Tipping Point

On February 13, 2022 By aftheadIn Uncategorized4 Comments

I always thought when you went over the tipping point that there would be a fall. Instead, I’ve learned when you go over the tipping point the point impales itself in your heart and holds you aloft writhing like an insect being prepared for a museum display.

Internally, I can’t understand why I’ve found myself stuck. All I’ve done is experienced two years of the pandemic in the most privileged way possible. I worked from home in my basement office while my husband worked from home in our bedroom, and my daughter attended school at home; then at home and at school; and now at school. We have money to pay for broadband, computers, masks, and COVID tests. I should feel lucky.

My mom is alive. I didn’t survive cancer. I don’t currently have cancer. My house didn’t burn to the ground. The opposite scenarios are all ones my friends have experienced since 2020. I didn’t get COVID. My daughter didn’t infect her grandparents when she got COVID. Thank goodness.

My co-workers think I’m a great boss and do great work. I’m working on a project to fundamentally reduce the climate change impacts of transportation system in this country. This week, my work was lauded by the Secretary of Energy and the Secretary of Transportation. I am at a career high point.

I know mental health. I’ve lived with a partner with depression for 22 years. I experienced anxiety during this pandemic in a vicious cycle of chest tightening, worrying I have COVID causing additional chest tightening and more worry that I have COVID. I was seeing the therapist at my doctor’s office until she quit. She never suggested medication. I took the quizzes every appointment. I’m not jittery. I can focus. I can sleep. I am fine.

Sometimes feeling bad is appropriate. Sometimes the combined strain of the banal — lost friendships, loneliness, dead pets — and a literal apocalyptic existence leave you feeling kinda crappy. I just checked my favorite John’s Hopkins COVID-19 dashboard and 5,802,066 people have died worldwide. I was tempted to round to 5.8 million, but 2,066 feels like significant digits. That’s 2,066 sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers, human beings. I can’t imagine 2,066 deaths much less the other 5,800,000. An antidepressant doesn’t make that go away. Every day brings new catastrophes. A quick scan of today’s headlines: war, border blockades, delayed vaccines for kids, and voter suppression. Awesome.

I’m supposed to work and achieve. I’m supposed to be a visionary. I’m supposed to lead, mentor, and manage others. I’m supposed to raise a healthy well-balanced child. I’m supposed to care for my family, my friends, and do not forget the all-important self-care. But what if self-care requires alone time to cry or scream? What if I’ve sucked up all I can suck and need to experience legitimate emotions during my endless daily cycle of bedroom, basement office, kid’s sporting events, kitchen, and back to my office for a few more hours before returning to my bedroom to sleep? When do I to take an hour, a day, a week, a month and fall apart because the world is a horrible scary place? And if I breakdown, then what? Do I pick myself up and start climbing to the tipping point again? This isn’t a brain chemistry problem. This is reality.

And here’s the thing. I’m not alone. If I look around there is a mountain range of impaled others. If I listen closely, I can hear a chorus of “I’m fine.” “I’m good.” “Doing okay.”

How am I doing? I am scared. I am exhausted. I am angry. I am stuck. And I don’t know how or when it gets better.

How are you?

A family with masks on and a sunset behind them.

It’s been a year

On March 19, 2021March 22, 2021 By aftheadIn Uncategorized5 Comments

It’s been a year since I’ve worked in an office building.

Since I’ve watched my daughter play sports without she or I wearing a mask.

Since I’ve been inside a bookstore or library.

Since I’ve hugged my brother.

Since I’ve eaten in a restaurant.

Since I’ve stayed in a hotel.

Been to the airport.

Been in a bar.

Been in a mall.

Been to a funeral.

It’s been a year without parties I didn’t want to attend.

Without gatherings I didn’t want to host.

Without organizing carpools.

Without a school band concert, play, or art festival.

It’s been a year of talking in tiny computer windows.

Talking to myself, constantly present in my own tiny window.

Talking to family on badly oriented devices.

Talking to no one, because I’m on mute.

To my cats, standing on my laptop.

To friends via text, anxiously watching for the …

To coworkers’ upper bodies.

It’s been a year since I was embarrassed by my messy house.

Since I worried about what I was wearing.

Since other’s opinions mattered more than my own.

Since I learned how to say “no”.

It’s been a year of being afraid my parents will die.

Being afraid I will die.

Being afraid my husband or daughter will die.

Afraid that I will get my loved ones sick.

Afraid that I will get my friends sick.

Afraid of how angry my friends would be if I got them or their loved ones sick.

Afraid of killing someone.

It’s been a year of change.

It’s been a year of learning.

A year of disappointment.

A year of endless family.

A year lacking friendship.

A year with no physical contact.

Of unacknowledged losses large and small.

Of eyes opening, hearts breaking, and injustice.

It’s been a year of distance

dread

introspection

protest

riot

judgement

anger

fear

anxiety

death

history.

It’s been a year.

My White Privilege

On June 6, 2020June 8, 2020 By aftheadIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

zack-nichols-KCRtdzk-_90-unsplash

When I turned 16, one of my dad’s friends surprised me with a visit. He drove up in his sports car — it was a Corvette I think — and asked me if I wanted to take it for a drive.

He was a cop.

Years later, I chatted with a friend who is black about learning to drive. She explained how in her family, as she and each of her siblings started learning, the family sat down to talk about what to do if they got pulled over. Put your hands on the wheel. Don’t get out of the car. Tell the cop where your license is and ask for permission to get it. Return your hands to the wheel. Tell the cop where your registration is and ask for permission to get it. Never drive without your license, registration and proof of insurance.

I was baffled by this family ritual. I never had this conversation. Why did their family have this conversation? The few times I’d been pulled over I tried to act cute and flirt a little and I’d never even gotten a ticket.

She explained to me that cops kill black people.

My lovely friend with her lovely family who was just like mine — if you don’t see skin color — had to learn how to minimize her chance of being killed by the police. The police did not take her for a ride in a sports car. Other black friends have assured me that they also had these conversations in their families.

How lucky am I? I was in my twenties before I realized that police weren’t just nice guys who helped you when you locked your keys in your car, again. That’s white privilege. After the conversation with my friend I was forced to examine and continue to examine what advantages I have just because of the color of my skin. I can hail a taxi and it will stop and pick me up. I will make more money and I can get instant approval for a mortgage, a car loan, or a credit card.

I’m trying to learn and trying to see what advantages my white skin gives me. But while I am learning, I don’t need to worry that I’ll be shot while jogging, sleeping, or hanging out in my apartment just because of the color of my skin. White privilege.

Maybe you are just now seeing your white privilege for the first time. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unfathomable. It’s true. If you don’t like it, you have an obligation to inform yourself, call out injustice when you see it, and make improvements where you can.

I’m just beginning to understand how I might stand in the gap. When hiring I ask my team if we really need another white man, or if we should go back and look for more diverse candidates. That makes other people uncomfortable, and leads to hard conversations, but nothing will change without questioning the status quo.

Along the way I will make mistakes. I will say stupid things. I will apologize, and try to do better. I will realize horrible things about myself, my family, and my world. But I won’t avoid learning these things because change can’t happen if we hide from the truth.

My daughter? She’s learning along with me. She has heard me talk about what black lives matter means, and why it’s not all lives matter. She knows that there are good police and bad police. When I make donations, I tell her about the ACLU, the NAACP, and bail bond funds. I teach her why it’s important to see skin color. I am teaching her how to ask questions and how to respectfully take criticism when her white privilege is exposed. When she learns to drive, I’ll teach her what other families learn and help her see the injustice of racial inequality. She assures me, with the confidence of youth, that she and her generation will do better. I hope they do.

Photo by Zack Nichols on Unsplash

It’s Okay

On March 21, 2020March 21, 2020 By aftheadIn parenting, Uncategorized6 Comments

I read because I love stories. I love being transported into another person’s world and perspective. Occasionally, reading helps me understand life. Last week I was finding respite from the chaos of real life, reading Sarah Gailey’s new book When We Were Magic, when I came upon this gem:

Paulie pats my thigh. “It’s okay,” she says, “It’s okay to be upset at upsetting things.” I’m struck by the sentiment. “It’s okay to be upset at upsetting things,” I repeat, and Paulie taps her fingers on my knee in a pattern I don’t follow.

Anyone else had a rough couple of weeks? Two weeks ago I was diagnosed with arthritis in my left knee. The constant ache and sharp pain waking me up in the middle of the night had a name. My daughter didn’t make her middle school soccer team. Last year when I asked her why she played soccer she told me, “Because I want to play in middle school.” One dream crushed, she rebounded to play brilliantly in a club tournament , but lost in the finals. This all happened before I knew it was okay to be upset at upsetting things.

Last week was finals week. This was the first quarter in my almost three years of graduate school that I took two classes. For ten weeks I’ve been a demon. The pull of work, parenting, sports, pets, life, plus two graduate school classes – Geodatabases and Advanced Geospatial Statistics – was a grind. I was awful to my friends. I was negligent to my family. I was a drag on my projects at work. Everyone had been warned that this was going to be unpleasant, and it was on everyone.

If I finished successfully, I was going to celebrate. With those two classes finished I would only have two more classes left before my degree was complete. I was going to go have a drink with friends. I was going to apologize to my family, maybe go get ice cream. There were going to be donuts at work. Pizza too.

I finished Saturday, March 14th. No one went to the office on the 16th. There was no one to celebrate with. Getting ice cream with my family seemed irresponsible. COVID-19 hit and social distancing had started and my ten horrible weeks was transitioning into a different unknown horrible with an unknown timeline, but by then I’d finished Gailey’s book. I was angry and annoyed and frustrated, but I knew it’s okay to be upset at upsetting things.

Now, I sit in the same horrible chair I sat in for 10 weeks doing homework and I wish things were different. I wish my knee didn’t hurt. I wish my daughter had known the joy of making the team or winning the tournament – especially now when soccer looks unlikely until fall. (Please, let there be soccer in the fall.) I don’t wish I would have been kinder during my 10 weeks of school, because I just don’t work that way, but I do wish I could have had a moment of joy. Sharing with others the accomplishment that I’d done something really hard really well: 99.4% average between both classes – a not humble brag.

I wish my kid could see her friends. I wish I could see my friends. I wish my dad took the health risk of this disease more seriously. I hate that I have to keep sitting day in and day out in my homework chair, but now it’s my office chair, my school chair, my writing chair. It’s the only chair my butt is going to reside in for weeks? Months? But I am so grateful for the escape of books. That I can go to world where life is different. Where I can find wisdom from a bunch of magical teenagers:

“It’s okay,” she says, “It’s okay to be upset at upsetting things.”

Adult Failure

On September 5, 2019September 5, 2019 By aftheadIn Uncategorized3 Comments

I’m two years into a graduate degree. Two years with one year and 10 weeks to go. Yes, exactly. Yes, I’m counting. I’m studying for a Master’s of Science in Geographic Information Systems, or making maps on the computer. Overall, I’m loving the coursework and learning new things. I’m hating that it gives me very little time to write. My family hates that it makes me an unholy grouch to live with. Balancing 32 hours a week of work, school work, and volunteer opportunities, while trying not to be a terrible mom, wife, sister, and child make my temperament less than jolly.

Imagine my thrill when the final project for my last class was posted. A class I hated. A class on which I spent over 20 hours a week. A class I struggled to understand with a professor who I just didn’t gel with. A class in which the technical text book used! lots! of! exclamation! points! incorrectly! The final project announcement said, “I need to see some layout & design, professionalism, communication of ‘a story’, creativity…” The project assignment said, “Tell a story about what is spatially living in this location. Keep it short, straight to the point, and fictional if you want.” The professor wanted a story? A story that could be fictional? Suddenly, my least favorite class had a silver lining. I could write a story as my final project.

I dug in, I got creative. I researched mythical creatures. I thought about fonts and colors. I agonized over the compass rose. I came up with conflict and history and theme. I made a map-story of which I was proud. Right click on the below and open it in a new tab or a new window if you want to see how awesome it is.

Final Lab

As a kid, you have plenty of measurable opportunities to fail. You can fail tests, fail homework, lose at soccer games. Success or failure is quantifiable: less than 60% = failure; less goals than the other team = fail. As an adult, failure feels more nebulous. Plenty of times I feel like I’m failing as a friend, a parent, a wife, a child, a sister, an employee, or a writer, but it’s just a feeling. This class gave me a chance to experience quantifiable failure as an adult. My final grade on the above project? 50%. A big fat honking F.

How did I get an F on such a masterpiece? Oh, let me tell you. He said that the map I created looked too much like the sample map he used as his example. We used the same layout, map on the left, and color scheme – blue for water; shades of green, brown, and yellow for land. So minus 25% for using his map as a guide and using appropriate cartographic colors for the land areas. (The map had to be this size, so where in the heck else was I going to put it?) Anyway, in his mind, 25% off for being a copycat. Then, he said my final work product was just a map, and it would be enhanced by “some ‘pictures’ of the the pixies working at night or graphics showing how the brownies export the farm products.” Really? Maybe I could just throw on some 1990s clip art? Great idea prof! Minus 25% for wanting to create a tasteful uncluttered communication piece. Got it.

Here my friends is the glory of doing graduate school in your 40s. Did I like this class? No. Do I like the professor? No. Did my family have to listen to me rant endlessly for the two assignments I got bad grades on – this one and the other 50% I got because I’m unable to present information to decision makers in the correct manner. (I’ll have you know, my real job involves near constant communication with decision makers and I AM VERY GOOD AT MY JOB. But I digress.) Yes, my family had to listen to me say bad words. However, as someone in her 40s, I know that this guy is just not a great teacher for me. I know that this class is not a subject in which I excel. But do you know what? I’m still proud of my map story. I like the idea of dryads and gnomes emigrating from the Mt. Adams fires and the Fairy Council trying to find homes for them. I mean, they could be building walls to keep them away, but they are not. Good for them. Good for me. I give myself an A+ for taking a crappy class and a crappy assignment and doing a little something with it that feeds my soul. Actually I get an A++ and a gold star.

And you know what? I still got an A in his damn class by 0.15%. Not such a failure after all.

Twas the night before publication…

On June 2, 2019 By aftheadIn Best Day Ever, Uncategorized, writing7 Comments

Twas the night before publication, and all through the house not a creature was stirring except me because gosh darn it, holy moly, gee whiz my first short story is getting published tomorrow! Monday, June 3rd is publication day. After a rough few years of submitting and being rejected, then completely quitting for a bit, I’ve had a run of acceptances. (Is two a run? I feel like it is.) My first creative essay was published online April 20th and now my first fiction story will come out tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow….

Grork Dentist will be published by Luna Station Quarterly, a magazine in their tenth year of publication. I’ve loved Luna Station Quarterly since I first came across Holly Lyn Walrath’s story The Joy of Baking. It’s a magazine with a cool mission: publishing speculative fiction by women-identified writers. I love that they do a print and online publication (I’ve got four print copies arriving Tuesday from Amazon, thank you very much.) It’s easy to share online publications with friends and family, but likewise really special to have a print copy of your very own story to hold, and smell, and sleep with, and carry in your purse everywhere, and give to your mom, and accidentally leave at your dentist office and… and…. I might need to order more copies.

The other cool thing? I got to write my very own real live author bio. I mean, does it get any more official than that? My full bio is online and a shortened version will appear with my story. Nothing makes you feel more like a real honest to goodness writer than a bio. That is, not until tomorrow when I see my story. I bet that will feel even better.

It’s funny, because I spend a lot of time with the Twitter writing community. (Too much time, but hey, it got me my first publication.) I’ve read how getting your story published doesn’t change anything. My expectations will just get adjusted and I’ll want bigger and better things. I must disagree. For me, getting my first story published means the world. As great as this story’s rejections were from high quality magazines — “We loved this story’s delightfully ridiculous concept” and “there’s some good writing here” — nothing equaled the joy of “We would like to publish your story, “Grork Dentist”, in the next issue of Luna Station Quarterly. Thank you for submitting!” Getting a story you are proud of accepted into a journal you love is a very special feeling. I’m now no longer afraid of calling myself a writer, and the publication has made me believe that my stories are worth writing and worth being read. That feeds my writing soul.

Tomorrow I’m going to be refreshing my browser like an idiot waiting for the cover image to change and my story to show up. Until then, I’ll be like a kid waiting for Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny to all show up overnight and bring me the best present imaginable. Happy publication eve to all, and to all a good night.

Polymath Puberty Ponder

On May 16, 2019May 16, 2019 By aftheadIn Tickles my afthead, Uncategorized, writing1 Comment

seb-creativo-197860-unsplash

There are times when all my roles in life — mother, graduate student, writer, and professional — threaten to draw and quarter me. I’m pulled in different directions and the pain of not doing my best at anything rips me apart. Then there are other times that epiphanies happen, and could only happen, because I see the world from so many angles.

It started with the note home from school. The anticipated but dreaded permission form for my daughter’s puberty class. The coming-of-age embarrassment of all children when they start to stink, have to think about a bra, or experience “nocturnal emissions”. Nocturnal emissions? When did wet dreams get such a fancy name? I reread the note to make sure it meant a boy waking up in sticky sheets. Yep. The note clearly said “nocturnal emissions.” Apparently it’s not just new math these kids are learning, but new puberty too.

That same week, I had to submit my graduate school capstone project proposal. I’m leveraging a work project on alternative fuel corridors to examine how the climate impacts of the World Cup and Olympics could be mitigated by utilizing alternative fuel. It’s a great proposal that hits the sweet spot of a school project for me: something that extends a work project and gets me credit from both school and clients. As I was researching my proposal I found some fascinating journal articles that discussed the importance of delivery timing during mega-events. The goal is to ensure that souvenir and food deliveries don’t impact spectators getting to events, and one of the strategies is to make deliveries at night.

Without warning, my writer brain engaged. I had the perfect proposal topic. If I shifted my focus to the Women’s World Cup happening in France this summer and refocused on the temporal aspects of the study I could title my capstone: Calculating Nocturnal Emissions resulting from the 2019 Women’s World Cup.

Now who wouldn’t want to read that?

Photo by Seb Creativo on Unsplash

Jobs I Do Not Want

On January 6, 2019January 6, 2019 By aftheadIn Tickles my afthead, Uncategorized6 Comments

Last night, I was lucky enough to sit directly behind the bench at a collegiate hockey game. There I witnessed a job that I do not want: a hockey skate maintainer. Hockey equipment manager? Whatever this guy is doing, I don’t want to do it. One of my phobias is slicing. I hate movies that feature knives or swords. Every hockey game I anticipate the moment when a player’s Achilles, leg, or face will be sliced open by an errant skate. This guy has to pry blades out with a wimpy plastic tool, sharpen them, and then use his bare hand to press them back in wall while pucks and sticks and players fly about. I couldn’t stop watching him, anticipating his hand being cut in two. Gak.

My list of jobs I don’t want now includes:

Hockey skate maintainer
Glass sharpener
Spider wrangler

Please don’t recommend me for any of the above opportunities. Thank you.

Work is Raunchier than Fiction

On December 13, 2018September 24, 2020 By aftheadIn Tickles my afthead, Uncategorized6 Comments

Note: Image above used in a real webinar. Transcript below has been adjusted to better align with the image’s message.

Ally: Okay, so there was a question about the potential fueling options in the New York Metro area. Johanna can you do a quick on-the-fly evaluation?

Johanna: Sure! Let me zoom into the region. Remember earlier we showed an analysis indicating that natural gas has some penetration in this area, so I’ll turn on the natural gas layers. As you can see, there are three distinct strategic thrust areas: the areas outlined in blue. Those shafts indicate where we have a deep penetration of natural gas stations — indicated by the blue dots — along an interstate.

Johanna: First consider the shaft from Scranton heading east. There we have an exciting opportunity for double penetration into both New York and New Jersey. Next, while there is only a single station in White Plains, with some attention that shaft could rise and stimulate the upstate New York market. Finally the shaft along the Long Island Expressway has so many stations it almost seems to be ready to explode with potential.

Johanna: This map makes me so excited about the growing opportunities in the New York region. Transforming these shafts into natural gas corridors isn’t going to be easy — in fact it’s going to be hard, very hard. In the end, with a little political and technical stroking, I know our strategic thrusts will climax into a robust natural gas fueling infrastructure in this region.

Ally: Gosh, you’ve got me worked up! I can’t believe how huge this opportunity is. That was a stimulating question and a really deep analysis by Johanna. Thanks! Are there any other regions folks would like to explore?

Parental Elastic

On October 4, 2018October 10, 2018 By aftheadIn childhood, parenting, Uncategorized10 Comments

Fifth grade. It’s impossible to watch my daughter grow and not remember myself at her age. Fifth grade was a turning point. Fourth grade was rotten. Third grade was unremarkable. Second grade was amazing, but little kid amazing. I remember finally feeling like I was growing into myself in fifth grade. Watching my daughter start to navigate this school year I am struck that there is something more than a new year and a new teacher going on. For the first time, I can really see her starting to become the adult she will be someday – not in flashes, but in persistent displays of adult. Grown up. Not little kid.

The first day of fifth grade, my husband and I walked her up to school, like we had every single day of daycare, preschool, and elementary school. Then the ultimatum: we could walk her to the gate, but no farther. Most of the other kids’ parents didn’t drop them off at school, even in third or fourth grade, she explained, so it was time for us to stop too.

Last year this announcement might have stung. Two years ago, my feelings would have been hurt. Three years ago, I would have talked her out of her decision. Now? It was okay. I had been feeling the awkwardness myself. Watched the dwindling parents. Noticed the kids didn’t come and say “Hi Coach Johanna” anymore. Heck, I wasn’t even sure they remembered I was their second-grade soccer coach. In some ways it was a relief. Dropping her off a block from school gave me a chance to get to work on time and avoid the yoga-mom chit-chat after the bell rang.

Two weeks in, a new development. Her friend approached her about biking to school together. So, our routine shifted. My husband or I ride her to her friend’s house, then ride home while Afthead Junior and her buddy head to school. Now I’m out the door to work before school even starts, with a little bit of exercise under my belt, and the girls ride their bikes home alone every day.

I remember the freedom of walking home from school. I remember the fear when a new route creeped me out for some reason, and the joy of taking my time during a nice day or when there was a friend to walk with. I remember watching for mean dogs, like the one in the Ramona Quimby book. When my daughter comes home five minutes later than normal with a big grin on her face I’m happy for her freedom, for her exploration, for her independence. Sometimes she tells me why she’s late, and sometimes she doesn’t. It’s a step toward a more grown up relationship where she shares what she wants, not just because I’m her mom and she’s supposed to.

Heading out for our annual Labor Day camping trip I grabbed my favorite “won’t wash my hair for three days” headband. I pulled it on and heard the little elastic strings woven into the headband fabric snap. The band fell down. In the past year, while I wasn’t paying attention, the elastic had passed on into the land of non-stretchiness.

With my hair askew and my useless headband around my neck it hit me. There are no apron strings between parent and child. At least not in my situation. There is an elastic band holding us together. In the beginning it was tight tight tight. It held her inside me as she grew into a baby. It held her to me when she was an infant and couldn’t walk. The first snappings happened as she toddled away screaming “I can do it.” She needed more space. The band got less and less restrictive as she went off to preschool, kindergarten, elementary school. It was strong enough so that when her friends were mean, her coach yelled, or she failed at school the energy in the elastic always pulled her to me: back to safety and momma.

But now I can feel the elastic slipping. There are less stretchy bits left than non-stretchy bits. What will happen when all the elastic is gone? Will we toss it like a cheap pair of underwear? Like a swimsuit gone see-through and obscene? Will I store it away in some box where it will sit next to baby teeth going to dust, pulling it out occasionally to caress the rotting fabric and reminisce of days when our relationship was simultaneously simpler and more complicated. When I always stood between her and the dangers of the world. Will I brandish it at her when she doesn’t call or doesn’t come home for the holidays demanding she remember what I did for her? Or, will we keep it and use it when we need it? When her boyfriend (or girlfriend) dumps her, will she pull it out and wrap it around us? When her own baby is born will she stretch it around me and her own new elastic band providing an extra layer of support to a new precious life? When I’m infirm and heading to the rat-infested nursing home will she give it to me, so I can clutch desperately to the fragile ties between us? Whatever happens, these long-term connections are a choice, not a given as they were when she was tiny and wee.

Apron strings can be knotted, ripped open, re-typed, or left dangling at will. Our bond has more of an air of inevitability about it. Someday it will not be needed, but I hope it will be wanted. I hope there will always be days when she chooses to ask my advice, spend time with me, or just snuggle up next to me because she finds me a comfort. And I hope I’m brave enough and wise enough to give her the space she needs, letting the elastic continue to stretch to fit our ever-changing relationship.

Last week an early morning rush to band left her frazzled. The week of soccer, running, homework, early mornings, and late nights caught up with her. We’d barely seen each other between our non-coincident commitments. She gathered her trumpet and her backpack and then asked, just outside of school in view of any other early arrival, “Mom, can I have a hug?” I got out and held her while she cried. Then I opened the car door and told her, “Get in. You can practice trumpet at home.” We sat together in the basement, annoying her sleeping dad, while she played for me and pretended to be her band teacher: giving herself corrections and praise. An hour later I dropped her off at school and she ran in with her normal quick hug and “Love you mom.” I watched her turn the corner then drove off to start my own day.