Dangerous and Disruptive

It was very amusing to me that, as a senior in high school, I got a reputation among the adults at school (teachers, administrators, security personnel) of being an anarchist and agitator. It amused me because I am the most rule following person that I know. Remember how in "Back to the Future," all you had to do in order to manipulate Marty was to call him "a chicken"? When I was growing up, all you had to do to manipulate me was to say, "It's the rule."

I've never understood people who are born rebels. I mean, I can tell you, on a factual and intellectual level, why they behave that way, but it's not in my default reactions, at all. I like order and predictability and safety, and rules provide that.

Of course, it is this very admiration for rules and order that elicits outrage when the rules are misguided or just bad, or when those charged with implementing or interpreting them do so badly. In short - there are few things worse than a dirty cop.

So, in high school, I occasionally butted heads with those who were capricious in their enforcement of rules. Like the teacher who'd raise your F to a passing grade if you helped clean the classroom; like the principal who explained his behavior by saying, "You just chose the wrong friends, Sharon." Or, like the teacher who went the other direction, and changed a passing grade to a failing one over personality issues. It was not OK with me to blur academic distinctions with decidedly non-academic ones.

This is not to say that I never broke any rules. It just meant that I was not going to try to hide that fact, but was likely to respond to questioning with, "You bet I did. Let me tell you why."

But, I was a kid, and kids are notoriously without perspective, and few adults wanted to hear my gripes. It was always very important to me that others understand me. I don't care if you agree (or if you like me), but I want your disagreement (or dislike) to be fact based instead of perception based. I am, by nature, an over-explainer. So, it was infuriating when someone didn't even bother to hear me (or anyone else).

 For most of my life, I loved school - the teachers and the actual learning. I'd never had a citation, detention, suspension, any disciplinary action at all (aside from having grades docked points for tardiness). At that point in my life (high school), I regularly dropped in on the principal to air a grievance, and his secretary would wave me through, calling, "Sharon's here." (He never said, "I'm too busy." He also rarely intervened, but he listened.) So, when I was summoned to the office of the guidance counselor in January of my senior year, I expected some kind of canned speech about college or other post high school plans. I'd never met the man before, but I hadn't taken the SAT or applied for scholarships or any number of other things related to leaving high school, and I supposed it was his job to see what my plans were.

I was wrong.

He didn't spend any time on pleasantries. He informed me, rather blandly, that I was now banned from taking any theater classes "or being in the theater classroom during any class." I was also now banned from setting foot in the actual theater itself. "The teacher informs me that you are dangerous and disruptive, and she can't teach when you're in the room."

It was not news that the teacher and I didn't get along, or that I was critical of her methods. I'm positive that at that point I actually said out loud, "Yeah, well, she doesn't do that great a job of it when I'm not in the room, either." His eyebrows raised.

The only other thing I could think of to say was, "I'm in the current play. We open soon. There isn't any time for someone else to learn the part. How am I supposed to perform if I'm not allowed in the room? Or are you cancelling the play, too?"

He looked a bit taken aback, as though this was information that he didn't have, and he was now forced to wing it. For just a second, he appeared to contemplate the wrath of many sets of parents if the show was cancelled. "Yes. Well. You'll be allowed to be in the theater during the times you're actually onstage. Otherwise, you'll have to wait in the hall."

I'm pretty quiet and mild mannered, most times. When I'm angry (or depressed, really), it's a different ball game. To mix my sports metaphors, the gloves come off.

"Oh, that'll be really convenient. Every time I have an entrance, the show will grind to a halt while someone comes to get me. That'll be great. And what about performances? Are the actual performances going to have to suspend time while someone comes to hunt me down? Is everyone just going to freeze onstage until I get there?"

The counselor looked annoyed. "You can be in the room during the entire rehearsal or performance as long as you behave properly and aren't disruptive."

"What, exactly, would that entail? Exactly which behaviors are forbidden? Do you have a list?"

"No, I don't have a list. Just don't do anything that would be against the rules."

"Well, since my mere presence is apparently a problem, I'd just like to clarify which behaviors are and aren't allowed. Did she tell you what it is that I do that's a problem?"

More annoyance. "No. She did not. I didn't ask."

"That doesn't seem to be a really great plan. You'd think that she'd have to describe what I did that's a problem."

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. "No, she does not. I take her word for issues involving her classroom management."

"Well, that's a mistake." His eyebrows raised again, and it occurred to me that I might not want to antagonize this man who'd never set eyes on me before, but was willing to believe that I was dangerous.

"Will there be anything else?"

He looked a bit blank. I rephrased. "Is that it?"

Brisk, administrative behavior; he stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, and said, "That'll be it. You can go back to class now." As he held the door open, I reflexively said, "Thank you," and then mentally kicked myself for it. Oh, sure, thanks a lot. Thanks a whole lot for dropping that bombshell on me; I appreciate it so, Guidance Counselor Who I've Never Met Before. Thanks for the "guidance."

I did not go back to class.

I can't remember what class I'd left to go to the office. I think it was after lunch, but I'm not entirely sure. At any rate, my afternoon had just opened up wide, because all I had after lunch were theater classes and after school rehearsal. The whole thing took maybe two minutes; now I was a wreck. I was distraught and weepy.

I began wandering the halls, crying and talking to myself. It was exactly two weeks before my 18th birthday; I remember because I kept saying, "I have another month. I'm supposed to have another month."

It was January 15. The year before, when my best friend was a senior, he'd been suspended on February 15, and finally, expelled. If I was going to be kicked out, it just seemed to me that it should happen on the same day. Like I said, I like predictability.

Classes let out and the halls were suddenly full, so I went outside. I could not handle being around other people.

I kept trying to figure out what had precipitated this, what I had done that had caused backlash. I couldn't think of anything in particular. (I still don't know.)

The irony was that I couldn't imagine offending the teacher, because we barely spoke. The only incident that I thought might be what had her goat had taken place weeks before.

I was a yearbook photographer. I loved the job. A few weeks earlier, we'd taken the drama guild group photo. It was either at lunch or after school, the way most clubs were photographed, so that all the members could be there. The schedule was dictated by yearbook deadlines; we had to turn in a certain number of pages at each deadline during the year. Time specific events - homecoming, sports, etc. - had to be photographed during their time frame, obviously, and things like club photos were spread out over the year.

Another senior was, at that point, barred from the theater. (Yeah, my expelled friend the previous year, Tony, had been the first, but now there were a handful of us not allowed in the theater.) We'd made the teacher angry during set construction by hauling sawhorses and lumber outside the theater to the sidewalk, and having this particular member, Tim Lange, cut the lumber there, so that we could list him in the program under "set construction crew." We also made a big deal about labeling the back of a board he cut - "TIM LANGE CUT THIS BOARD!" - and using it center stage as the fireplace mantle.

(Hence the principal's jibe about my friends; over three decades later, we're still friends.)

I mean, gasp, right? What subversives.

On picture day, Tim was going to wait in the hall - I'd insisted that he be in the photo. He hadn't wanted to, had argued with me, but I really insisted. We set up, placed the camera, had him come in just long enough to take the shot, and he went back into the hall. "Rule" breaking, sure, but I'd do it again.

No, that's not what I think bothered the teacher the most that day.

She was just out of college when she got her job at our school. She was nervous, insecure, not too much older than we were, and eager to be liked. All understandable; all fine. But things deteriorated as she faced strong willed students who knew more about theater than she did; she'd never seen a live production when they gave her the theater classes. It was not a great staffing choice. For a year, everything ran decently, if not smoothly, but that train soon derailed.

It used to be very important to me that people understand, that they hear our side. I left that behind ages ago.

Anyway, as things became more tense, she clamped down with unreasonable rules. We spent an entire set building day being told that we were not allowed to speak, at all, which was then amended to, "You can only ask for tools or give directions;" it was pretty clear that mute, angry kids with power tools miming were an accident waiting to happen.

One of the latest rules was that students could not touch the light switches. It was, in my eyes, a pure power play - I mean, light switches? That's the hill from which you cannot retreat?

In a theater, the "work lights" are standard fluorescent or incandescent lights turned on during set building, early rehearsals, classes, cleaning, and the like. "House" lights are those over the seats, and "stage" lights are the ones directed to the stage, the ones used during performances. We (the students) weren't allowed, at this point, to touch any of them, especially the house or stage lights, unless it was during a performance. Those ran on dimmers on the light board. Back in the days before computers, each light had its own slider on a board full of them. Changing them during a performance meant balancing a bunch of sliders. During class, or any other non-performance time, it just meant running the house slider up to full so that the room was illuminated. It's a one finger operation.

On photo day, I walked into the room, flicked on the work lights (they were a standard light switch just inside the door), and ran up the house lights. The teacher left the room without a word, which I took to be a sign that I could work in peace. We - the drama guild president and I, with a lot of input - were deciding where to take the group photo when the Dean of Men, who was also in charge of most school discipline, came in, with the teacher trailing him.

"I'm told that someone touched the lighting board," he said, with that big, loud, authoritative voice. I found this rather silly.

"Yeah, I did. I turned on the lights."

"Why?"

Seriously? Why did we need light?

"Because I'm taking photos for the yearbook, and I can't do that in the dark."

At that point, I almost wanted him to make a big deal out of it, so that we had to involve the yearbook adviser, and explain that I hadn't been allowed to take photos because I turned on the lights.

This was the only time I saw any staff member behave as though the teacher's complaints were, if not outright silly, at least overblown. He sighed, then turned to her and said, in that voice used when a quarreling parent says, "Tell your father..." even though Father is standing two feet away, but Junior is complying, "She says she's taking pictures for the yearbook. She says she can't take pictures in the dark."

The teacher said, "Oh. OK." The Dean left. The teacher went out without another word and sat in the audience seats until we were done. (I'm pretty sure that I turned the lights back off when we left, but maybe I left them for her.)

So, wandering the campus in tears and talking to myself after being banned, that was the only incident that I could imagine being over the top, in her eyes. It was embarrassing, in front of another faculty member. But why weeks after the fact? Did it matter?

"She's too early. It's too soon. I should have another month."

Now, here comes the crux of this story - what is, for me, the most important part.

I know that, when they're sad, a lot of people would need hugs, consoling, reassurance that they're a good person and the other person is wrong. Usually, that annoys me or makes it worse. It turns out that this time, I needed Joe Beard and Tim Groves.

They were more theater kids, way cooler than I was, and if I remember right, also not allowed in the theater at this point. I ran into them just outside the school as I was wandering and crying. Finding out what was wrong with me did not elicit sympathy and hugs, but loud congratulations and high fives. They acted as though I'd just won the lottery. "Good for you!" "That's great!" "She only does that to people who know what they're doing!"

It worked. The tears dried up. I don't know where they'd been headed to when they found me, but they stayed with me and walked the school grounds aimlessly, talking about nothing in particular, just being next to me. When we ran into Gwen, another theater kid, they told her the story with breathless delight, and large hand gestures, as though it was something to celebrate. Gwen hugged me, but by then I was OK.

When I was finally ready to re-join the world, Tim and Joe wanted to know, "Are you OK?" before they left.

"Yeah. I'm OK." And I meant it.

I finished the play, and the school year, without theater classes. I told my mom the story, but not my dad. And "dangerous and disruptive" became a phrase that made me, and my friends, laugh.

Years later, I told my husband. He, too, laughs at the phrase.

I'm thinking of this because someone recently informed me, again, that I was dangerous. This time, they didn't pair it with "disruptive;" they called me "evil." This is because we have religious and political differences; apparently, that merits a label of dangerous and evil.

They're certainly entitled to their opinion, which I told them. I did not tell them that, at a time in my life when I was vulnerable, someone in a position of power had already fired that particular cannon at me, so its effect is very much blunted now. It's not fun, but it's certainly no longer devastating.

I don't really know what effect the speaker hoped those words would have on me, but I don't think they expected to evoke what's now a warm and fuzzy memory. When I hear myself described that way, I no longer think first of the devastation I was feeling at 17 - I think about Joe and Tim, and high fives. I think about a time that two teenage boys had my back, even though I was a hysterical, weeping teenage girl. I think about them walking with me until I was alright. That's a happy memory.

On The Street Where You Live

Recently, as we sat in traffic in a large city, my husband grumbled about being "surrounded by nothing but trash and crazy people."

"It's actually cleaner than I expected. And you're generalizing, aren't you? You haven't even met many residents. They might be lovely people." (I'm usually pretty Pollyanna about things.)

He looked at me as if I was also clearly crazy. "Sane people wouldn't put up with this!" He waved his hand at the traffic, the noise, the crowds (and also, I'm pretty sure, the inflated prices).

I laughed. "You know how many people say that about where we live, right?"

I have several loved ones who have waged a years long battle to convince me to move elsewhere, or at least to get with the program and consider my home state to be a punch line. I know that they sincerely want what's best for me, so I cut them slack, but it grates on my nerves.

For one thing, I sincerely like my area. We're high mountain desert, tucked up against a mountain range; everything from the wide open sand and sage of the Great Basin to the pine forests overlooking deep mountain lakes says "home" to me. It's pretty fantastic.

I like my house. It's comfortable and cost effective. I am intensely irritated by people who think that I'm living my life in the way that I am because I'm unaware that there are other options.

Recently, a friend moved to a new city, and asked for advice on her social media. "We're considering two houses. One is larger and less expensive, but the area isn't considered as desirable. The other is more money than we wanted to spend, but it's in a popular area. Which should we buy?" I think that I was the lone voice saying, "The less expensive house! Obviously!" Everyone else voted for the more expensive house, saying things like, "Think of the resale value!" and telling her that, obviously, the neighbors and the schools would be better in the popular area.

(They finally chose a third house that split the difference.)

People are frequently perplexed by our choice of a fixer upper in an aging neighborhood - not old enough to be "historic," just old enough to be "older." I say, "Hey, I'd rather live here and take my kids on vacation and send them to summer camp." I've been told that I'm doing things "all wrong." "It's more important to spend the money on something you'll use every day, not on something that only lasts for a week or two."

Balderdash. I can show you studies that verify that spending money on experiences instead of belongings results in a happier life, but I don't need them to justify my choices. I am happy in my life.

A friend was once trying to describe what she loved about living in a large city. "In my neighborhood, when I go to get coffee, or shop, or have lunch, the people working there know me, and I get personalized service." I responded, "That sounds like living in a small town." The last time I lived in a truly small town (it made the front page of the tri-county newspaper when we got our second stoplight), when I was buying groceries the cashier said, "That shed's looking pretty good!" My husband was building a shed in our yard, one visible from the road, but I have no idea how the clerk knew that I lived at the house with the shed under construction.

My friend was sure that I was deliberately misunderstanding her. I don't think so; in my city, when I go to the bank, the grocery store, the convenience store, and several restaurants, they know me, often by name. Sometimes, I will have known them for literally decades. I don't think that the size of my city has any bearing on that.

 Of course, there are other conversations and other tactics.

"It's such a shame for your kids,"  to be living here, I was told.

"How do you figure?"

"They're never going to be exposed to different people from different backgrounds. Where you are, it's pretty homogenous; everyone's the same."

I have no idea where that mischaracterization came from. I went to church with a significant number of Tongans with names like Feofa'aki. My daughter's boyfriend was Navajo, and her best friend was from El Salvador. We'd planned birthday party menus to include Hindu, Muslim and Jewish guests. I know lawyers, accountants, ranchers, artists, singers, right here in my community.

I tried to encapsulate all of that in one sentence, without sounding like I was trotting people out as show ponies ("How can you say that? Look at my Token Minority friend!"), and speaking to the experiences of my kids. "My daughter is the only white girl in her Girl Scout troop."

"Well, yes, but I'm talking about professional, educated people."

Um, what? This is a lovely, sincere, well educated person, who always means well, but I was appalled. "Oh, I just know that you did not just imply that their parents are all dishwashers and maids, or that there would be anything wrong with it if they were!"

"No! No. I'm just saying that people in my community have been recruited from all over the world for their particular areas of expertise."

"Do you know what my Scouts' parents do? Because I don't, and I see them every week." This is true; I have actually known people for years before I find out what they do for a living.

I meet a lot of people at church or doing community theater, and we tend to "talk shop," not go through the cocktail party small talk of, "So, what do you do?" I rarely ask this of people. Sometimes, I'm taken by surprise when I find out.

The girls in the Scout troops I led always had parents who took their cookie order forms to work, and sometimes I'd find out what they did for a living based on where they made their sales. On year, the top seller had a (very pretty) mother who was a bartender, and made her sales at the bar. ("And if they don't pick up the cookies, I know I can just sell them to somebody else who's there.") One year, the top seller had a grandmother who worked at a local brothel, and made her sales there. No, I didn't ask in what capacity, although I know that they have non-prostitute staff. I once did theater with a young lady who was the cashier at a brothel.

No, I did not bring up the brothel workers at that point in the conversation. No, I do not think that they prove my loved one's point. No, I did not point out that the area in which this person lived in is known for a particular industry, and therefore more "homogenous" than many other communities, in that you can probably accurately guess what industry in which any person you meet is likely to be employed. I did not point out that when I'm sitting in church in between the owner of a construction business and the owner of a potato farm, listening to a schoolteacher give the lesson, I'm simultaneously experiencing diversity and not categorizing people based on occupation or education.

What I did was rather forcefully change the subject. This is a relationship that I truly value, but if I'm expected to be a job snob and feel that I'm shortchanging my kids by refusing to be badgered into moving to a sprawling metropolis, well, I may start to value it less.

Someone else described me to myself this way - "You're so... so... provincial!"

(You know how sometimes you make a friend, and you laugh together about how you never would have hung out when you were in high school? Yeah - I'm aware that people who love me, but met me when we were kids, would probably not be interested in making friends with me if they met me today. That's OK. We love each other anyway.)

I enjoy visiting large cities in order to experience museums, theaters, historic sites and the like, but then I want to leave and go home.

Something I discovered as an adult, and it was a pleasant surprise, is that I could conceivably live anywhere. I pick up real estate guides every time I travel. We recently spent time in cities older than my nation, staying in apartments, and commenting, "I could live here." I may live somewhere else in the future; but it won't be because I don't like it here, where I am now.

Why am I thinking about this? I was sorting through and organizing photos recently, and I came across this:

Oh, yeah. This image is comfortable, happy - it says "home." It lowers my blood pressure. I could live down that road. Looking at it, I know what it smells like, sounds like, feels like. I want to know what's over the horizon. I want to wander and explore.

That's in contrast to how I feel looking at this image:

I also know what this sounds, smells and feels like; I took both photos. I know that there are places to discover, to eat, to shop. I could conceivable live there. But, given a choice - not so much.

Given a choice, I'll probably always take the dirt road.

Defending the Fairy Tale

While newer movies like "Zootopia" and "Moana" earn raves from the public (and many critics), many of the older Disney features are falling out of favor. "Disney princesses are terrible examples for children!" I hear. "They're weak and passive and waiting for someone to save them! And they think that marrying a prince is their life's goal!"

I disagree; that's not what I see happening.

On the other hand Disney also takes heat for sanitizing the stories. Why is that even a criticism? Do we want the Brothers Grimm versions, where, for instance, the prince is so taken by the lady experiencing enchanted slumber that he has sexual relations with her while she's unconscious, and she wakes up to find herself a mother of three? Did anybody seriously like the original Andersen version of "The Little Mermaid" where the prince rejects her, and she's content to be turned into seafoam and lap at the base of his castle? Seriously, I can't imagine preferring those versions, even if they are the original source material.

I think, as well, that the critics aren't actually watching the movies, just repeating previous complaints. I don't see the problems they insist exist.

Let's take Cinderella, the original animated version; she catches a lot of flack. "She just waits to be rescued! She lets other people treat her badly! Why doesn't she just leave?"

First, let's address the idea that the victims of abuse are somehow responsible, because they don't leave. They just "take it." I could spend pages - volumes, even - citing research about the effects that abuse has, the complex psychological issues, the fact that leaving is the most dangerous and deadly time, the fact that it is never the fault of the victim, but let's just settle on the latter - never the fault of the victim - and move on.

Mostly, I'm touching only briefly on those issues because, although they are very valid and the conversation could stop there, when I watch Cinderella, she doesn't behave as though she's damaged.

I want to start with the late 20th/early 21st century assumption that Cinderella should just walk out, get a university degree, and open a fashionable boutique or become a women's advocate attorney. We should all be conversant enough in history to know that it was not physically possible for Cinderella, or anyone else, to be a "strong, independent woman who don't need no man." A woman could live three basic places - her father's home, her husband's home, or a convent. That's it. There was no  avenue to being a single, self supporting woman. Cinderella knew that she had, basically, two choices - live in the family home, or become a servant in someone else's home. She already had the tasks of a servant, so she chose - actively chose - to stay in the family home, rather than performing those tasks somewhere else.

Why? Because she wasn't about to let someone run her out of her own home, the one where she was born. Because she had the advantage of "the devil you know." Because the home held happy memories of her loved ones, as well as their physical belongings. Because she knew, having lost both of her parents, that parents die; she therefore knew that, chances were, her stepmother would pass one day, and the home would again be hers alone. She could wait it out.

Which brings us to another admirable trait, one we should all cultivate - she did not let her circumstances, or the opinions of others, determine her self worth. No matter how she was treated, or how often someone told her that she was worthless, she never felt that way.

She didn't start to droop and wince like a kicked puppy. She did not pine and suffer and ask, "Why are you doing this? Why don't you love me?" She did not lash out and become spiteful, spitting in their food. She knew that how people treat you reflects on them, and how you treat people reflects your character. She was calm and competent, no matter what the others around her might say or do. Do you know how hard it is to find and live that balance? She did it apparently effortlessly.

She befriended those that others overlooked, those who, in theory, can do nothing to benefit her. She doesn't feel sorry for herself - she's grateful for what she has, and doesn't consider it a second best substitute that she jetisons as soon as her circumstances change. And, guess what happens? They find a way to help her.

She was not looking for someone to rescue her. She didn't complain. She wanted a night out, not deliverance. She wasn't looking to get spirited away, or to find a husband. She wanted to attend a party. She didn't want to be the prettiest one at the ball, or to have men court her. She just wanted to be well enough dressed that they'd let her in.

Something people seem to forget, too - when she danced all night with a handsome man, she didn't know that he was the prince. He could have been the cook or the gardener or a distant cousin of the prince. She didn't care. When she makes her excuses to leave, she says, "I haven't met the prince," and he's surprised. "Didn't you know?" he asks.

When she hears that he's looking for her, she finally admits to herself that she wants to see him again. He was not the point of the evening; meeting him was a happy side benefit.

And, let's talk for a minute about the Fairy Godmother. She doesn't swoop in to alleviate or reduce difficulty. She doesn't take away problems. She just makes a night out possible. That speaks to me, as well. That's the way the universe works. Whatever you believe is the highest power - God, karma, whatever - does not make it so that you will never be unhappy, lonely, mistreated. It just helps you hang in there and bear the adversity that every life has. Then, when something good happens, it's not because you were helpless, and someone swooped in. It's because that's how life works, too. There is always beauty and happiness to be found, and you'd miss it if someone micromanaged your life for you; you'd be unable to distinguish it. Experience is what gives you perspective.

I'm a bit miffed, too, at criticism that her "happily ever after" includes getting married. Ask any person in a happy relationship if their relationship is one of the most important, most cherished things in their life, and they'll say "yes." Heck, a significant number of people in unhappy relationships would still say "yes." So, why would you criticize someone for wanting something that's important to you? She doesn't "define herself" by her marital status. She's just glad to have what most people want.

And once she gets the chance to leave the house with her tormentors in it, and craft the life she wants, she does not do any of the following: complain that getting there took too long, insist on revenge, gloat, punish those who did her wrong, insist on telling the story over and over so that "people know the truth." She just walks away. (And she takes her friends with her.)

I'll take those life lessons, for children or adults, any day.

Vandals

From my Facebook page:

Time for a story, boys and girls. Well, really, two related stories.

Once upon a time, many moons ago in the days of big hair and neon clothes, I was a high school theater student. During the rehearsal period for one of our shows, we came to rehearsal to find that the theater had been vandalized. The big double doors that led to the backstage area had the words, "GO AWAY" spray painted on them in black paint. Our set also had the words sprayed across it in black, along with a couple of weird symbols that we didn't recognize.

We had an uneasy relationship with the school administration ("uneasy" as in, the vice principal once said, in public, that he wished he could shut the department down "and be rid of all of you"), so we were sure we'd be blamed for the vandalism, even though it was clearly aimed at us. We repainted our set, but the teacher forbid us to paint the doors. We didn't have the right color, and, "The district will take care of it."

Three of us went back under the cover of night with paint and flashlights. Everyone who was in the department with us knows who The Instigator and the artist was. I held the flashlight. When we left, there were comedy/tragedy masks painted over the words. If we were going to get in trouble, we at least wanted it to be for something we did.

School started at 8 am; by 9 am, the masks had been painted over. None of us got in any kind of trouble (although the principal was unamused).

Plus, we seized on the phrase "go away" as our own, and used it as a greeting, farewell, and best wishes. When we went to the movies together (like the Monty Python film festival we attended as part of our "Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas"), we cheered every time a character said, "Go away!" I had Oscar the Grouch and his "go away" sign on my binder. To this day, if you say "go away" to a certain number of us, the response will be a cheery "Go away!" right back.

After high school - and the explanation is a long one - I wasn't sure I'd ever audition for anything again, even though the theater was where I most wanted to be. The Instigator dragged me half willingly to auditions at the local university; the university theater department became my home, for many years. I was in shows there while I was pregnant with three of my four children. He handed me back that part of my life, and there is no way to express my gratitude.

There's a tradition in theater of signing the back of the set, or the backstage walls, or leaving show related art there. At the university, one hallway between the theater and the art department has become a community art space. People paint or write, leaving quotes and images, without needing permission.

Recently, someone went into that hallway and painted some hateful words, as well as several symbols that everyone very much DOES recognize - symbols of a hate group, designed to elicit fear and promote oppression.

The university could have just quickly and quietly rolled white paint over the vandalism, and told no one what was there. They appear to have asked the Fine Arts faculty for input, though, because the decision was - invite current and former students, as well as any interested community members, to paint over the vandalism with something positive.

I'm now old enough that three of my children are college graduates. I had to miss church meetings to be there, but it was important to me to go. Even though I haven't been in the building for years, in a very real way it will always be my home. Even if I had no connection to the building, no student should show up Monday morning and see those images.

So, I dressed in my "don't care if I get paint on them" clothes, and went up.

Nobody thought it was odd that a person my age, wearing a shirt older than most of the kids there, had come. A kid young enough to be mine thanked me for being there. The hallway was full - really full - of people painting. Where the vandalism had been, there are now a portrait of Frederick Douglass, leaves blowing in the wind, a dove, a freehand sentiment - "DUDE, BE NICE" - and more. Everyone was polite, excited, trying to help. I overheard a young lady - who was painting blocks with the letters L-O-V-E on them - say, "I wish I had purple," and I offered, "I can go and buy some, if you'd like."

"No, that's OK. I'm fine. I don't even go here. I'm still in high school," she said.

Someone was handing out fresh fruit and cookies. Someone was providing stencils for those who wanted to help, but "can't paint." I bumped, literally, into two men with news cameras. "I'm sorry," the cameraman said. "No, you're fabulous," I said. "Well, you are too," was the reply.

I painted one thing - well, actually the same thing, twice. It's the symbol in this photo. It's The Golden Rule. Yes, that "Golden Rule" - the one that says to treat people the way you'd like to be treated. The symbol was created by someone dear to me. It is still on the ceiling of that high school theater.

It may not stay - it may already be painted over, and that's OK. It was the sentiment that was important to me, leaving that symbol at the site of a hate crime.

If you see this symbol there, or anywhere else, now you know.

The moral of the story, boys and girls: do not mess with the artists, the creators. They will take your bad behavior, and they will make it something beautiful. Every time.

Birthday Invitations

We tend to go through life assuming that other people - at least reasonable, informed people - are thinking and feeling the same things that we are, and that they perceive facts, situations and personalities the same way that we do. We're wrong, of course, but at least we're reasonably well intentioned.

I've discovered that anything that we consider to be An Important Occasion magnifies ordinary miscommunication and misunderstandings. Don't even talk to me about how crazy people get about weddings.

Birthdays ought to be pretty relatable and understandable, right? Wrong. I know people who stress out about having a birthday, who feel sad because another year is past. I don't get it. Some people want to ignore them and pretend that they don't exist. I don't comprehend that level of denial - we were all born, and time continues to move forward.

On the other hand, I know people who don't just celebrate the day itself - they have Birthday Week. Celebrations for days! They and the "it's not a big deal" people tend to think that the other is crazy.

 I understand a bit, at least intellectually, the conflict between the "just ice cream and cake" crowd and the "blowout super extravaganza bash" crowd. I just simply will not do over the top parties for my family, even if I wake up tomorrow with obscene wealth. I know that there are people who fear that their kids will be outcasts with no friends if they have a "lame" birthday party. I'm just not particularly capable of holding or accommodating that mindset. "You're willing to like my kid if I give you expensive things and experiences? Aw, great! My kids will have such caring friends!" Yeah, I know that I've alienated people. I know that there are the "if you can't have a 'nice' party, don't bother" folks. My kids have certainly attended parties where the favors they brought home were more expensive than the gift they gave. To me, a "nice" party is spending time with people that you like, having something good (even if it's only cake) to eat, and a fun activity or two - games, swimming, etc. So, if that doesn't work for you, don't attend any party that I throw. Seriously; we'll both be happier.

I've always erred on the side of inviting too many people. I was the kid who was frequently left out, and I never wanted another kid to feel deliberately excluded. Even when I was invited, it didn't always go well - like the time in 6th grade when everyone else was invited to go roller skating, but my best friend and I were invited over only after the skaters had come back to the birthday girl's house for cake and presents. (The mom was mortified, and promised to take us skating another day, but neither of us took her up on it.)

I was therefore quite surprised when I met other moms who felt that birthday parties should be best friends only, the kids who were always over anyway, and that extending that invitation list was a blatant grab for gifts. I'm used to relatives and friends who give very modest gifts, and expect very modest gifts. Knowing that there were gift grumps made me even more grateful for the kids who came, gift or no gift, to celebrate with my kids.

One of my daughters has a birthday two days after Halloween - she loved it when she got gifts of leftover Halloween candy. (What kid doesn't love candy?) One girl made it into an adorable wreath. The birthday girl reveled in having more candy than her siblings.

I've had people RSVP to say that they can't bring a gift, and I always tell them, "A gift is not necessary. Or, something from the dollar store is fine. Or, since gift opening is the last thing we do, you can pick your child up before gifts are opened. Just say that you have to leave early, and no one will mind." Once, a mom told me that her daughter would not be coming to my daughter's party because she could not afford a gift. I gave her the spiel above, and she finally agreed to bring her daughter. That year, the party was at Build a Bear Workshop, where you get to stuff your own stuffed animal. It was pretty outrageously expensive for us, but that's the perk of being the youngest child - parents have more money and less patience for party planning/throwing. So, the girl showed up, built her bear, and was picked up from our party and taken straight to another party, where the bear she'd just built was the gift. I was happy that our invitation allowed her to attend two parties.

My vision of "parties" was always just cake, ice cream and drinks, as far as refreshments went. For the first few parties we threw for our kids, that's what we did. We usually put candy in the goodie bags to take home.

Then, one very vocal complaint changed the way we threw parties. It shouldn't have - maybe we should have stood our ground - but we also wanted guests to be happy.

On the day of my daughter's party, my husband worked 7 A.M. to 3 P.M., and was home by 3:30. I had rehearsal for a play that evening. I had to drive 45 miles, across three county lines, to get to rehearsal. I had to leave by 6:15 if I wanted to be on time; I could push to 6:30 if I knew I'd have great traffic, and felt like speeding a bit (which I do not). So, we planned the party for 4 to 6, at our house.

Since it was right before dinner - for my kids, anyway - we had cake, drinks, goldfish crackers and pretzels. That way, there was "party food," but everyone would still feel like eating dinner. We had chicken thighs in the oven for our family, so they could come out as soon as the guests were gone.

Everybody showed up on time, played, ate, opened gifts, got goodie bags, and went home on time, except for two family members (and their kids) who lingered. Not wanting to eat in front of them, I left my husband to feed our kids when the guests were gone, and stopped for a sandwich on the way to rehearsal. Eating in the car when I had a show was not uncommon.

Later that evening, my husband got a call from an irate family member who'd brought kids to the party. Like all of our family (and many of our friends) in the area, they lived in the next town, the same town my rehearsal was in. Driving to our house meant a 30 to 60 minute drive. She called to tell him that she was "so offended" that we hadn't fed them dinner. "I drove all that way with hungry kids, and I had to stop for fast food in order to feed them! There was no way I could make it home and cook something with them starving like that."

The worst part was that she apparently felt singled out. My husband pointed out, "We didn't feed anyone dinner."

"You didn't? You had a party and didn't provide food?"

"There was food, but not dinner. Even my wife didn't eat dinner at home." As he was telling me this story, I was thinking, I ate fast food that night. Welcome to my world. It also could not have escaped her attention, as the last one there, that all the other guests left without having dinner; how could she feel singled out?

And, she had not RSVP'd; we were surprised to see her when she came. (I think it was the only time that she ever came to that house, and we lived there for over 5 years.) Even if we'd planned dinner, we wouldn't have planned on them having any.

There was a fairly protracted conversation between her and my husband about what people "expect" from an invitation. My husband and I both thought that it was fairly obvious that a child's afternoon party would not provide dinner. If it was from 6 to 8, OK, expect dinner, but right after school? Who eats dinner at 4 or 5? The time was clearly printed on the invitation. It also said, "Join us for..." and cake was the only food listed. I couldn't imagine that this had been a surprise.

But, it had been, and she was madder than a wet hen. We never again threw any birthday party without including a meal, but I don't think she noticed. She attended a grand total of two more birthday parties for any of our kids - two total, not two per child. She was at a total of three parties - and we have 4 children, who had birthday parties every year.

Sometimes, we'd have an afternoon party, and serve things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and goldfish crackers. Many times, we served pizza. A couple of times, we had McDonald's, like when my 4 year old had her heart set on a party at their Play Place. The only other time anyone said anything derogatory about the food was the year a friend said, "What brand cake mix was this? Because it was awful; I want to make sure that I never buy it."

(Well, and when one of my daughters, as an adult, complained, "We went to a pizza place for my 16th birthday party." Sorry, Kid - no over the top "Sweet 16s" with a live band and dancing. No boozy 21sts, either.)

We were also informed that our invitation process was lacking.

I've always tried to do written invitations. One, it just seems more official and less offhand - if we send you an invitation, you know that we want you there. Plus, all the details are written down - no, "Was that Friday or Saturday?" or, "Was that 4 or 5?" You don't have to rely on your memory. Or on notes - I've watched people write down incorrect information as someone is speaking right to them. All the info you need is there and correct in a written invitation.

Two, I tried to mail them. Getting mail is fun. But, more importantly, if you aren't inviting every single child in a class at school, at church, at dance or gym, on your Little League team or your Scout troop, it's a little less obvious if you aren't handing invitations out to some kids and skipping others. Doing it through the mail feels less exclusionary to me. I always collected mailing addresses of kids that we wanted to invite.

With family, of course, we had their addresses, and we always made sure that we mailed invitations to our family and those that we considered family before we sent them to anyone else. Family invitations might go out on Monday, and the rest go out on Friday.

Three, they establish the theme; you know if the birthday child is into princesses or airplanes.

Even though we carefully mailed the invitations to family first, we had a relative who didn't come, and kept making comments about "if I'd been invited." When that happened, we'd either reiterate the plans, assuming they didn't get the invitation, or assure them that we'd love to see them next time if the party had passed. After this happened for at least two years, I finally asked, "Is your mail delivery a problem? Do you not get home delivery?"

"No, we get home delivery, and my mail lady is great. We're on a first name basis."

"I have your house number right, don't I?" I recited the number.

"That's right."

"Then how do you not get the invitations? We mail them in plenty of time."

Then she said, "Oh, I get the little cards," in a voice that indicated that "the little cards" were somehow icky.

"Then you've been invited. That's the invitation." How was this not clear?

"But you never called me!"

What?

"I never called anybody."

"You never called anybody?"

"No. We sent out invitations." She looked horrified. "I didn't even call my mother."

"You didn't talk to anybody?"

"No." She looked so shocked, and this was apparently a difficult concept to grasp. "Sometimes, people RSVP, but not very often. Or, they'll call to ask what kind of gifts to get. But other than that, no."

She really was horrified. "And people came?"

"Yes, people came." I wanted to add, "Because we invited them," but I didn't.

"You'd better be glad they love those babies enough to overlook your rudeness!"

Rudeness? I invited them to a party!

Apparently - and I was unaware of this - she considered only a phone call to be a "real" invitation. Even if you mailed something, you called to say that you'd mailed it, then again to see when it arrived. She also thought that this was how "everyone" felt; I was baffled.

I'm not much of a phone person. My husband never got over the fact that my mom and I, who adore each other, could have phone calls that lasted less than a minute. Of course, I've also talked for over an hour, numerous times; it's not a phobia or anything. I just don't make many phone calls. Plus, as I listed above, I believe in actual, paper invitations. And my husband just does not make phone calls unless it's practically life and death.

Her attitude seemed wrapped up in a trait shared by a number of my friends and relatives - the idea that people only love you if they phone you, and frequently. The person who receives, not makes, phone calls is the one who is loved most. Plus, other communication, including face to face, is "not making an effort." I find that to be very weird.

Also, some people tend to feel that if they have to specifically tell you about something in their lives (whether good or bad), it's because you don't really care. If you "cared," you'd talk to them so frequently that you'd already know. If I didn't know something that was going on in their life, it was because I "never" called, and therefore "obviously" didn't care. The ball always seems to be in my court, though - if they didn't know something about my life, it was also my fault for not phoning them enough.

This never made sense to me. It made even less sense when I'd say, "You never call me, either!" and the answer was, "Well, I would, if you called me." What? "I think this is the only correct way to behave, but I'll only do what I think is right if you do it first"? That's ridiculous.

The thing is, if she'd said, up front and in a timely fashion, "I'd really appreciate a phone call," I would have done my best to call. I would have found it needy, but I would have made an effort. But to have someone ignore written invitations, make passive-aggressive comments about "not being invited" and then tell me that it was my fault for not being attentive enough produced the opposite reaction. If other people could figure out that receiving a mailed invitation meant that they were invited, by golly, every recipient could. Show up or don't, but don't gripe about it, either way.

And yeah, even with 4 kids, even after being told that I entertained badly and made gross cake and had bad manners, we had parties for our kids every single birthday while they were growing up - because we are parents, and the kids come first.

(I will readily admit, though, that as they got older and we had a bit more money to spare, I no longer cleaned, decorated and cooked - we went to restaurants, movie theaters, bowling alleys or elsewhere, including a corn maze. Less stress for me.)

I wonder, sometimes, if things have changed in the digital age. Probably now, people get upset about getting or not getting texts, not phone calls. I rarely text. I still send paper invitations, I still mail them to relatives first. But, everybody else might get an e-vite or Facebook Event invitation. My daughter just graduated from high school, and I don't have physical addresses, or phone numbers, for many people that we know, and are in electronic contact with regularly. I'm pretty sure that an electronic invitation is socially acceptable.

But, if you think it's not, we pretty much have two choices - let's just avoid each other's events, or attend them without griping. As "the kids say these days," you do you. I'll do me.

"How Would You Like That Cooked?"

By now, most people are at least aware of the concept of "Love Languages." It's the idea that each person values something as the most important component of a relationship, so they will try to provide it for their partner. People who value financial security and/or gift giving will work extra hours in order to give expensive gifts. But, if their partner values time spent together, they will be disappointed that their partner chooses to stay longer than necessary at work instead of come home to them, and they will view gifts as a failed attempt to "buy" their affection.

I was truly unaware that there are so many other instances in which the idea people think they're presenting is not what others see or hear - ordinary instances of everyday words or actions. I'm still often taken by surprise - when someone tells me that my definition of the word "evolution" is the "wrong" definition, for instance. (I mean, I always figured that the dictionary had the final say on what words mean. Now, people tell me that "popular usage" is the most important thing, but that changes extremely frequently, by location, etc. That's almost like having no definition at all.)

It makes living with other humans, even in a community, much less in a shared home, difficult.

Allow me to demonstrate with an argument about: steak. Sincerely; bear with me.

I've mentioned before that when I was a newlywed, my husband had a really hard time with the way I prepared food.

"I was now having flashbacks to instance after instance in which my husband and I had been on completely separate pages. When we first got married, for instance, how I ate and/or cooked my food could send him into a tailspin. I remembered him insisting, completely distraught, "You cannot go on eating your sandwiches that way!" What? It was my sandwich, and I liked it. When I would tell him that, he would huff and roll his eyes, or worse, tell me, "That's irrelevant." How could the way I liked my sandwiches be irrelevant to me? I wasn't making his sandwiches that way and asking him to eat them, I was just feeding myself. Does not compute!

(His beef with my sandwiches, in case you wondered, is that I put only butter and cheese on my grilled cheese. "They have no taste!")" "The Right Way," July 2013)
I found it bizarre and unfathomable. If I'd insisted on making his food the way I liked it, I'd understand, but this was my own food.

My husband loves steak. If he could have only one meal, for the rest of his life, it would be steak and eggs, medium rare, over easy, with wheat toast.

Quite often, the way he cooks his steak looks, to me, like there's nothing "medium" about it, and it's straight up rare. I do not like rare meat, even medium rare meat. I don't need it to be all the way to "well done," but I can't stand it raw looking or tasting. This really disturbed my husband. Not puzzled, but sincerely upset him.

He kept trying to get me to "just try it" his way, and I kept repeating that I had tried it, and that's how I know that I don't like it. Then one day he said, "You just haven't ever had a really good cut of meat, properly prepared." Well, OK, maybe there was something to that. Money was tight when I was growing up; expensive cuts of meat were not on the menu. So, my husband went shopping, bought (ridiculously expensive) steaks, and cooked them, and proudly served me dinner. "You'll see," he said.

He was so delighted with his dinner. "Isn't this great?" he kept saying. "So tender! Doesn't it just melt in your mouth?"

NO. It did not "melt" in my mouth. It was not "tender." It was like chewing rubber bands - the chewing did not actually change the size, shape, or texture of the meat. My teeth just kind of bounced off of it. And the longer I chewed, the more it seemed that the meat actually absorbed my saliva, and got larger and larger. This might be OK if I just loved the taste, but I didn't. It tasted bloody, like when you've just had dental work, or accidentally bite yourself. It was barely edible. I knew this from previous experience, but this was particularly bad, as he'd left it so rare that I expected it to still moo.

I tried to respond without hurting his feelings, but finally said, "I just can't eat this. It's barely even cooked." I got up and tossed it back on the pan. When it was done, I happily ate the whole thing, and complimented his seasoning and choice of steak. "That was really good."

"Yes, it was good - and then you ruined it."

Well, I expected a bit of a huff, since he felt that I'd criticized his cooking.

I also expected that to be the final word. We were done now, I was sure. We'd tested every hypothesis, and I just do not like rare meat. Now we could quit discussing it.

But we, apparently, could not. If anything, he wanted more discussion, and he got more and more agitated.

I'd order my meat medium well at restaurants, and he'd say, "You're offending the chef. They don't like it when people want the meat well done."

I resisted the urge to say, "Oh, now you're psychic?" but said, "He's getting paid the same, no matter how I want it. He doesn't care. Besides, I didn't ask for well done. I asked for medium well."

"The chefs hate that. And they don't give you the good cuts then. They give you the old stuff or the tough stuff that other people won't eat."

"So, they'll be happy I'm using up their surplus, and paying the same as you are. And I'll be happy, too." I could not imagine that there could be a down side to this.

He did not see it this way. He was sure that I was being "rude" by ordering my food the way that I liked it; I could not imagine how that was possible.

I took to ordering chicken; I was informed that this, too, was "offensive." "You should always order the specialty of the house. The chef hates it when people come to a steakhouse and order chicken."

Me: "So, the chef will be angry if you order literally half of what's on the menu? Why does he work here? And how do you psychically know what he's thinking?"

Him: "Because that's what most people think."

Me: "WHAT?" Now he can read the mind of not only the chef, but "most" of the population? And I still didn't know, even if he could, why they got to choose my meals. I wasn't choosing theirs!

At home, I took care to cook his steak the way he liked it. Mine, of course, I cooked the way I like it. I was sure that my husband would be happy that I was being considerate enough to remember what he liked, and make it for him. I felt like a very attentive wife. I was therefore very puzzled when he was not happy, and did not consider this behavior to be considerate, but instead insisted that I was being self centered. "How can giving you what you like possibly self centered?" I wanted to know.

"Because you know how to do it right, and insist on doing it wrong."

"'Right' is however a person likes it!"

"Most people like their beef on the rare side."

"I am not cooking for 'most people!' I am cooking for specific individuals, not random passers by! And I am making sure that each person gets what they like, not what strangers might want!"

It made no sense at all to me.

I also could not understand why this was a big deal. Statistically, we were supposed to be arguing about money, sex, in-laws, chores, child rearing - and we're stuck on food. FOOD.

After literally years of this, I finally discovered a few things that finally shed some light.

One, my husband did not see this as a disagreement or a misunderstanding. He was positive that I knew exactly what he meant, and why, and my insistence on making my own food outside of what he considered to be the norm was a posturing attempt to dominate, control, and assert that I was the Alpha in the relationship. Holy cow. I never would have gotten that interpretation, not in a million years. I did, however, think that his behavior was controlling. (I mean, who tells people how they should like their food? Also, I think that if you have an Alpha in the relationship, it's unhealthy.)

Two, he was sure that if you disagreed with someone (about anything, really), you thought, and were saying, that they were stupid. ("If you thought they were smart, you'd agree with them.") He therefore felt criticized and judged - ironically, exactly how I felt.

Three, he was sure that there was only one best way to do anything, and that people should be concerned with doing anything "right," so individual tastes were irrelevant. Saying, "Bob likes it this way, but Susie likes it that way" was the same as saying, "We're doing a really mediocre job, and encouraging chaos and selfishness." It didn't matter how you liked it, it mattered what was right. And if you liked things the wrong way, you should be embarrassed, and should stop doing it wrong, no matter how you felt. Who wants to be wrong? And if you point out to someone that they're wrong, you're being helpful.

Wow. This was not how I was raised:

"I grew up hearing, "There's more than one way to skin a cat," and, "All roads lead to Rome," being told over and over that there was always more than one way to accomplish any goal... The idea that there was only one "right" way to do anything was not part of my daily reality." ("The Right Way")

This was not a matter of morals or physics, and therefore, to my mind, there was no possible way to be "wrong."

Four, the fact that I kept using the word "I" confirmed to him that I thought my opinion was the only thing that mattered, and I was therefore, by definition, being selfish and self centered. When I said, "I like it this way," he heard, "I do not ever need to consider anyone but myself."

On the other hand, I had studied communication in school. Plus, I'd approached marriage the same way I approached anything, by reading voluminous amounts. I knew that making "I" statements is what psychologists and relationship experts advise. It tells your partner what you're thinking and what you need, and avoids inflammatory, blame placing statements like, "You make me so mad."

Five, he thought that he was being a considerate partner by looking beyond what I was saying to try to figure out what I "really meant." He also thought that being vague avoided putting people on the spot, or hurting feelings. I thought that I was being a considerate partner, and avoiding misunderstanding, by being clear and literal, and taking what he said at face value. I thought that he'd appreciate my lack of game playing, and avoiding infuriating behaviors like, "If you loved me, you'd know why I'm upset." I find vagueness infuriating and unhelpful.

And you can be sure, all of this affected far more than our discussions about steak.

Holy. Cow.

So, now knowing these things, are we living in perfect harmony? HA HA! You're so cute! No. But understanding is indeed the first step.

What we try to do is consider our partner's style. It's not a case of, "I'm right, you're wrong." Intent is important.

He has to try to remember take what I say at face value, without looking for ulterior motives. I have to try to remember that he may not actually be saying everything that he wants me to know.

Of course, he still thinks that the way I like my steak is weird. I think it's weird that the way I like my steak concerns him. But we've learned how to avoid arguing about it.

You know when you hear that someone's getting a divorce, and one partner says, "I was completely blindsided. I had no idea my spouse was unhappy," and the other says, "My spouse knows perfectly well why we're divorcing! S/he knows that I'm unhappy, and that I've been this way for a long time! This cannot be a surprise!" I understand now how that happens.

What you think you're saying may not be what other people are hearing.

Staying At Home

Maybe it's because my youngest child just graduated from high school; maybe not. I've had several conversations lately about how people view, and speak to, stay at home parents, young parents, and especially, heaven forbid, young stay at home parents. It's often not pretty.

I got married at 20, had babies at 20 and 21, and was a stay at home mom. To make matters, in many people's eyes, worse, we lived in small, rural communities for close to 10 years.

Many sincere, well intentioned people had feelings that fell on a scale from puzzled to horrified. It was - it is - a struggle for me to understand why.

I mean, they had reasons, they told me their reasons, but I couldn't quite make out what those reasons had to do with me, personally.

Sometimes, those reasons were phrased as concern for my mental and emotional state. "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were bringing in money?" No. I'd still have the exact same IQ, abilities, knowledge, skills, and talents, no matter what I did with my days. I'm really unclear on why people expected the way I felt about myself to depend on factors outside of myself. I was certainly aware that some people thought that anyone who married young, had children immediately, and dropped out of college to be a stay at home parent couldn't possibly have two brain cells to rub together; I just didn't care. It's not as if that opinion actually lowered my IQ.

Sometimes, the wording was slightly different: the clumsily worded, "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were contributing to the household?" Those people got a chilly, "I am contributing."

My responses usually led to an earnest attempt on their part to explain the query that just, from my perspective, dug the hole deeper. Insisting that the way others viewed me mattered more than what went on in my own household was an impossible task, because I will never believe that. Insisting that I "could be doing so much more" led me to point out, "Different does not mean better." If I'd decided to be a doctor, I wouldn't be a practicing lawyer. If I was a teacher, I wouldn't be an accountant. Choosing what you do with your time always means eliminating other possibilities. That's a good thing, not a bad one.

What really made me angry was people who kept pushing, getting into the idea that some jobs are "better" than others, and this makes the people who do them more valuable to society. That just smacks of Third Reich thinking. The Reich started out with policies against criminals, prostitutes (even though prostitution was legal), and Gypsies. Then they moved on to the mentally and physically handicapped. "These people don't contribute to society, but they use up our resources." After a significant portion of the population believed that some people were just lesser beings, the Third Reich had less trouble both expanding the groups considered undesirable and getting people to condone the killing of the country's own citizens. After all, those people weren't as valuable as other people. Any attempt to convince me that a person's worth lies in their employment skill set or employment status will fall flat.

Sometimes, those reasons were a reflection of how they felt about their own lives. "I just feel like my brain cells are atrophying." I never felt that way. I did sometimes crave adult company, but that's because children make no sense. They're irrational little beings, with little in the way of logic.

For instance, one of my daughters had a thing about wrapping up every bump or bruise in blankets and towels. She'd watched some show or movie where someone tore strips of gauze to tie around a wound, and became convinced that wrapping in fabric was the way to treat any injury. She further theorized that keeping a wound warm meant that it wouldn't hurt. I explained, over and over, that fabric strips were bandages, or held bandages in place, when you didn't have store bought, pre made bandages, but she refused to believe me. It was about wrapping to keep warm, she was sure. She'd insist on wrapping an entire blanket or bath towel around her hand, or wherever else she's been scraped or bumped. She'd often howl about how, "It hurts! It hurts!" until the wrapping was done, then tell you how, "Oh, now it doesn't hurt. I feel so much better." Then she'd walk around with a ridiculously mummified hand, until she had to unwrap it to, say, eat, then howl again about how being without the blanket "hurts!" Sometimes, she'd want 2 or 3 blankets wound around it at once, because more is apparently better. This went on for years. Irrational, and resistant to new information; that's the definition of childhood thinking. Sometimes I just needed to speak to people who made sense.

Maybe that's why it was so frustrating when other adults didn't make sense. And, why it was so frustrating when they wanted to critique my life and choices.

When my oldest children were young, I did a lot of work with a university theater company - it was my comfort zone - and that meant spending time around people who were close to my age, but thought that my life was unimaginable, and/or that I was doing things all wrong. Sometimes, they'd snark at me.

I lived 45 minutes away from the theater, (across two county lines) in a small farming community. (Yeah - you can see already that I'd be winning friends on a university campus, right?) Rehearsals or shows often ran until 11. That had me getting into bed no earlier than midnight. Even before I had kids, midnight was LATE to me. I never watched a live episode of "Saturday Night Live." I never saw "The Tonight Show" live until I had nursing babies who were hungry at that hour.

One night, some of us were talking, and somebody groused about how hard it would be to get up for work in the morning. (Her day went work, then school, then the show.) Several of us who had school or work in the morning chimed in. I said, "Tell me about it!" Most days, I dragged through the morning, anticipating nap time after lunch.

One of the young men in the group looked shocked. "What are you talking about? You don't work!" he said.

If you have a Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent (and if you don't, consider it!), put this comment on it.

"I have kids!" I said. Kids don't care how tired you are, how much sleep you got, how you feel, what you have going on.

"It's not like you have responsibilities!" he said. Seeing my face, he scrambled. "You don't have, like, obligations to meet or a schedule to keep." (That Handy Dandy List? Yeah - you know what to do.)

There are certain sentiments that one might find on a bumper sticker or T-shirt to which I wholeheartedly subscribe. One is, "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and annoys the pig." Explaining life to this guy was looking like the equivalent of trying to teach the pig to sing - an exercise in futility. But, I simply cannot let certain kinds of ignorance stand.

"What happens if you have a bad day at work?" I asked.

"What?"

"What happens if you have a bad day at work? Do you get written up, maybe get a demotion, get docked pay?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"If I have a bad day at work, people die." Most of the 20-somethings worked retail (the most talented guy in the group at the time was a grocery store bagger). To think that a retail job was more responsibility than taking care of human lives was an astonishing and inaccurate judgement.

He looked shocked. "Isn't that being a little overdramatic? I mean, it's pretty much babysitting."

(Pig! Singing! Handy Dandy List!)

"Why do parents hire babysitters?"

"Because they want to go out to dinner or whatever."

"Yes, but why do they need a sitter? Why don't they just leave the kids alone?"

He stared at me.

"Because a babysitter's entire job is to keep the children alive. If they are left alone, they may not survive it."

I did not point out (pig! singing!) that a parent's job is indeed NOT babysitting. Sitters might, occasionally, be asked to serve a meal or give baths, but their entire purpose is indeed to keep the children alive. Happy is good, fed is good, amused is good, but alive is a must. Plus, their job has a start time and an end time. Parents are constantly (even when the kids are with a sitter) responsible for the children's health, nutrition, character, cleanliness, manners, education, chores, and relationships. They are legally, financially (and occasionally, morally) responsible if the kids break any laws. It makes me just crazy to hear a man refer to staying with his own kids as "babysitting." Nope, Pop - you are a parent. You can babysit other people's kids, but not your own.

"Have you done much babysitting?" I wanted to know - because it seemed pretty obvious that he'd spent very little time around children.

"Some."

I thought, uncharitably, that he might have spent an afternoon or two plunking kids down in front of the TV, so they don't "bother" him.

"Well, you might want to do some more. Overnight, or maybe even for a whole weekend. Then tell me how easy it is. Then think about the fact that I do that every day."

It still astonishes me when people who are not parents think they know what it's like. I don't care if you've worked day care for 20 years, you have no idea what it's like to be a parent unless you are a parent. And yet, non-parents are so often just sure that they know as much, or more, about it than parents do.

A couple of years later, someone again voiced one of those opinions that was so egregious in its inaccuracy that I had to speak up. In fact, I fairly ripped the guy's head off, verbally.

Again, we were in rehearsal for a show. It was early in the process, and there was some "getting to know you" stuff going on. Someone asked, "So, what do you do?"

"I stay home with my kids."

As usual, there was some surprise, and some tepid smiles. One man, probably mid-20s, said, very jovially, "Oh, gosh, great hours on your job!" Seriously? Parenting is a lot of things, but the hours are not great.

"No, not really," I said. "I don't work 8 hour shifts, or even 12 hour shifts - I work 24 hour shifts. I don't leave my job at the end of the day, and go home to relax - my job is at home. I get no days off - no weekends, no holidays, no sick days, no vacations. If I want to take a vacation, my job goes with me. If I ever want to leave my job, for even 15 minutes, I have to find someone willing and competent to do it, and I, personally, have to pay them, even though I, myself, do not get paid."

He looked stricken. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's not about me being offended. It's about accuracy."

I don't care how people feel about my religion, my job, my family, politics, world news - I do care that their opinion is based on facts.

The poor guy, to his credit, tried, from then on, very hard to be very nice to me, so I didn't feel shunned. I tried hard not to make him feel judged; but man, I hoped he'd never make that mistake again. (Handy Dandy List!)

I hoped that my children, having been raised in my household, would not make those same mistakes in talking to others. That hope was, apparently, in vain. One of my kids in particular has informed me repeatedly that I "never worked." She also has often said, "You got to take naps!" as evidence of how "easy" my days were.

Sure, parents get naps - if their children are sleeping, or are old enough to avoid death or injury if they're left relatively unsupervised for short periods of time. Our culture considers it perfectly normal, acceptable (and even beneficial) for people to go out drinking alcohol "to unwind" after a day's work. I absolutely will not feel bad about sleeping, in my own house, with my kids at school or in the next room.

I never really expected my kids to fully understand adult concepts while they were kids, but I certainly expect other adults, including those to whom I gave birth, to have a better handle on things.

A couple of years ago, my daughter was again telling me that I had no perspective, and I'd had an easy life, because "You never worked!"

"I was a full time parent. When I was your age, the age you are right this minute, I had a first grader and a second grader. I also had two extras (my niece and nephew were living with us), and I was pregnant. Do you want that job? Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning and do that job, instead of going to work?"

"No." (This is the child who still says that parenting looks like "no fun.")

"Then don't ever tell me that I didn't work." Honestly, it's more aggravating to have my child say this than to hear a stranger say it, because I know what my kids have been told. "And if you're going to measure everything by money earned, I had a second job. When I worked it, I made $100 an hour - and that's a discount rate for the industry." For my entire adult life - actually, starting when I was a teen - I've been a self employed photographer, shooting mostly weddings. Back in the days of film, my husband and I charged by the roll of film shot. When we went digital, we took the average number of rolls we'd shoot in an hour, and used that for the hourly rate. That price has gone up since I was in my 20s, and I'm still less expensive than the industry standard. And you know what - none of that equals my worth.

You know what? The more that I think about it, everybody needs The Handy Dandy List. In fact, we need two - The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent, and The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Stay at Home Parent. I just watched somebody (who thought they were being funny, I'll bet) snark at my nephew online the other day, because he's a stay at home dad. I grew up with my dad staying home, and my mom going to work. I knew it was age related - Dad was retired, and not very Mr. Mom - but I also knew it was a perfectly reasonable way to live.

Go ahead! Get out your phone, or your notepad, or whatever you need, and make lists! If you get stumped, I'll volunteer to help.

Tired

I'm the youngest child in my family. When it came time for me to drive, my mother took me driving once, and that was it. My dad once let me sit on his lap and steer when I was too young to drive. The rest of my driving training came from a friend of my mother's, a 25 year old ex-police officer. "We've already done this three times. I'm old. I'm tired," my mother said. I laughed, and I understood.

I now understand on an entirely new level. I am old. I am tired.

When I got married young, had children immediately, and decided to be a stay at home parent, so many of the people I knew were distressed, to one degree or another. Quite a few tried to talk me out of it. One of the reasons they gave made no sense to me (OK, quite a few made no sense to me). "You'll be so miserable when your kids are grown and gone if you've spent your whole like defining yourself by being their mother!"

"What? I AM their mother. I will always BE their mother."

"Yes, but you need to have an identity outside of that."

"I do."

This is the point at which they'd usually start to sigh, and think that I was a little thick headed. "But you won't, if all you do is stay home and tend children!"

I usually cut them - and I'm using the plural noun because I had these conversations on more than one occasion, with different people - slack for being well intentioned, which I think they were. They wanted me to be happy. Many of them were also about my age, early 20s, and on fire with desire to conquer and change the world, and be recognized as important, and it made no sense to them that I stepped off of the merry-go-round. They thought I should be "making a difference," and I thought that I already was.

To my mind, the line of thought that my kids would be my "only identity" made no sense because I was already a good many things before I became a wife and mother. I was a photographer, writer, actor, theater technician, crafter, reader, traveler, member of a religion and of an extended family. I would continue to be those things while my kids were young, and after they had grown. I could not understand the worry that adding a new title would erase the old ones.

It also made no sense when someone explained this mindset by saying, "Well, most people define themselves by their employment." Why in the world would anyone do that? My dad retired when I was 6 months old. For my entire life, he was not employed, and certainly didn't define himself by employment status. My mother was brilliant, excellent at her job, and indispensable to her employer, and she didn't define herself by her employment. "I don't understand people who think that they are their jobs," she said. And besides, why in the world would I make my life choices based on how other people felt about their lives?

So, the worries of others notwithstanding, I chose to be a full time parent.

When our children were a bit older, we had children, family members, who needed a temporary place to stay without their parents, live with us on three long term occasions, and many weekends and school holidays. The social worker in charge of overseeing one of those placements said to us, when the kids moved out, "We need to get you licensed and get some other foster kids in here!" (The process was less involved for us, since the kids were relatives.) We have a 6 bedroom house; even with all of our kids in their own rooms, we had room.

We felt strongly about helping kids in need - at one time, we took classes to prepare us to adopt from foster care - but we turned her down. We just weren't sure we could handle going through the process with kids we hadn't known all their lives, and might never see again. I felt guilty about that - I know how big the need for foster families is - but I chose my own mental health. "Maybe when our youngest is grown, we'll take on some foster kids," we said. Sometimes we added, "But maybe by then we'll be old and tired."

I have now spent over 30 years, 3 decades, being primarily a stay at home mom. Sure, I still did things that mattered to me - hello, live theater - and I worked, on occasion - mostly for myself - but day in, day out, my primary job was Mom. Here's some of what I learned.

I would do it again. I do not regret it. I never felt that my effort was "wasted" or wished that I'd chosen the Impressive Career route.

I now understand, a little bit, why my friends panicked back in the day - why some panic now. I've watched parents who were full time caregivers be lost when there's no one to care for. Some jump into being caregivers for other people's children. Some founder. Some get depressed and say, "No one needs me any more."

Of course, some do what one lifelong friend does. She now spends almost as much time on vacation, usually cruise ships, as she spends at home. She points out that if I'd stopped at 2 kids, I could have been "free" years ago. She spends no time pining for the days of classroom parties and Easter egg hunts.

People are starting to ask me, "What will you do when (your youngest) is out of school?" They offer things - "Do you want to teach a couple of co-op classes?"

Um, respectfully, no - I am looking forward to not being at co-op. Mind you, I LOVE our homeschool co-op. It's been delightful for me and my kids. I've taught academics, art, speech and more, to older kids, to younger kids. My children loved it. But I want to sleep until noon on co-op day, if I feel like it, then spend the rest of the day in my silent family room with a book. I do not want to plan, explain, organize, grade, set up, clean up.

When I had children, I had a really easy time adjusting to the idea that all the time, money and attention went to my children, and not me. It did not make sense when people lamented what a HUGE shift that would be, and wondered if I was ready, or told me that they weren't ready. I think it would be much harder if I had spent years focused on myself, and then had to change gears. I became a parent so young that it's "always" been this way. For an entire year once, I owned only one dress, a $20, 100% polyester dress. I wore it to church every week, to weddings, to funerals, to a family christening, to parties. My daughters, on the other hand, had a closet full of dresses. That's the way things should be, I think.

And now, I am looking forward to keeping my own schedule, choosing my own activities, impulse buying a cute new top. I'm looking forward to having nowhere to go, and no obligations. I want to head out the door with a pb&j sandwich and my camera, and see what needs photographed. I want to sleep in, to nap, to stay up late or to rehearse for a show without worrying that I'll be miserable or neglecting somebody. I want to sit and read, undisturbed in silence. I want to look up nostalgic TV or documentaries on Netflix, without waiting until someone else's bedtime.

I not only did not lose who I was before kids, I've added some labels, like Rotarian and travel agent.

And if people define me as a waste of their conversational efforts, because I'm "just a mom" when "everybody else managed to be a good parent and have a career"? I will ignore them. I will not waste their time or mine trying to change minds.

And unfortunately, yes, I feel too old and tired to take on foster kids. Yes, I feel guilty about that. But having the exact same conversations for literally years is exhausting. I can't take it on again.

I never, ever imagined, for instance, that I would be dealing with children who got out of bed in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning to sneak downstairs and watch TV. Not forbidden shows, often Disney channel, just at 4 am. I not only never imagined that I'd have a child who expressed their displeasure at us by dropping their pants and peeing on the floor, I certainly never imagined that it would continue for years, until said child's age was measured in double digits. (I never imagined, either, spending those years explaining that urine was NOT "water," nor did it "disappear.")

I mean, I expected to have to explain things - I just did not expect to explain them every day for literally years, only to be ignored.

Sometimes, the English language itself made this difficult, like when we spent two years, years, fighting the battle of heating and cooling; trust me, it's not what you're thinking.

We didn't have air conditioning in our cars until the older kids were hitting puberty. One day, when my child was about 6, we were making a familiar 45 minute drive, and a voice from the back seat said, "Can you turn on the heater? It's hot back here."

I explained, "The heater blows hot air. It will make it hotter."

My annoyed offspring announced, "NO, the heater blows warm air, and I want to be warm, not hot!"

"The heater will make it hotter," I repeated. "To make it cooler, we'd need air conditioning, and we don't have it."

Outrage: "I don't want to be cool! I want to be warm! Can you please turn on the heater? It will make it warm."

We spent at least 30 of the 45 minute drive engaged in this discussion. I thought I had explained it to death, and that would be the end of it. No. the next day, and the next, and the next, the SAME conversation took place. "I want to be warm! The heater will make it warm!" I had the children - the other child had now picked up this line of thinking, and parrotted it - hold their hands in front of the heater vents, to feel what came out, at various settings. I explained heaters, furnaces, all manner of non-open flame heating, but to no avail.

Then, one day, a new request. "Can I at least have a blanket, to keep the heat off?"

I clarified this request - it was not a request for window covering, or otherwise building a shade. My hot child wanted to bundle up. "Wrapping up in a blanket is what you do when you're cold. Right now, it will make you hotter."

"It will not! It will keep the sun and the heat off me."

I reminded my children of all the times they'd bundled up when cold, but to no avail.

For days, this continued. Finally, I thought, I am not giving the kids the chance to learn from their choices. I'm a big believer in natural consequences and learning by doing. OK, I thought, let's give them their way, so they can see how it turns out.

I did worry, especially when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw their flushed, sweaty faces above the blankets they had pulled up to their necks and tucked in around them, that I was being an accessory to heatstroke.

After a drive that had us all miserable, I asked, "Do you see now why blankets are a bad idea when you're hot?"

The answer? "You gave us a blanket that was too thin. It lets the heat through. If you'd give us a thicker blanket, it would work."

"No! If I gave you a thicker blanket, your brain would start to cook! No more blankets! Unless it's COLD!"

We continued to have these ridiculous conversations on an almost daily basis. One day, I sat in astonishment in the front seat, and wondered what planet I was on, as my child yelled in outrage from the back of the car, "I can't believe it's this hot back here and you won't even give us a blanket!"

Then, finally, the weather cooled, and the arguing stopped. Ah, I thought, we've moved on. Nope.

We had an evaporative cooler instead of an air conditioner. It was a bit too big for our house, which made it fantastic during the summer. One day that winter, my child said, "It's cold in here. Can we turn on the cooler?" And it all started again.

"No. We run the cooler in the summer, when it's hot. Now it would make us colder."

"No. It would make us cool, and cool is better than cold."

And thus went the winter.

The next summer, when "it's hot, turn on the heater" started again, I said, "We have discussed this over and over. I never want to have this conversation again." But guess what conversation I had all summer that year, too, and what conversation I had all that winter?

I demonstrated mixing hot and cold water for their baths. I pointed out that the furnace was on all winter, and the cooler was on all summer. We discussed and discussed - and my children could not believe that I was so dim that I didn't "get it."

I am just too tired to spend two years having these kinds of conversations again. I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just when the kids are small that you have conversations that you never thought you'd have. Sometimes my kids seemed incapable of simply saying, "OK;" like when I said to a teen with their driving permit, "You went through that corner pretty fast. Slow down through the corners."

The response was, "I don't think I need to."

"I think that you do. Slow down."

"I don't think so. I think I'm fine."

"I didn't ask what you thought. I asked you to slow down. Who's been driving since before you were born, and has a perfect driving record, and who's been driving for a grand total of about 5 hours?"

"I just don't think I need to slow down. I think I'm doing fine."

"Well, I am the driving instructor, the parent, and the owner of the car. You will slow down going through the corners."

"But I don't think I need to!"

I. Am. Tired.

Then there are the conversations that I knew I'd have, but I thought that there was an expiration date. Telling a teenager who's old enough to be holding a job to use toilet paper and to brush their teeth seems ridiculous, but I've spent far too much time doing so. How tough is personal hygiene, really? I mean, toilet paper? Seriously?

When I felt compelled to point out to a teen who worked in a food serving capacity, "Customers will not want you to serve them if you have body odor or bad breath. You don't want them to complain to you or your boss," I was unprepared for the response to be, "You are ruining my self esteem!" Really, Child? You know what will really do a number on your self esteem? Complaints from customers or reprimands from your boss! I sugar coated this message as much as I could - they will not.

When a high school senior repeatedly complained that they "don't have time" to hang up their wet towels instead of leaving them in a heap on the floor (directly under the towel bar!), I demonstrated, by counting "one one thousand, two one thousand," that it took literally two seconds for them to pick it up, fold it, and drop it over the towel bar. And yet, the insistence of, "I don't have time! Why can't you do it?" continued. Finally, after realizing that I'd been fighting this battle since the children were old enough to bathe alone, I said, "Fine. Next year, when you're off at college, and your roommate says, 'Didn't your mother teach you how to pick up after yourself?' you'll have to look them straight in the eye and say, 'Yes, she did, but I ignored her.'"

My child looked stunned. "Because they will say it, I guarantee it," I said. "You think your roommates are going to want to pick up after you? They'll be far less patient about it than I am!" This possibility had not occurred to my honor student.

I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just the conversations with the kids; it's the conversations with the other parents. "Connect with other parents," the experts say. "You'll feel less alone." Nice try, experts. In actual fact, talking to other parents can be extremely alienating.

Take the hygiene issues: When my kids were young and I'd have these conversations, people would say, "Oh, just wait until s/he hits puberty. S/he'll become obsessed with cleanliness." HA! I mean, no offense, Advice Givers, but HA! And it's not just one child. I have a teen who spent an entire week at camp in the same swimsuit, never changing or bathing. (Child's take: "I was so clean! I went in the lake every day!") I've had to almost forcibly remove favorite but dirty clothes, not from my little kids but from adolescents who were sure that wearing dirty "cool" clothes was better than wearing clean "uncool" clothes. I had one child with, unfortunately, very naturally stinky feet who rebelled at the thought of washing their smelly sneakers. ("You want me to wash my shoes?")

And I've gotten (too much) advice on the subject, too. Some people tell me that, once they hit the teens, the child(ren) should to be left to their own devices, to be as smelly and dirty as they want, because the reaction from their peers will squash any ideas of doing it again. Some people tell me that I should do whatever it takes, including forcibly bathing and/or restraining the child, and preventing them from leaving the house unless they're sparkling clean and great smelling, because otherwise I'm an uncaring parent who will cause their child(ren) to be ostracized. Some people tell me that children would only behave this way if no one has taught them proper hygiene. And I want to scream.

You name the subject, and the advice pretty much mirrors this. I've spent too much time hearing, "All you have to do is..." when I have, and, "Have you explained...?" Until I'm blue in the face, thanks - and I'm articulate.

I. Am. Tired.

Even when discussions with other parents go well, it can be hard. I was once speaking to the mother of one of my then-17 year old's best friends. She said something about chores, and I said, "Yes, well, (my child) is convinced that all of the jobs in our house and yard belong to me, and the only reason I have anyone else do any of them is because I'm lazy and mean."

She looked shocked. "No, she doesn't."

"Yes, she really does."

"No! She's 17! She knows how a family works!"

"No. She really doesn't." Not for lack of our explaining it to her - she was just convinced that we were wrong.

The other mom was starting to give me a look that said she was wondering why I would say such outrageous things. So, I said, "Do me a favor - ask her. Ask her when I'm not around, so you know she's not directing the answer at me. And ask her when she's in a good mood, because when she's in a bad mood, she'll agree that I'm responsible for WWII."

Then we changed the subject, and I didn't think much more about it. I know that I have no control over the behaviors or opinions of others, so I don't tend to dwell on them.

A couple of weeks later, this mom pulled me aside. "Remember that conversation about chores? She actually does think that. I had no idea." Yeah - I know.

The kids are bright, capable, talented, articulate. I would give my life for any of them. And yet, all children are irrational.

I. Am. Tired.

So, here I am, not regretting having kids, or staying home with them, or taking on extras now and then. I do not feel lost or diminished or like I have "no identity" or purpose. I'm excited to be able to have "me time." And, I'm so tired that I just can't imagine taking it all on again. Not physically tired, but a deep, philosophical fatigue. I just can't handle the thought of having the same discussions again, over and over and over. Or having new, ridiculous, repetitive discussions. And this makes me, with my empty bedrooms, feel guilty.

One of my religion's books of scripture cautions that, "It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength." I think that taking on more children might be running faster than I have strength. But I still feel guilty.

"I am old. I am tired."