’t get smaller. Multiply it by something, and it completely wipes the something out. And heaven forbid you try to divide something by zero. All sorts of chaotic things can happen.

Zero is neither positive nor negative. It’s neither prime nor composite. Raise anything to the zero power, and the answer is 1. But raise zero to any power, and the answer is 0. Except, of course, if you raise zero to the zero power. That’s undefined. If you append a zero onto a number, you increase the number by a factor of ten. Well, unless it’s after the decimal point; in that case, the number does not change. Oh, and 0! = 1, but only by convention.

The list goes on, but don’t worry. I can say it simply: Zero is a pain in the ass. My professional life is plagued by sticky situations involving zero, perhaps more so now that I work on elementary materials. I must confess that these are the sorts of things I thought about when I first read the quote above in my latest book. I spent fifteen minutes or so yesterday thinking about how I could turn these ideas into a blog that would be interesting to anyone who is not a math textbook editor.

I failed. After all, a lame joke like “zero is a pain in the ass” only takes you so far. I figured I would have to take a quote from my next book. But as fate would have it, the fifteen minutes I spent thinking about this were the fifteen minutes before the curtain rose on my latest musical theater experience: Billy Elliott. And as the show progressed, I became more and more certain that I had missed the point of Stanley’s comment entirely.

Billy Elliott is the story of an 11-year-old boy living in Britain during the 1984 coal strike. His father gives him money for boxing lessons, but when he is late one day, he ends up using the money for the ballet class that follows the boxing lesson. Turns out the kid is talented. And the talent unleashes a fiery passion. Billy wants to be a ballet dancer, and his talent and passion eventually gets the whole town full of coal-mining men behind him.

Billy Elliott is an emotionally charged show all on its own. With music written by Elton John, how could it not be? The melodies tugged at my heartstrings through the whole show. But my breaking point came about three-quarters of the way through the show, during a song called “Electricity.” Billy sings about the way dancing makes him feel. Something comes over him, he says, and he is just free. By the end of the song, I was crying.

So what does this have to do with zero? Well… my own personal zero made me cry.

Did I mention that Billy Elliott was the 64th musical I have seen? Musical theater has been a little hobby of mine since I was in sixth grade. I saw a high school production of The Music Man that year, and I immediately fell in love with the whole concept – a way of storytelling that recognizes the funniest, deepest, and most crucial moments, and pauses to let the characters sing about them. If only life would allow us to stop and expand all our most important moments that way. To really reflect on and appreciate them. (And maybe even to record ourselves singing about them, so we can listen to them again later!) (Okay, maybe not that last part.)

A few months later, I saw Bye Bye Birdie, and suffered a small shock when I saw one of my own classmates on stage. She sang, she danced, she smiled. She paused to sing at the big moments. And suddenly I realized that watching the shows was really only scratching the surface. I could actually be in a show.

I started to sporadically audition for musicals. I never got in while I was in middle school. While I was cast in several straight shows in high school, and performed in several musical theater workshops, I still never made it into a musical. Private voice lessons and spending hours upon hours volunteering at the community theater made no difference. I just didn’t have the voice or the confidence. I continued to audition, and my fervor to be cast did not abate. Yet the number of shows I had been in stayed stubbornly at zero.

Meanwhile, college application deadlines were swiftly approaching. To help juniors and seniors start thinking about college majors and career paths, my high school administered an interest and ability inventory. It asked questions about what you like to do and what you are good at, and spat out this nifty little graphic displaying your interests and abilities. Your ideal college major or career was supposedly in the area where your interests and abilities overlapped.

I still remember the day that my counselor laid my results down in front of me. My interests and my abilities pointed in completely opposite directions; there was no overlap at all. Interests: the arts. Abilities: math and science. My less-than-helpful counselor smiled sheepishly and said, “I guess you can do whatever you want!”

At age 17, I was not at all concerned with what the results said about my possible career paths. But when I looked at that graphic, something inside me understood that it wasn’t only interest that mattered. If I wanted to be in a musical, I needed some ability, too. And my audition record did not suggest that I had it.

I wouldn’t say that I completely gave up at that point, but as I left high school to go to college, and college to go to Chicago, opportunities to audition became fewer, and I did not seek them out. Instead, I just kept going to see shows.

And that brings me to yesterday, when I sat and watched my 64th musical and listened to a little boy sing about how dancing sets him free. And it made me cry. Because all I could think was, 64 times zero is still nothing.

As Billy sang about the electricity that goes through him when he dances, I couldn’t help but remember what made me fall in love with musical theater to begin with. It’s the expression and release of emotions. I’m a deeply, deeply emotional person, and I would give anything – anything – for the chance to stand up on stage and belt out a song that means something to me. That’s why I have always wanted to be in a musical. When I listen to the songs, I imagine the huge emotional release the characters (and the actors) must feel. And I’m jealous. I love watching musical theater, but ultimately, it only makes me want to be a musical more. Sixty-four musicals, or 100, or 1,000 – multiply that by zero, and it’s still nothing. I still haven’t experienced what I really want to experience.

A long time ago, I gave up on the idea of being in musical. I told myself that I wasn’t good enough.

But as I was falling asleep last night, I thought about my zero. I thought about how it only takes one to get from zero to one. Maybe, just maybe, if I put in some work, I could get from zero to one.

Zero times anything is still nothing. But multiply by one instead, and you can get anything. It only takes one to get from zero to one, but the difference between zero and one is huge.

All I want is one. One will be enough. And maybe, just maybe, one is attainable.

I’m starting private voice lessons next month.

Sometimes all it takes is one line.

I would not call myself an avid or voracious reader. It usually takes me a while to get through a book. My reading style is slow and methodical. The downside to this fact is that I don't read all that many books. The upside is that I usually clearly remember the ones I do read.

And I don't just remember the gist. Often, there is a line or two somewhere in a book that really sticks with me. Sometimes the lines are crucial to the story, sometimes not. But because I read every word so carefully, I always notice when there's a line that echoes with meaning in my real life.

I've thought for some time about recording these lines somewhere. Today, when I came across such a line in my latest book, I thought that maybe writing about these lines would make an interesting blog theme. So, tonight is the first attempt at making the idea work. Hopefully this produces an interesting record of both the books I read and various other aspects of my life that I think about as I read.

Right now I am reading a book called Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. It's a historical fiction novel involving archeological digs, past lives, and secret caves, but the details of the book are not particularly important to understanding my reaction to this line:

"Many nights in the early days of their marriage, watching her as she slept in the quiet of their chamber, he understood he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."

That line brought a tide of bittersweet memories back to me. It's not so different from something I said to a friend several years ago, in a letter that laid my soul out on the table.

It's an old story, I suppose. Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl eventually falls desperately in love with boy. Boy does not love girl back. Girl can't let go.

I look back at the time I spent in love with this guy who did not love me back, and I wonder what I was thinking at the time. What did I think was going to happen? Was it that I thought he was going to change his mind? That he was lying to himself? That eventually he would realize that I was it?

While I don't doubt that these are some of the things I told myself, I don't think I really believed any of it. Hoped, perhaps. Yes, I hoped that he would change his mind. I hoped he would choose to love me instead of remaining so staunch in his belief that he didn't and couldn't ever feel that way about me. I had a hard time with that, because I don't believe that love is some predetermined, star-crossed thing. I don't believe that soul mates exist. Lasting relationships exist not between people predestined to love each other, but between people who have the courage to choose to love each other.

But even though I hoped that this guy would change his mind and choose to love me, I also saw the inherent catch-22: if I really believed love was a choice, I could also choose to stop loving him. It wouldn't happen overnight, and it would hurt, but I could do it.

So why didn't I? Why didn't I cut ties and move on? Why didn't I give myself the chance to meet someone else and fall in love again? While foolish hope was a part of it, I don't think that was the whole story. I never did quite put my finger on it, though.

When I read the line above, I was reminded of a hard day at the end of my time with this guy. Finally, the day when we would go our separate ways was coming. Time was forcing me to choose to stop loving him, even if I still did not want to. I struggled to know how to walk away without regret. I did not want to leave anything unsaid. So, I wrote a letter, and I poured the contents of my soul onto the page. By then I had come to terms with the idea that nothing was ever going to happen between us, but at least I would know that it wasn't because he didn't know how I felt.

Here's a testament to the way that the six years since I wrote that letter have changed me: I don't remember much of what I said. It was my whole life at the time, and now I can't remember it. Except for the last line.

I had come to the end, and I stared at the computer screen, wondering what could possible finish a letter like this. But my fingers began to move and this is what came out:

"I am a better person for having loved you. You are my northern star."

Though I didn't understand this at the time, as I was thinking about it today, I realized that this is the reason I spent three years choosing to continue to love him. Loving him made me a better person. My relationship with him, however one-sided, made me see the world differently and made me see myself differently, in ways that I liked. And that is why, to this day, I don't regret any of the time I spent loving him.

But that's not quite what the book quote says, is it? The character does not say that he is a better person for loving. He says he is a better person for being loved.

So do I believe that I made this guy a better person by loving him? Truthfully, I have no idea. When I was in the throes of this, it was all I could do not to collapse under the power and pain of my own emotions. I didn't spare any time or energy in thinking about what it must have been like for him, knowing that a person he considered to be among his dearest friends was desperately in love with him, and believing that he could not love her back.

As I think of this, there is a piece of me that still feels no sympathy. There's a piece of me that still twitches with frustration and anger at him for choosing not to love me. For refusing to love me.

But it couldn't have been easy for him, either. And even though I believe he could have made a different choice, there are two other things I also believe. First, that he didn't believe (and still doesn't believe) that he was in control of those feelings. And second, that he could have chosen to cut me out of his life when things got complicated. And he didn't.

So was he a better person for being loved by me? I still can't say for sure. But I do know that my loving him put him in some very difficult situations, and despite that, he clung for dear life to a friendship that would have been very easy to push out of his life. And that even though things are different now, it's a friendship that still carries on. It's a friendship that has taught us both a lot.

It's been a long time since I have thought about these tumultuous memories. For years, I have understood that it is better that we never ended up together. We see the world in very different ways these days, not to mention being happily settled in different parts of the country.

But I like to believe we are both better people -- me for having loved, and him for having been loved.

"... he was -- he could be -- a better man because he was loved by her."

I don't believe that we are necessarily better people simply by virtue of being loved, but perhaps we all can be -- if we choose to be.

5 Things I like about winter running

This marks the first year I have run outside through the winter. I thought I was going to hate it, but there are actually quite a few things I really like.

1. It's an excuse to buy lots of new gear. It is not just superfluous like most of my summer stuff -- it's necessary to stay warm.

2. Snow muffles my footsteps, which makes running quite peaceful.

3. Cold-weather running seems to have increased my metabolism. My theory is that this is because my body has to warm up all the cold air I breathe in.

4. There is increased satisfaction in running in the cold. It makes me feel hard core.

5. The best part is that I know that this year I will not have to fight through that initial spring return to running. The first runs of the season were always hard to get through. Now there will be no big climb back into fitness. Hurrah!

5 reasons I haven't updated in several days

So, I was home for a week for Christmas, and I didn't update because I simply had other things to do, including:

1. drink martinis
2. play Wii fit
3. harass my relatives
4. get harassed by my relatives
5. eat pie

5 lines I have delivered onstage

It's been quite a few years since I was in a show, but in middle and high school, I was quite the drama queen. I was always the first to have my lines memorized, and I still remember some of them....

1. (sung) "How they swing their partners 'round, 'til their feet are off the ground, and they clap their hands like this, and they stomp their feet like that. How they swing their partners 'round, 'til their feet are off the ground, in my home in Switzerland, Switzerland." (from William Tell and the Swiss Archers, the 6th grade play, in which I played a villager)

2. "Oh, John, God send his mercy on you!" (The Crucible, the high school play my sophomore year, in which I played Rebecca Nurse) (Everyone liked "I have not had my breakfast" better, but my favorite line to deliver was the one above.

3. "Heat snapped metal like the brittle winter ice!" (from a dramatic version of Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains", one of two brief shows we did at a summer camp I attended. I was the electric cleaning mouse. I remember this line in particular because I got me a really great compliment from the director, who said that everyone should project their voices like I did when I delivered that line.)

4. (sung) "Good King Applesauce looked out...." (from Oh Christmas Three, the children's play we put on when I was a senior in high school. I played a singing turkey named Tanya. No, really.)

5. "Someday you'll see that a great injustice was done me. You'll see I was always quite sane. But here I am, and here they'll try to keep me, with my few foolish years taken from me! (pause) You know, if you walk around the edges of the carpet sometimes, it saves wearing out the middle!" (from The Curious Savage, the high school play my senior year, in which I played Mrs. Savage. Absolutely my favorite show.)

5 gifts included in yesterday's Yankee Swap

At yesterday's office holiday potluck, we had a Yankee Swap, otherwise known as a White Elephant. The gift I brought was two plastic margarita glasses. As it got closer, I became a little afraid that my gift was too jokey, and everyone else's would be nice. Boy, was I wrong. Here are five of the gifts that were swapped.

1. A pair of Christmas socks and a small can of Lysol disinfectant spray.
2. Two candles, one a rather psychedelic turtle, the other a disturbingly realistic duck.
3. Two books written in Urdu, one about how to make sherbet and one about sexual disorders.
4. A salad spinner that had clearly been sitting in someone's cupboard, unused, for at least a couple of years.
5. A set of cheese-cutting utensils.

Know what I got? The Urdu books. Happy holidays to me!

5 of my earliest memories

I don't have particularly strong memories of my childhood. Most of what I do recall is in isolated bits. Here are a few select fragments from when I was very young.

1. One week at church, my mother suddenly grabbed my hand. This was something she usually did when she thought I was squirming around too much or otherwise misbehaving. As I did not feel that I was doing anything of the sort, I told her to let go because I promised to be good. She didn't let go. I told her more loudly and started thrashing around trying to get her to let go. She still didn't. This all seemed very unjust to me at the time. But now as I think back on it, I think she was just holding my hand during the recitation of the Lord's Prayer. Sorry, Mom.

2. When I was in preschool, during some sort of free play time, there were too girls playing with a plastic board that had a picture of a dollhouse on it. There were decals similar to window clings that you could move around to show the people in the house. Wanting to play along, I reached out and tried to move one of the people. One of the girls glared at me and yelled, "Leave it alone!" I found this to be so mean that I still remember it.

3. When I was in Kindergarten, I remember taking the CAT (California Achievement Test). The Kindergarten version of the test consisted of the teacher reading questions out loud, while we circled the answers. The choices for each question were pictures. I remember one question in particular where the teacher asked, "Which one is a piece of clothing?" I was befuddled at first, because none of the choices were anything obvious like a shirt or sock. But suddenly it dawned on me that a hat was a piece of clothing. I was so excited by this deduction that I forgot that we weren't supposed to be sharing answers out loud. I waved my hand in the air, trying to get my teacher to call on me. Luckily, I did not actually say the answer out loud.

4. One Christmas morning, my sister woke me up and excitedly told me to get up and go downstairs. I asked why, and she said because it was Christmas! I remember still being sort of confused as to why I should have to get out of bed. I walked down the stairs and was completely surprised to see a pile of shiny presents under the tree. We had opened a few presents on Christmas Eve, and I had gone to bed that night thinking that was it. It was like I forgot there were more presents on Christmas morning. This was not the first Christmas I remembered; I really have no good explanation for forgetting what happens on Christmas except that I don't think I ever really believed in Santa. (Sad, I guess, but I just never really bought it. I never found it upsetting or anything.)

5. When I started second grade, I was at a new school. I was timid and afraid, and when recess came along I was wandering around the playground by myself. A girl, Nicole Elliott, came up to me and asked if I wanted to play on the big slide. I nodded and started to follow. She turned and saw me walking, and said, "Come on, run!" Thinking back, what made this truly remarkable was that she also had the other new girl with her. At age 7, she had made a special effort to make the new kids feel included. She was a gem, that Nicole. And likely still is to this day.

5 things I carry in my commuter bag

I carry a rather large bag with my every day on the bus to work. People seem to wonder why I need such a big bag. Well, here are five of the reasons.

1. A travel coffee mug. This is a total must now that I have free coffee in my lobby. I refuse to use a styrofoam every day.

2. A book, or sometimes two. The commute goes MUCH faster with this. Particularly since I no longer get on the train where they hand out RedEyes.

3. My lunch. I am too cheap and too lazy to go out and buy one most of the time, so I always carry a lunch.

4. My Not For Tourists book of maps of Chicago. I know I have lived here 4 and a half years, but it doesn't matter. I still have plenty of occasions where I need to refer to maps, and I still carry the book with me wherever I go.

5. An umbrella. Though the wind often makes it useless, I am always glad I have this.

And that doesn't count the standard wallet, keys, and phone. Plus shoes, in the winter when I wear show boots. So lay off my big bag. I keep if off the seat next to me, and that is all the magic announcer voice of the CTA asks me to do.

5 great compliments I have received

I've been lucky enough to be surrounded by very supportive people my whole life, so it's not that I have not been lacking in compliments over the past 26 years. But there are a few that were truly memorable and humbling.

1. About 6 months ago (or was it more like a year?), my coworker Carla, frustrated with the state of some page proofs she was reviewing, said she wished that I had been the one to edit them at the previous stage. I told her that it may not have helped. After all, I am not perfect. And she said, "No Katie, I know you are not perfect, but I do think you are the best that there is." I still tear up a little when I think about that. It meant a lot coming from someone as good as she is.

2. When I was a senior in high school, I decided to join the competing winter drumline. It was a tough challenge, because I was starting from scratch on percussion, and joining a group that usually place in the top three in the national competition. We ended up having a great season. After we played our final show, even though it would be a few hours before we found out the official results, we knew we had done well. We were all congratulating each other as we put away the equipment. I turned to the section leader, known to the group as Trick, gave him a hug, and said congratulations. He pulled away, grasped my upper arms, and said, "You too. You are a percussionist." It was so unlike him to say anything so personal that it really took me aback. I was so flattered that he noticed how hard I worked to get up to the level of the rest of the group that I have never forgotten it.

3. When I was in college, I had a close friend who was a piano performance major. I used to love to watch him play because he just became totally different person while he played. He became passionate. We talked often about how jealous I was of that. It was not that I wished I could play the piano. It was more that I felt like I had no passion in anything. Early in our senior year, he asked me to give a testimony at a retreat that he codirected. I was supposed to be talking about my time in Sweden, a difficult subject for me. The day I was scheduled to talk, I told him I was going without notes because it was the only way I was going to be honest with myself. He said, "I think you do have passion. Your passion is being honest, with yourself and everybody else. That's what you put your heart into." He doesn't know this, but that really changed the way I see myself, in a good way. I think about that comment to this day.

4. As I mentioned above, my time in Sweden was a difficult period for me. During my first month, I received many many thoughtful and encouraging emails from family and friends. One such email came from my Uncle Jack. In it, he told me a story about when he went into the army, and how difficult it was for him to be away from home. He talked about how the experience drove him to walk away from a lot of the things he once believed in, but he came out on the other side believing in a few of those things even more. After the story, he told me he had every faith I would come through this, too. He said, "I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan." It meant a lot to me.

5. In the winter of my senior year of high school, I spent a Saturday at Western Michigan University at a scholarship competition. The competition consisted of two on-demand essays and a group problem solving exercise. By this time in my school career, I had become used to being at the top of the pack. However, I walked out of that competition feeling like the dumbest person that ever lived. The essay topics were difficult and complex, and I felt like I had not contributed anything to the group problem solving. On the way home, I told my mother that I had very little hope of winning the scholarship. She said, "I don't know, Katie. I think you're darn good." Even with my doubts, she was sure, and she turned out to be right. I got the scholarship. Even without knowing the competition, my mother believed that I would win. That's a compliment if I ever received one.

To Carla, Trick, Aaron, Jack, and Mom -- thanks. Your words meant so much to me, and they've helped me continue to strive to be a person that deserves them.

5 nicknames I have had in my lifetime

1. Master B, sometimes written Masta B. One of my high school drumline instructors called me that because I had a bass solo (played on synthesizer), and it really stuck.

2. G. I couldn't really tell you how this started, because neither of us remember, but my friend Shannon calls me this. It's what I call her, too. Somehow this never causes confusion, except when we both address and sign emails as G, in which case we usually sign "the other G". The more I write about this, the less it makes sense.

3. K83, pronounced "Katie three". My circle of former coworkers (and the people that I met through them) call me this. I can't remember the exact evolution, but it began by me saying I hate it when people write words with letters, like "gr8". Then one of my oh-so-caring friends started spelling my name K8e, which then became K83.

4. KATIE RICH! I suppose this is not technically a nickname, but I have two particular friends from college that always start conversations and voicemails by saying me first and last name loudly, in a high-pitched squealy voice. It sounds annoying, but I actually have grown to find it kind of endearing.

5. Katie Rich-nuts. A name given to me by one of my fellow TAs in college. One day, he started addressing everyone by adding "nuts" to the end of their names, and for some reason, he never stopped saying it where I was concerned. Must have a nice ring to it.

5 things I love about Christmas in Chicago

1. Christkindlmarket, the outdoor German craft market in Daley Plaza. I usually pronounce it "Kris Kringle Market" even thought I know that's wrong. I has lots of pretty gifts, and awesome cider and mulled wine!

2. The holiday train. The CTA completely decks out one of the el trains every year. They switch out the upholstery, wrap the poles to look like candy canes, replace the ads with Christmas jokes, and have workers dressed like elves handing out candy canes. The outside is covered in lights, and you can hear the piped Christmas music from several hundred feet away. It makes me giddy every time I see it.

3. Completely transformed stores. I know all stores everywhere decorate for Christmas, but Macy's on State Street will out do any store anywhere in terms of decorations. The place has a tree or wreath every three feet, and there is shiny stuff everywhere. It could not feel any more Christmasy in that place. I realize this is designed to make you shop more, but I don't care. I love going in there at Christmas!

4. The wreathed Art Institute lions. Something about seeing the regal lion statues bedecked with wreaths around their necks just makes me laugh. I heard recently that there is a "lion-wreathing ceremony" every year in December. You can bet that I'll be catching that next year!

5. The lights on the Magnificent Mile. While I'm not a huge fan of the whole Mickey Mouse parade that serves as the lighting ceremony, I do love the final result.

5 books I absolutely loved

I like a lot of books, but there are a few that stand out above the rest. These are the ones I will pick up any time, and just read any random passage. The ones I have read enough to tatter the pages. The ones that really spoke to me, really entertained me, or totally removed me from the real world.

1. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
2. Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King
3. World Without End by Ken Follett
4. Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
5. The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

5 things I put on microwave popcorn

1. Garlic salt. Nothing too shocking there.

2. Parmesan cheese. It has the essence of standard cheese popcorn, without the orange fingers.

3. Cinnamon. It tastes surprisingly like cinnamon toast.

4. Lemon pepper. This one is courtesy of my friend Jen. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. It rocks.

5. Dry ranch dressing mix. Ever had those ranch flavored oyster crackers? Same idea.

Happy munching! And yes, I encourage you to eat all 2.5 servings in a bag yourself.

5 annoying things my cat does

So, obviously it's been a long time since I wrote anything. So, I'm trying a new format to try to get myself posting regularly again. Every day (ok maybe not EVERY day, but I'll try), I'm going to post a list of 5 things. Not a top 5, just a list of 5. Topics will be all over the place in hopes of keeping it interesting.

In my head, this will be very amusing. We'll see if it actually turns out that way.

To start, let me tell you that I recently took my cat to the vet and was told she was overweight. So, I have been cutting down the amount of food I give her. She is not pleased with this. And she's no dummy -- she knows how to irritate me. It's been a battle of wills to get her to stop doing annoying things without giving in and giving her more food.

So, that's what is on my mind just now. Without further ado, here are...

5 annoying things my cat does

1. Chews on my shower curtain. There's something about the texture of the plastic that appeals to her, and I am continually finding more tiny teeth holes in my pretty bamboo shower curtain. I hate it.

2. Bats at the springs at the base of the walls that are designed to keep the doors from hitting the walls. Ever kicked one of those? It's one of the world's most irritating sounds. Particularly when a hungry cat hits the spring approximately every 15 seconds.

3. Climbs into my lap, then stands there. She is, generally speaking, an affectionate cat. She'd rather lay in my lap than anywhere else in the apartment. This part, I don't mind so much. But for some reason, when she jumps into my lap, she will stand there, staring at me then turning in circles, for a good 90 seconds before laying down. WHY?

4. Chews through cords. Luckily, she only does it with a certain type of cord that I recognize now, but I went through 3 phone chargers before I knew what was going on. And once, she chewed through my phone headset cord while I was driving, which did not please me. It only takes her about two bites, too. Destruction in a flash.

5. Hides under the bed when she knows something bad is coming. For instance, if she sees me take out her carrier, or put the mini litter box in the bathroom (like I do when I have to shut her in there for a while), she's gone instantly. And I always find her under the bed, dead center, where I can't reach her. I hate her for being smart, sometimes.

Day one complete. But tomorrow's another day.

Better than nothing...

Hello readers.

I was supposed to continue my blog from last week, but as I tried to write it, I thought better of speaking ill of any of my coworkers. The typos are innocuous, but the other stuff I was going to talk about kind of places blame, and I think it'd be both foolish and unkind of me to publish my rant about it.

So, I sat here trying to think of something else to write about, and I just couldn't form something coherent or interesting. I confess that I think I may be a bit burned out on blogging.

So, I'm taking a bit of a break this week. Hopefully I'll be back next week refreshed.

Tpyos are funny.

When I tell people that I am a math textbook editor, they often respond with something like, “Wow, that must be boring!” I try not to be annoyed at these moments, because I suppose that it’s an easy assumption to make. Although my job entails many multi-faceted tasks, the fact remains that I spend most of my time reading mathematics text books.

And the published versions of mathematics textbooks, the versions that the general public sees, are boring in a lot of ways. In a sense, I am paid to make them that way. It’s my job to make the text clear cut and easy to understand, without any flowery language superfluous examples. But what people don’t understand is that these are not the versions I spend most of my time reading. The “working versions” of the texts, seen by editors only, are often absolutely hilarious.

The sources of humor come in three basic forms. The first and most common, perhaps, is the abundant number of typos that appear in early (and sometimes even late!) versions of the manuscript. Many typos are just annoying for editors; I can’t understand how people with PhDs in mathematics never learned the difference between “there” and “their,” or worse, between “waste” and “waist.” But others can really tickle the funny bone. One of my officemates laughed for days when “Population Pyramid” became “Poupulation Pyramid.” (If you don’t see the 4th-grade humor yet, say the misspelled version out loud.) Another officemate found it particular amusing when a problem that was supposed to be about a transistor was written as being about a “transitor,” a word she interpreted as being a dinosaur-esque creature, complete with claws and a growl that she is fond of imitating. Personally, my favorite typo is when “function” is missing its first n. (Again, say it out loud.) Sometimes I think the authors and production workers that introduce these typos are trying to poison the minds of today’s youth.

Typos do not always come in the form of misspellings, though. Working as an editor has really made me appreciate the value of words, because I have seen how losing one word from a sentence can completely change its meaning. For instance, there is a question in one of our books that now reads, “Does the infinite series converge? If so, what is its limit?” Strictly mathematical, and what most people would call boring. But the version I saw had one word missing, and instead of that boring mathematics question, it was a philosophical question for the ages: “Does the infinite converge? If so, what is its limit?” My mental image of 11th graders trying to answer that question kept me laughing for the rest of the day.

There are two other ways the working text can become funny – authors trying too hard and editorial assistants not trying hard enough. However, I’m going to have to save those stories for next week, as I am off to a barbeque today. I hope you all had a great Memorial Day! Thanks, as always, for reading.

Soldier Field 10 for the Soldiers

Next Saturday, I will be running a ten-mile race. The race is called the Soldier Field 10 because it ends on the 50 yard line of Soldier Field in Chicago. It also takes place on Memorial Day weekend, to further honor the soldiers for which Soldier Field is named.

I was thinking about these things yesterday morning as I did a 10-mile training run. Sadly, I have never really thought of Memorial Day as a holiday. For me, it has always been about an extra day off and the beginning of summer. I have never given much thought to the fact that the day is intended to honor current members of the military as well as veterans.

I suppose this oversight makes some sense. While I was growing up, I didn’t have much contact with anyone in the military. I definitely do not come from a military family. But the longer I thought about it, the more ashamed I became of the fact that I ignore the meaning of this holiday. I began to list the ways I am connected to the military now, and the list was much longer than I expected.

So, I resolved to make this year different. What could I do this Memorial Day weekend to honor the soldiers I know? I thought about this as I ran along, and then the answer became obvious.

The race. This race will be my first of this length, and the training has not been an easy road. Putting each of those ten miles behind me will be a huge personal feat for me. Although I know that I can do it, I’m nervous, and I always wonder what will drive me to finish. Now I have a reason. I’ll run it for my soldiers. I’ll use each mile to remember and honor the soldiers in my life.

My first exposure to the realities of the military was on a trip to Washington DC with my family when I was in middle school. We went to the Vietnam Memorial, and my mom looked up her cousin’s name. We found the right panel, and there it was: Terry VanOchten. Obviously, I never met him, and my mom never talked about him, either, but something about seeing my mother’s maiden name on that wall made the war real for me. So, my first mile will be for my mother’s cousin. Mile 1 is for Terry.

The other thing I remember clearly about that trip to DC is seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The idea that people could die without being identified was incomprehensible to me. I have a strong and perhaps irrational fear of becoming inconsequential someday – of dying and having no one notice. So I felt for the men and women to whom that memorial is dedicated. I don’t want them to be forgotten. Mile 2 is for the Unknown Soldiers.

I also try to make it a point not to forget where I come from. I have a bad habit of cutting myself off from my past; when I went from my tiny middle school to a big high school, I hardly saw my childhood friends any more, and when I went to college, I lost touch with my high school friends. Technology has changed this habit in a small way. Even though I still don’t talk to many of my high school friends, I keep tabs on them through Facebook. Recently, I read on one friend’s profile that he is now in the Air Force. His name is Jake Johnson. He was somewhat of a quieter presence in our group of friends, but he always made me laugh. He loved pickles. He also brought me a cake to my graduation party. He never seemed to think much of himself, though. He was unsure what he would do after high school (but made sure I knew I would do fine). I haven’t spoken to him in years, but I’m glad I found him on Facebook, so that I could remember him for the friend he was. I hope his career in the military brings him the fulfillment he seemed to lack when I knew him. Mile 3 is for Jake.

Luckily, I seem to have managed to stay in touch with my college friends. One college friend, in some ways, is the polar opposite of Jake. Confidence is definitely not my friend Stephen’s issue. He’ll say whatever he wants, whenever he wants to say it. His demeanor is loud and sometimes boisterous, and his sense of humor is sarcastic and sometimes inappropriate. Yet after I got to know him, I realized that Stephen struggled in different ways. Even though he knows what he wants (to be a writer), for a long while he chose not to pursue it because several people in his life wanted him to be an engineer so he could make money. He did end up double majoring in math and English, but worked a job he hated for the first few years after college. Recently, he decided to join the Navy. I was skeptical of this decision for a long time, but in time I came to see it as the first choice he made for himself – a choice to leave his hometown and his dad’s influence and figure out what he really wants to do. I hope the Navy serves the purpose he hoped it would. Mile 4 is for Stephen.

There’s only one person in my generation of my family that spent any time in the military: my cousin Nick. He enlisted in the Army after high school, and spent some time in Germany during his four-year commitment. I think those four years were decent ones for him, but unfortunately, at the end of his time came September, 11 2001, and complications involving his release from service then followed. That year was difficult on him and his family. He’s been out of the Army for a while now, but still seems to be struggling to figure out exactly what he wants to do. Whenever I think of him, I am always hoping that he uses all the benefits that being a veteran brings to find something that makes him happy. Mile 5 is for Nick.

Nick’s dad, my Uncle Jack, was also in the service -- in his case, the Marines. He spent most of his working life as a police officer, and that’s how I still think of him – as a cop, not a soldier. We are not particularly close, and his time in the service is not something he talks about often. However, when I was studying abroad and struggling, he wrote me a very nice and surprising email. In it, he described the struggles and triumphs he experienced while serving in the Marines, and told me that although the time was hard, it taught him who he really was. That was something I really needed to hear at the time, and I have never forgotten it. At the end of the email, he said, “I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan.” Mile 6 is for Uncle Jack.

There were actually three generations of that branch of my family in the armed services; my paternal grandfather was also a veteran. This seems in conflict with what I said earlier, doesn’t it? How can I say that I don’t come from a military family? Well, my grandpa is another veteran that spent very little time talking about his service. I do clearly remember one Thanksgiving when he let my cousin Matthew wear his uniform jacket and hat and carry his sword (Matt, probably about 6 at the time, thought this was awesome), but that’s the only connection I remember between Grandpa and his time in the service. After Grandpa died, my mother did tell me a little something about what he did; he went ahead of the troops, setting up communications before fighting began. My mother believes that he did not talk about it much because he didn’t believe his work was worthy of honoring or discussing. Well, Grandpa, I disagree. Mile 7 is for Grandpa Rich.

As was typical for their generation, I suppose, my other grandfather was also spent some time in the service. Once again, I know very little about what he did, except that he was stationed on the island of Okinawa. Truthfully, I know very little about my maternal grandfather, service related or not. Both of my mother’s parents died before I was born. This is really the only aspect of my life in which I’ve felt perpetually cheated. I wish I could have known them, and I cherish every story I am told of their lives. So the fact that he was a veteran is really only one of the reasons that mile 8 is for Grandpa Vern.

As I thought about the soldiers in my life during my long run yesterday, the list did become longer than I expected, but I must admit that only one person came readily to mind and stood out in a sort of class of her own. That’s my dear friend Alyson. Alyson and I met in college, and she is now a navigator in the Air Force. Without any disrespect to anyone else I have mentioned, or any other service members for that matter, I believe that Alyson stands in a class by herself because she embodies everything a good soldier should be. From the beginning, she wanted to join the armed services, and spent her college years fighting against medical disqualifications and other ridiculous bureaucratic roadblocks. She kept fighting and fighting because her desire to serve our country was so deeply rooted inside her. That passion made me support her efforts wholeheartedly, always, even if I didn’t understand her decision to keep fighting. In the end, she graduated from Air Force officer school at the top of her class. I confess that I worry about her being sent into war – that same admirable passion, I fear, will lead her into the most dangerous situations – but I am so happy for her that I can hardly describe it. Mile 9 is for Alyson.

As I think about the potential of Alyson being sent to war, I can’t help but also think about all the other people that worry about someone. All the family and friends that are left behind when the soldiers are shipped away. I empathize with these people more than I do with the soldiers themselves, and after everything I’ve written above, I also count myself among them. I wish them the unique kind of bravery required to support and honor the soldiers in their lives. Everyone finds their own way to do this. I happen to be running a 10-mile race. I will be running this race to honor my soldiers, but also to honor the work I put in to get here. Mile 10 is for everyone left behind, and most of all, mile 10 is for me.

Running 10 miles is no small feat, especially considering that I suffered a rather bad injury less than two months ago. It’s been a long road to get here, but I am tremendously proud of what I have accomplished. But I’m also happy to share that victory with the people that next weekend and Soldier Field are intended to honor.

Have a great Memorial Day. I know it will be a great one for me this year.

This one's for you, Mom.

Early, early in the morning on Saturday, April 24, 2004, I sat in a hotel lobby in Malmö, Sweden, next to my mother. We were clutching fruit from the hotel breakfast and both avoiding looking at each other. It was a tense 15 minutes or so we sat there before deciding we couldn’t take it any more and walking out the door to the stop where the bus could come to take my mom to the airport. It is a morning I remember vividly; it was the last day of my mother’s solo trip to Scandinavia to visit me during my semester abroad.

I can’t say that it was a morning that either of us enjoyed. While we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we had a hell of a good time over the past ten days, neither of us was quite ready to see it end. I had hundreds of amazing and irreplaceable experiences while I was abroad, but it was also one of the times in my life when I was the most unhappy. I struggled a lot personally and socially, and having my mom there had been a blessed relief from that. My mother knew all this, even if she never really said it out loud, and while a part of her had to be relieved to go home, she was reluctant to leave me. I was near tears for most of that morning, and once Mom boarded the bus and it pulled away without me, I did cry. But before that happened, she said something to me that I will never forget.

When she saw the bus pulling up and hugged me goodbye, she said, “I want to thank you for giving me this adventure. I never would have done this if it wasn’t for you.” I don’t know what I said in response, because the comment didn’t seem all that significant at the time. But I thought about it a lot during my remaining time in Sweden, and at certain moments in my life since.

It’s not that I didn’t understand what my mom meant by it. I did. She met my dad when she was in high school and has been with him ever since. While there’s no regrets associated with that, I know she hasn’t had a lot of chances in her life to do things on her own. She’s told me before that one of the only things she wishes she had done earlier in her life is live by herself. As scary as doing things on your own can be, there’s also a king of thrill and satisfaction in it. My being in Sweden gave my mom the chance to travel internationally by herself, and she was grateful. I understand that.

What surprised me about the comment was the way it has changed my perspective over the years. While in some ways I am a carbon copy of my mother, this is one way in which we are very, very different. My mom has never really been on her own, whereas sometimes I feel like being on my own is all I’ve ever really known. I have been blessed with some amazing friends over the years, and with the exception of Sweden, I’ve never felt completely isolated. But I’ve also never been in a real, exclusive relationship that makes me feel like someone will always be there. There are always people around who I can ask for help, but ultimately, I am responsible for all my problems, all my big decisions, and the direction my life goes. That’s true of people in marriages and relationships too, I suppose, but someone else will be affected when they make decisions, and someone else can help them make them. There’s someone you can ask to come and get you when you are stuck at an airport in Indianapolis, and someone you can call at 6:30AM to ask to come and shower at their apartment because your hot water is out again. As much as I love and cherish my friends, those are not things I feel I can ask of them. At those moments, I am on my own in a way my mom has never been.

This is an issue I’ve struggled with since high school. As independent as I am, I also am self conscious about my lack of a dating history. I’ve never really understood why things seem to happen so naturally for everyone else, yet nothing has happened for me in 26 years. It’s an aspect of my life that I always have found regrettable.

But at the moments when I start to get down about it, I think about that day in Sweden and what my mom said. There are a lot of things I have to do on my own, yes. But there are people who will never have the chance to do those things on their own, either. Not everyone will have the chance to claim the victories over opposition that I have. That tearful day in Malmö, my mother taught me how to see struggles as opportunities. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her for that.

That’s only one of many, many brief episodes with my mom that I recognized the significance of only after the fact. My mother is not one to talk about her own feelings – at least not to me. While we can talk on the phone for hours, she mostly lets me tell the stories. She also is not one to teach you anything directly; she’s more likely to wait and let you ask the question first. I don’t have strong memories of her teaching me to shave my legs or discussing her own experiences in college with me. I remember all my mother’s impacts on my life in a different way. This excerpt from my Sweden journal, written about that morning in Malmö, captures it pretty well:

When the bus turned the corner, I hugged her one last time, told her it really wasn’t so long til I came home, and watched her board the bus. I mouthed that I loved her through the window, watched the bus pull away, and took a deep breath to gain control of myself before slowly making my way to the train station. I sat on a bench for a little while in the train station writing in my journal, hoping it would make a little of the emptiness go away… The ride back to Växjö was uneventful, I just wrote a little more and stared out the window. It didn’t feel as peaceful as most train rides do, and I was still feeling very empty and alone, but all in all I really wasn’t doing as bad as I expected at that point. I got off the train in Växjö, renewed my bus pass, and walked back here. I came in and set my stuff down and looked around. There was the plant Mom had bought me, and there were the neat piles of paper she had cleaned up. There was my bed all nicely made, and there was the feather she had put on my computer. Everywhere I looked was a sign that she had been there, and that was when I burst into tears.

No, my mother is not one to talk. But when she does tell me things, like when she thanked me for her adventure, they really mean something, and they really stick. And the excerpt above shows that even when she doesn’t talk, somehow, she finds a way to leave her mark. I have no doubt that the way she parented has both allowed me to become independent in a way that serves me well, and shaped me into a person I’m proud to be.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.