March Madness

It's remarkable how tempting it is to over-stuff the weekend when so many opportunities and priorities compete for the limited waking hours. There's so much life to cram in.

I had hoped to help register voters at the March today but I have A LOT of cleaning to do ahead of my kid's 8th birthday costume dance party tomorrow: my costume to layout, her costume to mend (thanks to Cocoa, our Rabbit with Bad Habits), baking, shopping, my first jog after three days of crud, cleaning and more cleaning still.

I wanted to march in remembrance. But as I ease into gear today, I'm going to try to exorcise my memories of pulling the van over on the way to my kid's preschool, on my Mom's birthday, to ugly cry at the news of Sandy Hook. I'm going to try to exorcise my memories of the gallows humor I began to develop in the early Nineties when "going postal" entered the national vocabulary and I had already attempted to bury memories of the shooting at my Mom's work a few years before, under layers of other drama (mostly involving Butthead, my stepfather, who thankfully never had a gun). 

As I bake Z's favorite sheet cake and scatter rainbow sprinkles over the buttercream frosting she loves, I will rehearse how to ask family and friends - without judgment, just due diligence - whether their kids know the combination to the family gun safe, or know where the concealed but unsecured guns are. I don't want to seem nosy or judgey - because finding and keeping Mommy Friends is hard, y'all. I'd just like my kid to keep living to see another play date. 

And as I whisk and rehearse, I will remember that one time she won at hide-and-seek when we visited some friends. They lived on an island where break-ins were common but no alarm service seemed to operate, and both violent crime and vicious wildlife were practically non-existent (well, except for that one cougar who had swam across the inlet and laid low, except for a couple chickens...unless that was the raccoons). After the other kids couldn't find her, I joined the search and found her in the parents' bedroom closet (Ugh! Kid!) - giggling quietly, one hand on her mouth, the other grasping the door jamb ready to spring from her hiding place. She was utterly unaware that her little hand was next to a shotgun -- barrel up.

I have since repeatedly reminded her about staying out of grown up spaces - for so many reasons. I don't know what to do about our new friend's gun safe in the family fun room where the computer and family pets live. Why is it so much easier to compare and align strategies for holding our kids accountable during play dates in our respective homes than it is to discuss the steps we each take to insure that our children are safe in each other's homes? How do we talk with friends and family who seem to be responsible gun owners and parents? We are all raising kids who also seem pretty good...until they're not. 

We are raising human beings who are learning everyday, how to be good people. And they often, heck, almost always learn by making mistakes. Don't touch the fireplace grate, it'll burn you. Check. Walk before you run, or you'll face-plant. Check. If you grab the cat by the tail, she might scratch you. Check. Don't eat the yellow snow. Ever. Ugh, check. Don't throw sticks or play shovels, someone could get hurt. Check, which is why my dear girl has a third dimple thanks to the teacher's kid who will forever be That Little Sh*t, to me. 

But at least he didn't have access to a gun with which to kill her as he overreacted to her hoarding of that swing. 

On the spectrum of bad choices when kids can access their parents' guns (not because they should or are allowed to but because they are physically capable of finding or stumbling across damned near everything we don't want them to find), we have: 

• the two year old boy who broke the rules, unzipped his mom's concealed carry purse, and accidentally killed her
• the six year old who shot a classmate, 
• the eight year old who played with a poorly concealed family weapon and accidentally killed himself - apparently one of three such kids in that weekend
• the twelve year-old girl whose show-and-tell gun shot two classmates - one in the head -when she accidentally dropped the backpack
• the sophomore at my high school in 1992, who shot himself in the head playing Russian Roulette in a car in the school parking lot (though, to be fair, I'm not sure where he got the gun); 
• the "love-sick" misogynist teenage boy just last week, who couldn't handle rejection, so he shot and killed the "Object" of his "Affection"; 
• and the list goes on and on and shamefully on. 

The gift of childhood as fought for and created and nurtured in America requires that we create environments for our children that foster Failing Forward into being better individuals, better citizens, better friends, better family... better people making better choices. That means minimizing their exposure to the dangers that are not age-appropriate. That means creating opportunities for learning - and failing - that can help the children we know and love without hindering or killing the children we don't know (or even the Little Sh*ts we don't like).

Guns are the third biggest killer of American children. And the majority of children killed by guns in the developed world, are Americans. While most of that death is intentional and caused by their own family and friends, or themselves, a non-negligible amount is accidental. And more than 80% of the accidental gun deaths occur in the home, with unsecured guns. There are nearly 2 million children living in homes with unsecured guns and I can guarantee that the vast majority of those kids go to and host play dates. 

I don't want any more children - but especially my child - to be exposed to that degree of risk. And yet it feels increasingly like too many of my gun-enthusiast friends and family prefer to protect their weapons more than our children. The tools they have embraced for protecting their children have become more precious than all of our children. As adults, he have failed backward and our children - all of them - are being dragged by the backdraft.

No wonder so many are marching. And crying. And screaming. And acting out. It's what our children do when they are hurting. And scared. 

I miss the days when my girl was only afraid of zombies because I may have prematurely shown her Michael Jackson's "Thriller". So far this year, she has brought home a flyer from school featuring the NRA's Eddie Eagle, and parents have received two incident messages THIS WEEK with allegations about creepy dudes and kids from her K-2 elementary school talking crap about guns. None of it was true but all of it caused anxiety.

No wonder my girl is desperate to be homeschooled. At least with homeschooling, she's unlikely to be normalized into accepting the risk that a kid, a parent, a neighbor, or a teacher might go rogue (with a gun or without) and kill her while she practices her cursive. 

But homeschooling does nothing about play date safety, which ever since she won hide-and-seek, has taken on deeper meaning for me.

And as a single parent, working for a nonprofit, I cannot afford to homeschool her or hire an old school tutor. So...I guess I'll just bake an effing cake, prep my Mommy Pirate costume, pregame my knees with ibuprofen to prepare for garage dancing to KidzBop with a dozen of my kid's friends and parent-friends, who will also hopefully be in costume. 

The life-and-death matters that should plague me today are how we are going to get through the pre-tween years without me having a heart attack, and whether the party will wrap before the late afternoon hangries create an elementary Battle Royale. Instead I remember the ones lost, the ones we could have lost, and the childhood innocence my eight year old is rapidly losing. I could march but instead I'll bake a cake and try, one more day to keep the anxiety of this worsening Normal at bay. 

Springing Forward...with Stubborn Persistence

I am a fair-weather morning person. So like so many people, this was a rough week. Late winter gloom, Daylight Savings Time and early allergies have made mincemeat of my energy, sleep pattern and focus. 

And yet, I am also jazzed, with clarity about a single-minded mission: becoming a flower farmer and farmstead entrepreneur.

Sure, I just began a new job I love (and which, sadly, is under acute threat if 45's budget hit list is to be believed). But it is 3/4 time and is values-aligned with my stubborn desire (going on eight years now) to start and grow a farm-based business.

A property I have been eye-balling for almost two years went back on the market a short while ago, and my wheels began to turn.

I began communicating with the owner, visited the snow-blanketed property, and went into feasibility research mode in every spare moment. 

This week, my meeting with the local Small Business Development Center went very well, and while I have more homework to complete before our follow up meeting next week, I am reassured in the feasibility of the concept AND my ability to execute it. 

Over the years, I have developed a number of business projects that usually got to the capital raise stage and petered out. I used to lament these but I stopped doing so once I realized that with each effort, I learned more about myself, the markets, and the nature of business itself. But I also learned that it is so much harder to build a business without being rooted in community. 

We are home. 

Finally. 

And this community is one I love and have loved for years. 

It's telling that when I envision the Farm, I don't just see the fields and the canning garden or even the canning kitchen - spaces of meditative work for me and my soul. I envision people coming as guests. People integrating the story of the Farm into the narratives of their lives. Communities planted through seeds of commerce and cultivated through the humus of hospitality, memories and joy.

And so I persist...with spreadsheets, the business plan, and preparing documents for loan applications and prospective investors.

The seed has been planted in good potting soil. It's incubating in the greenhouse, with the seedling beginning to break through. By the grace of God and the stubbornness with which the Divine has gifted me, this is the year the seedling will transplant well and the Farm will finally bloom. 

Embracing Hygge, Solstice and Faith

A short while ago, I came across two writings - an excerpt from a book and an article - that have struck such a chord with where I am and who I've become. While not driving the decision I have made, they have helped me better understand it as more than an act of mothering and self-care. The decision was a necessary pang for new birth.

First, from The Spiritual Meaning of the Winter Solstice:

The birth of a divine child and savior at the winter solstice has formed a central part of spiritual beliefs throughout the world since the beginning of history — in ancient Egypt as the birth of Horus, the birth of Mithras in Persia, the birth of Jesus at Christmas, the birth of the divine Son at Alban Arthan of the Druids, etc. These celebrations have tapped into a universal spiritual principle that is just as relevant now as it was then. 

They speak to us of a mysterious and universal understanding of spiritual transformation. All things which come into being must first be born. Even as creation was borne by the great Mother of the universe, so too must we be born of the spirit to become spirit. The winter solstice is a celebration of being born again — not of flesh, but of the spirit. It’s a celebration of the birth of the spiritual Son, the Christ, within a person’s consciousness in the process of awakening. 

Symbolized as a child just as the winter sun is at its weakest, it will grow until reaching its full strength at the summer solstice—just as the spirit grows within a prepared individual to transform them completely from inner darkness into light.

And so the Winter light begins to return, with ever increasing clarity.

Friday marked my last day working for an organization I have admired for many years and worked for, for nearly two. I made the bittersweet decision to resign as the Best for Colorado Campaign Manager because - despite my love for and success with the work - it was becoming increasingly clear that for my family, and my own heart and soul, we need to return to Washington state. 

And so, I return Home, not to the state of my birth but to the state of my becoming. Where I became an adult more fully than I'd ever been before. Where I reconnected with my bucolic heart. Where I became a mother. Where I became better attuned to the resonance of my soul.

I don't know what's next. But I know my kid is happier than she has been in months.

Professionally, I have an interview scheduled with another organization I have admired and with which I have wanted to work for several years.

Residentially, I have a few leads on rentals in the notoriously tight rental market.

But thanks to the parting generosity of my former employer, I don't have to act with immediacy on the first "Next Gig". And we have friends who have offered interim shelter until I am able to find us a home.

What a rare and precious gift.

I have resources to take the time to release, relax and recalibrate. If my interview on Tuesday doesn't work out, then I will fail forward into other opportunities, as I make myself fully at home in a community that I have adopted, a community that brings Z closer to her paternal family and to which we have regularly returned as our True North since leaving Washington in 2012.

And while I HATE moving - especially cross-country moving, which I've done twice in the last 18 months for opportunities with B Lab  - and I have never moved in the dead of winter, I find that I don't entirely mind.

I have embraced my professional down time and even the move as an exercise in the spirit of the Danish tradition, Hygge.

Now, I'm pretty sure there is no Danish in my family history. But when I read an article about Hygge, a light bulb of recognition went off. Hygge describes what I'm looking forward to. Hygge describes how I plan to spend at least the next two - three weeks (well, depending on the move timeline).

“Hygge, during the short, dark days and long nights, is akin to wintering. To slowing down, allowing the year to fold in on itself, and tending to ourselves and to each other."

And it has six core elements.

1. Slow Down

My last year has been a case study in Marathon Busyness. And since I'm more of a 5k with Sparkle Dust kind of gal, I need to Slow...The Frak...Down.

I will slow down by taking snowy walks and finally some cross-country skiing lessons for the first time in almost seven years.

I both need and want to recalibrate my sense of Now, with a greater focus on presence and an unlearning of the disease of "busy." 

2. Create a Circle of Warmth

Hygge is "sort of a full-on embrace of all things toasty, cozy, and restorative."

I look forward to the warmth of old friends and the joy of new ones. And the introvert part of my extraverted introversion equally looks forward to the comfort of my favorite sweats. I might even see if I can find one of those sensory deprivation pools in dark rooms for a little Womb Return reenactment.

3. Soothe Your Senses

But I don't want total sensory deprivation. I want and need a sensory reset with familiar landscapes, and favored flavors (Cave B Cuvée de Soleil, Chukar Cherries and all things Tillamook ...I have missed thee). All at an altitude that doesn't still have me wheezing.

And then there's the Sister Santa massage gifts and some day soon, a pilgrimage day to Olympus.

4. Embrace the Small Stuff

A small home in a small town can root and grow big dreams.

5. Celebrate the Season (and not just The Holidays)

Unlike the cacophony that often takes over the Holidays, the Winter season - especially in the mountains and high desert - has a majestic silence when we turn off the gadgets and allow ourselves to fully embrace the season. It creates an unavoidable encounter with Self.

6. Know That It Won't Last Forever

Having never been unemployed, with a child before - without also being a full time student - the most comforting part of Winter may be the reminder that This Too Shall Pass. One can survive Winter and just be glad to get through it. Or one can decide to thrive during Winter and commit to making the best of it. Slowing down, scaling back, and turning inward need not equate to coming to a stand-still, giving up and shutting down.

I am cocooning for a few weeks. And like all cocooning, mine is a stage in active transformation. It is not without its risks. But it's also not without its opportunities. And I know that it is the best choice for me, my daughter, and our family.

Holiday Gift Guide for Anti-Fascists in the Age of Trumpence #GrabYourWallet #SmallBizSat

If you didn't so much as vote for Trump as hurl a Molotov cocktail of rage at the current economic system, and are now finding yourself perplexed and appalled by the explosion of hate crimes emboldened by the flame you helped start, then this gift guide is for you.

If you are a progressive, unsurprised by the explosion of hate crimes leading up to and following the election, and are therefore inclined to throw a Molotov cocktail at your friends and family who voted for Trumpence, then this gift guide is for you.

You see, there are many thousands of companies that demonstrate better ways of doing business than the exploitative, discriminatory and often illegal approach favored by Trump. And the collective power of holiday spending can help draw attention to these exemplars.
If we value the fair treatment of workers, neighbors, and contractors, it's not enough to just boycott the Trumps, we need to also support those companies that treat their workers well, support equitable local economies, and operate as responsible environmental stewards (but at the very least, skip New Balance).

You can find excellent options here, in the B Magazine directory, or you can buy from locally-owned and locally-sourced companies as a way of creating a stronger local economic impact in your community.

For your beloved who looks with horror upon the kitchen, gift them with GrubHub gift cards. And while you prepare your holiday meals, consider using flour, butter, wine and cheese from these companies (note: A to Z's Pinot Noir is quite tasty and pairs addictively with many Cabot cheeses).

If you're not in a benevolent gift-giving kind of mood (believe me, I get it), and would rather support organizations that assist those most vulnerable to the incoming administration's priorities, then by all means, reallocate your holiday spending to make donations to those organizations.

But here's the thing, since calling someone out directly as a bigot or heterosexist doesn't work, perhaps using the gift as an opportunity to create empathy might. If you choose a mission-driven donation in lieu of a physical gift, try not to do it in spite. Realize this is a teachable moment between you and your beloved. For example, if you make a donation to the Trevor Project, include the personal story of another person you love or respect (note: get their permission first OR choose someone whose sexual orientation is already known).

Remember Dr. King. He wasn't all kumbaya, rainbow character love, he was an astute economic strategist who understood that civil and human rights are intricately connected to economic priorities and opportunities. When he was killed, he was supporting a workers' strike in Memphis, calling for a boycott of discriminatory Memphis stores, factories and banks and preparing for the interracial Poor People's March on Washington. This was when he became truly dangerous to the ruling elites. It was fine when King and other modern civil rights leaders insisted that overt white supremacy was anathema to the country's moral authority in the rapidly changing world of the Cold War and decolonizing black and brown nations. But when King began with increasing fervor to connect racial injustice to economic predation, he "had" to go.

I'm not suggesting that engaging in guerilla gift-giving will result in That Cousin passing you the mashed potatoes with a side of anthrax. Rather, I am saying that you should be prepared to have your guerilla gift-giving used as Exhibit 1 in the case that you are petty or are a socialist whiner who lacks empathy (even King was accused of being tone deaf, impatient and heartless towards white people). Give anyway. And if - unlike me and others who have experienced racist vitriol and are therefore less inclined to be magnanimous towards those who have gloated about Trump's White America since the election - you can give your guerilla gifts with love, please do it. For love of the best that America can be, for love of your community and for love of your beloved.

Requiem for an American Dream

When I started this blog, it was after accepting that my long and circuitous journey towards becoming an academic was derailed, and I needed to re-chart my course.

Last month, I began drafting a post the week after my birthday. I'd learned that a high school friend (the first boy I ever loved) had died tragically. And a few days later, a college friend died after a sudden, fierce and ultimately futile battle with cancer. Questions of mortality and purpose intermingled with grief for two of the kindest and most decent people I've known. And I was plunged deep into introspection.

In the days that I have been drafting this - tapping a few letters, sometimes words, deleting, and gradually needing fewer pauses to remind my lungs to function - I have reconciled with the demise of my delusions about the state of the country of my birth.

My American Dream has long been to finally settle on some land in a rural spot within a half day's drive of an international airport. My mind's shameless cosmopolitanism would finally reconcile with my agrarian progressive heart and I would establish our family's farmstead bed and breakfast some place in rural America that would welcome our presence, and respect this dream.

But in light of last week, my encounter with Trumpence, and the litany of indignities and threats piling on to my black, brown, Muslim, Jewish, Asian, Latinx, and queer friends and acquaintances, I've decided to rechristen my American Dream as my North American Dream.

I've decided to resume the journey of emigrating to Canada, something I've explored off and on for over a decade. And for that, I've been accused of being histrionic. Of being a quitter. Of never really being an American anyway. Of being naive. Of simply not doing enough.

I've been told that now is not the time to walk (or sprint) away. It's the time to grieve through volunteering, strategic donation, and consistent self-care. It's the time to stockpile Plan B and lean in, just a little bit more. It's the time to celebrate the glimmers of hope that also manifested on Tuesday (see 1, and 2). Now is the time to lead and testify and build bridges to those who want me and mine gone my neighbors and listen with an empathy they clearly lack for Others. It's the time to give hate a chance.

But here's the thing: at best, all those exhortations sound like Hamilton's Aaron Burr chatting revolutionary strategy with General Washington, and at worse, they are the knight reassuring the pawn.

I will continue to lean in to support the development of communities that support businesses that implement more positively impactful practices (an aspect of my current work that I deeply enjoy) and I will lean in to advocate for more equitable distribution of economic opportunity to regions beyond the coasts and large cities. But I will not lean in to place my head in the guillotine and become a martyr. And Hell will host the Winter Olympics before I knowingly gamble with my daughter's safety and options. Staying put feels - and with each passing day, looks - like a risky gamble.

Before Tuesday's results and the racist encounter I experienced on Thursday, if I unexpectedly encountered a person as I rounded a corner, I would respond with a chuckle and a greeting, my default reaction for ALL people. Now I go through my day with a heightened vigilance, uncertain whether I am truly, fundamentally safe. My trepidation isn't reverse racism, it's the law of averages. More than 53 million overwhelmingly white Americans voted FOR a candidate who promoted white supremacist views and violence against his detractors. They voted for a man who would rather me and mine weren't here, in the land of our birth, investment and homes. And many millions more didn't bother to vote to keep him and the hate he enthusiastically celebrates at bay.

I'm not the fighter I used to be. For my daughter and for my aging heart, I seek Safe Harbor in a sanctuary where I can mourn, heal, regroup and thrive.

But I also want to understand: 

How have Canadians made diversity and immigration "work," especially in rural and exurban communities?

Sure, I could just stalk the British Columbia OARH online, and dive deeper into reading about Canadian history to glean what I can learn. But, as a former study abroad alumna and a card-carrying cosmopolitan geek, I prefer immersion. In the US we like to talk a good game about how we are the exemplars for the world but on this point, we are a cautionary tale and clearly have a lot to learn.

Manifesting 2016

Last week, when Z and I returned from a palliative visit back to Washington, we spent the first weekend of the New Year making and studying our manifestation collages for this year. 

Z's was adorably concise:

By the time the year is over, we will have two dogs. We will also visit Arizona (including camping). Z will attend cowboy camp and learn how to ride a horse. And we will live, once again, in a small town (I didn't have the heart to tell her that the "small town" she chose for her collage was actually a street in Memphis).

My collage is a bit more ... ambitious.

This year - I pray - my various projects, risks, opportunities, obligations, and loves from the last few years will come to a productive bloom. Some - like my fellowship with B Lab - have a predetermined end date. Others - like becoming a licensed attorney for resilient local economies and re-establishing a home west of the Rockies - are a bit more nebulous in their ETAs. In large part, this is because I feel quite driven by my Duty of Care: care of myself, yes, but mostly care of those I love.

The care of someone or something differs from the care for the same.  Care for connotes actions but also feelings and taste ("I do not care for Faux News or artichokes"). Whereas Care of solely connotes actions. What must be done to keep that about which I care in good condition? We take care of our stuff, if we want it to last. We take care of our children, if we want them to thrive. And sometimes, we take care of our parents, for the same reason, prompting a reversal of roles that is both empowering and terrifying.

My mother is facing a common but scary illness, and though it was caught early enough that her prognosis will likely be good, there's still a lot of uncertainty. But the one thing about which we are certain is that I will need to step up and help take care of my mother at some point, in ways that I have not done before.

At the same time, I must take care of Miss Z (who, like me, is impatient to move back to Washington). And I must take care of myself as I fully reboot my career and pursue my entrepreneurial goals (a niche law practice and homestead B&B).

The language of duty reads like an imposition but I experience it more often as an opportunity. I have the opportunity to figure out how to take care of my Mom. So many of my friends and family have lost one or both parents. I'm sure that my relationship with my Mom will evolve but at least we have a relationship to nurture.

On those nights when I stare wistfully at my 1st edition copy of Go the F*ck to Sleep, while my beloved, sleep-drunk five year old is in full banshee mode, I nevertheless appreciate the opportunity to be her mother and take care of her. And then I enjoy a glass of Washington red wine.

And when I look at my collage with impatience and anxiety, I challenge myself to focus on the opportunity that a new year, combined with my talents, ambitions and dreams present. I don't know if by the end of 2016 I will have done even half of the things represented in the collage. But I know that I am very fortunate to have no small amount of pluck and luck as I embark on my 2016 journey. And I am so very fortunate to be able to put family at the center of my values and my aspirations.

Single Parenting Through Law School: Career Planning, Interviewing andOwning Your Story #lawschoolmom

Image source: http://www.prweb.com/releases/2012/GrantsforSingleMom/prweb9570473.htm

Perhaps more than "traditional" law students, law students with children really need to establish a game plan early for what they want to do after graduating. It does not have to be crazy specific (i.e. "I'll graduate in May XXXX, sit the bar in NY that July, and begin as an associate, practicing ABC law, in a boutique Manhattan law firm by mid-August"). But you should have a pretty good answer to some of the following questions by the time 3L starts:

• What kind of law work do you find compelling? Litigation? Transaction? Administrative law? Legal project management? Translating legal processes into plain English?
• What practice areas or subject areas can you see yourself geeking out on? If you have more than one geek-out interest, what one or two areas seem the most underserved by legal services?
• Who are the major players and rising stars in the practice area and related law work that interests you?

The answers to these questions do not have to be voluminous. For example, my responses to the above are:

• I really like transactional law for micro to medium-sized business. I am also interested in: clarifying legal processes and business development strategies for clients; applying Lean to my future law work; and developing a visual roadmap to the administrative law related to economic development and social enterprise.
• I geek out over social entrepreneurship, impact investing, the outcomes-oriented sharing economy, urban agriculture and gardening.
• Oh boy...that list is long and compelled me to create several custom Twitter lists: La vie en tricoleur; Design Thinking; Socent USA; Socent UK; Oh Canada; Legal Tech & ReInvent Law; Community Wealth; and Washington State (O Leavenworth & Cave B...how I miss thee).

While doing this kind of groundwork is a good idea for ANY law student going into 3L, it is especially important for student parents because despite the fact that much of 3L is an uphill battle against 3LOL ennui, it goes by fast and job searching and interviewing take up A LOT of time. If you put time into answering the three questions above before starting 3L, your job search will be more efficient, and you'll have more time to prepare for interviews and the many ways prospective employers will ask you, without really asking you, "How can you, as a single parent, do the job for which you are interviewing?"

Granted, it is possible that the employer won't know that you are a single parent and a law student. But if you are anything like me, you've had pics of you and your child as your Facebook profile photo, you may even have listed volunteering at your child's school as recent volunteering experience. Or friends and family may have tagged you in play date photos or family events on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, etc., etc., etc. However the prospective employer finds out, they likely will and it behooves you to think through how you will respond to questions like the following (H/T to HR World for these questions):

• Are you available to work overtime on occasion? Can you travel?
• You'll be required to travel or work overtime on short notice. Is this a problem for you?
• What is your experience with "x" age group?
• Are you willing to relocate?

I recently accepted a job offer from an organization I have long admired, for an awesome one-year fellowship with a very good salary, health benefits and a child-care subsidy. During the telephone interview, the interviewer asked about my plans for my child (I had mentioned volunteering at her school in my application) if I were selected for the fellowship program. I told her the truth: I decided to apply to the fellowship after I saw that it offered a child care subsidy because it signaled to me that the company respects its workforce and genuinely wants to develop a diverse community of people at different life stages, but with complimentary skills. I've been a high-functioning single mother throughout law school and I'm sure that the skills I have honed through this experience, coupled with the subsidy provided by the company, will insure that I continue to bring my best self and my best work to work and to my home. Later, during the two-day in-person interview, a different interviewer expressed some concern about my ability to manage the demands of the position. I politely but confidently pointed out that applying project management, networking and efficient resource management is a life ethic for me. I'm not saying that my response sealed the deal for me on that job, but it didn't appear to hurt, because a little over a week later, I was offered the position.

That positive interview experience coupled with a recent unpleasant experience with a university student newspaper really underscored the importance of owning and telling my story. Recently, in his column for The Guardian, Oliver Burkeman wrote about Heidi Grant Halvorson’s new book, No One Understands You And What To Do About It. I've not yet read Halvorson's book (it's now on The List), but I was struck by Burkeman's summation of ego bias: "what matters about you, to someone else, is whatever has most meaning for them, not for you." This may not be particularly revolutionary, but it is important to remember.

I recently forgot this lesson, and found my story warped nearly to the point of defamation by a careerist "journalist" who transformed my story and family into a cipher for struggle and drama that landed her the cover story but completely erased the competence, resourcefulness, joy and triumphs that have figured prominently in the life I have built for my daughter and I. It was an annoying way to relearn the lesson that people will project upon me their own preconceived notions about who a single mom law student must be. Rather than be surprised by this, I need to be as ready as I had been in the job interviews to own my story, tell my story and integrate the lessons and skills I have learned into the next chapter of my prospective employer's story.

An employer needs to know that who you will be as a co-worker and/or employee, will be someone who can manage her family responsibilities in a way that does not undermine the work at work. And you need to know the type of work that interests you, and how the skills you have honed finding your school/family life balance will enable you to transition to work/family life. Know your story. Own it. Share it. And make it work for you as you transition out of law school and (back) into the working world.

Single Parenting Through Law School: Some Thoughts on How to Make it "Work" - Part Two #lawschoolmom #MSULawSM

In my last post, I focused on two key aspects that have helped me survive and find my stride in law school, as a single parent to a preschooler:

1. Putting family first, and
2. Fully using the resources for student parents provided by my law school and the university community.

When I left off, I promised to address three more points:

1. Ask for what you need: Peer Community
2. Self-Care: Do It.
3. Set your child up for her own success
1. with her own emotions
2. school as co-parent

• Ask for what you need: Peer Community

But for the grace, patience and generosity of the friends I have made in law school, I would never have made it this far. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the image below would have become my perpetual appearance (rather than an occasional reality), with only the size of my child and bag changing over time:

 (Image Credit: Melissa Garden Streblow)

In spring 2012, I flew with my daughter to Preview Weekend (which was a reasonable decision despite the fact that she had just turned two years old) because a woman in the alumni office (who was good friends with a Washington state alumnus I had met) was willing to host a playdate between my daughter and her five year old daughter so that I could focus on deciding if I would attend MSU Law. That is not a run on sentence. It was, however, the beginning of a wonderful friendship and my orientation to asking near strangers for help. 

Since then, my peer network has expanded and is largely comprised of other parents (married and single), with whom I have frequently arranged playdate and sleepover exchanges, and family-friendly study dates (basically: we study for as long as the kids can play together nicely or without extended eerie silence). None of us are particularly gunnerish because we know all too well how hard it is to avoid embodying the above image without the added gunning madness. But we all respect the work that we do and our families who need us to get it done. 

My student parent network has been largely informal and ad hoc, but if you find that your law school has a critical mass of student parents, then you might consider working with the law school to create a student parent association (perhaps as part of the Diversity office). You might even decide to set up a formal child care co-op, like the good legal eaglet you are.

However, I would caution you against developing a peer network with only other student parents. Kid-friendly people who do not have children are helpful for your personal sanity and for helping your children learn to interact with adults who are not their teachers/babysitters or family. When I realized that my finances required that I find a shared living arrangement to help me save up for post-3L bar exam and relocation expenses, I decided to rent a house with two guys from my section. They are good, decent men who are respectful and kind toward my daughter and me. I never ask them to babysit and my daughter knows how to respect their spaces (well, except for the roommate who introduced her to Mario Kart...sucker :) ). We knew each other for two years before choosing to live together, and my only regret is that we didn't figure out that we live well together even sooner.

For some people - particularly single mothers - our arrangement would raise red flags, as they would prefer to co-house with another parent, or at least with other housemates of the same gender. If you fall into this camp, then you might look into a service like Co-Abode (co-housing matching for single mothers), or consider establishing your own co-housing arrangement (here are some great resources from Cohousing.org).

Regardless of the approach you take, you'll want to have some sort of roommate agreement, from the more informal, but recognized, division of labor (e.g. in our house, the guys deal with the garbage, recycling & rent-exchange maintenance on the property, while I try to wrangle the kid sprawl and keep the kitchen clean due to the amount of cooking I do), to a more formal agreement (e.g. the customizable roommate agreement templates by Shake Law).

While figuring out your childcare and child-friendly network, and maybe even a co-housing arrangement, don't forget your social needs.

You will need friends.

Seriously.

Friends with whom you can talk about your stuff, issues, goals, frustrations, dreams.... Some of these friends will be other parents, but it is both allowed and NECESSARY for you to talk to them about something other than your kids, your homework or the Lego Movie (unless you dig deep into the film's brilliant subtext). Even if you cannot afford to go out very often because the babysitter costs $10+ an hour, allow yourself to go out at least once a month and be creative (but reasonable) in meeting your parenting obligations. Last Friday night, I joined some friends and fell in love with an amazing restaurant, (revolver). I could go because my daughter had a sleepover at a friend's house; in a few weeks it will be my turn to host a sleepover in return. 

• Self-Care: Do It.

When it all gets a bit too much, make sure you find time to reflect - http://t.co/agVTTvqMEi— Regus Connect (@regusconnect) January 25, 2015

Say it loud and say it proud:"Self care is not selfish!"

Everyone and their second cousin's mail carrier will have an opinion about your decision to go to law school as a single parent. That nattering chorus of ne'er-say-wells can provoke overwhelming guilt in the single parent. Or maybe that was just me. Figuring out how to manage the guilt, required that I figure out how to take care of myself.

I know that sounds counterintuitive. But if we do not take care of ourselves, by listening to and respecting our bodies, minds and souls, then we will not be effective parents. Admittedly, when I was trudging through 1L, I did not always make time to exercise, eat well, pray or even sleep. Thus I am not surprised that I packed on an additional ten or fifteen pounds, began losing my hair in clumps, required a prescription bite guard because I was grinding my teeth at night, and kind of went through a spiritual crisis.  Good times.

I don't recommend it.

When I returned from study abroad in London, I realized that something had to change: Me.

I had to love, value and care for myself and the gift of my one life as much as I love, value and care for the gift of my daughter. So I downloaded and used the Couch 2 5k app and began cooking and gardening again (two therapeutic pillars). I began walking to school while listening to my power playlist (don't judge, it works) and going to the YMCA (it has a great student rate on the family membership, and they have a sauna - my third therapeutic pillar). Inspired by Pope Francis and my own spiritual yearning, I even returned to Mass and began to dust off the old prayer life (my fourth pillar). My journey continues in fits and starts (e.g. bacon regularly conspires with Michigan winters to be my undoing), but I have a better grasp on what I need to do to maintain a certain degree of centered wellness.

To manage single parenting through law school, you will need to do the same. So take the time to figure out who you are in your silent place, when you finally sit down, breathe deeply and exhale a soul-cleansing breath. Whoever you are in that moment is the person you need to nurture, not just for success in law school (however you end up defining that success), but for success as a parent with the capacity to love and guide your child(ren) through the law school journey. With any luck, your law school will have some resources to help you (e.g. MSU Law runs a weekly Wellness in Practice meditation and the MSU Council of Graduate Students runs a variety of wellness programs). Regardless, it is on you to take care of yourself so that you can help your child(ren) not just survive law school with you but maybe even thrive.

• Set your child up for her own success

If you do not already have a routine for checking in with your child in a substantive, on his/her level kind of way, start one. Without a doubt, the variable triggers and stressors of law school will occasionally derail even the best routine, but you have to have one first before it can be derailed.

Furthermore, avoid trying to tweak your kiddo's routines to better accommodate your study and class schedule. There were a few really interesting classes I wanted to take during 2L, but they met at night, after my daughter's bedtime. The few times during 1L when I'd had a babysitter take over the bedtime routine for me so that I could attend a late night study session had all been quite difficult for my daughter. So once I began taking electives in 2L, I knew that was not going to be an option. The two times that I took an evening class (5:45 start time), I made sure to enroll my daughter in a fun class of her choosing at the YMCA. By the time she was done with her class, my class was over and I could meet her and the babysitter at the Y.

But the reality is, kids will be kids. There will be tantrums. They will be frustrated and confused by the amount of attention you pay to those massive books they are not allowed to touch or "decorate." You'll want to address their frustrations before your laptop "accidentally" falls to the floor (thankfully, mine "accidentally" fell onto a patch of floor that was well padded by a pile of clean, unfolded laundry). 

In those moments of child sabotage, the hardest thing to admit is that the saboteur may be right - not in her action, but in her feelings. I'm not a family counselor or therapist, but I can attest to the value of taking a deep breath in those moments, coming down to my daughter's level and trying to validate her feelings first. Eventually we discuss strategies for helping her convey her frustrations without being destructive. I do not always respond with such grace, but I have gotten better at it, and best of all, my daughter has become pretty good at advocating for herself and calling me out when I need to "chill" and take a "mommy time out."

Finally, we have been fortunate in that the school that my daughter attends has been very understanding of our situation. In some ways, the teachers and staff there have been like a co-parent who does not take point on the big decisions but is always supportive. I do not have the time to volunteer as much as they would like parents to volunteer, but I have never been subject to any shaming and my daughter is always treated with respect and warmth by the staff and teachers, and the other families with whom we have become friends. 

Admittedly, there is little in this last section that is unique to single parenting in law school. Rather, it's all just part of the reality of parenting. However, to help you and your child(ren) get through law school in one piece, you may need to cultivate a heightened awareness of how the unique stressors of law school impact you and your family and preemptively take steps to mitigate them. 

If your law school or the residential community in which you will live do not have the resources to help you succeed, and if you do not have the time to develop those resources, then perhaps you are not at the right school or in the right community. 

Single Parenting Through Law School: Some Thoughts on How to Make It "Work" - Part One #MSULawSM

I really should be reading for Secured Transactions....or sleeping. But this Lean In meme hit my feed and it resonated with me enough to give me a second wind.

I am in my last semester of law school, and it actually looks like I will graduate.  This was not a guaranteed outcome, and not for lack of intelligence or an unwillingness to do the work, but because every step of the way has felt like a Tough Mudder slog through the viscous muck of uncertainties and preschool hijinx.

Three years ago, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn't watch (and still haven't seen) The Paper Chase. I didn't read 1L of a Year. Because I knew that none of those stories would bear much resemblance to mine.

I started law school as a 38 year old, former college administrator and lecturer,  and single parent to a 2 1/2 year old.

When the meme above crossed my feed tonight, I embraced it because it reflects the cornerstone of how I have "done" law school and made the experience work for me and my family.

Because I remember that it was around this time, three years ago, that I began to think in earnest about whether law school (even with a full tuition scholarship) would be part of my life's journey, I thought I'd take a moment and share some thoughts and experiences that may be relevant to other single parents contemplating a comparable journey.

• Put your family first

Law school is weird. It's like high school + professional school + a high stakes Winner-Takes-All poker tournament. It takes up an obscene amount of time and energy (especially during the first year), which I found to be more hectic than working full time. And at first, I really sucked at managing it because I had convinced myself that I would only ever amount to anything by pursuing the same load and as many as possible of the same activities as my classmates. That didn't work for my sanity, my grades or my dear daughter, who really struggled during our first year.

So after I lost my scholarship for a year because I fell short by 0.03 grade points in 1L, I did some serious soul searching. Participating in the ReInvent Law Lab and studying abroad in London (joined by my daughter and mother) convinced me that there was still some work that I want to do both in and with law. But I decided that how I went about my studies would reflect how I plan to live my life. 

I set my priorities and family came first. While I knew I had to work hard to regain my scholarship (which I did), that work would have to be in a manner that respected my primary responsibility to my daughter. Motherhood is not just the hardest job I've ever had; it's also the source of great joy.

Then something strange happened: the more time I allotted for my daughter (including making most Saturdays OUR days), the happier I was, the more efficient I became and my grades significantly improved (I made the Dean's List!).

Granted, this prioritization came at a "loss." I didn't serve on law review or any other journal (which is fine with me because The Bluebook truly is the 7th Circle of Hell). While I did serve as a student attorney in the Urban Ag law clinic for three terms, I did not clerk or otherwise work outside of school (except on my entrepreneurial interests). Moot Court, the Trial Practice Institute and even the Arbitration, Negotiation and Mediation competitions all passed me by. Instead, the bulk of my professional development was through ReInvent Law and the related suite of courses, workshops and events. Instead of taking the shotgun approach to law school, I had to use a much more targeted strategy that forced me to take ownership over the "unique course" I wish to set for myself professionally and personally.

Figuring out the work/life balance cannot wait until after graduation. It must be a fundamental part to one's law school success plan. And that means learning when and how to say "No," and figuring out where you will invest your "Yes."

• Ask for what you need: Institutional Resources 

Law school will train you to "think like a lawyer," but when it comes to being successful as a single parent in law school, you need to master the art of advocating like a lawyer, for yourself and your family. 

Even before you send in the enrollment deposit, figure out which staff and administrators are aware of and sensitive to the challenges student parents (especially single parents) face. At MSU Law we have a wonderful Diversity Coordinator, Mary Ferguson, who has been incredibly supportive for student parents, including providing Finals Childcare for our kiddos. Ask the Admissions people if they know of other current or admitted students who are parents and ask to be put in touch with them. One of my closest friends found me through Admissions, and now both our daughters and we have become dear friends.

Addendum: Don't forget to look beyond the law school's institutional resources to determine if the broader university has resources that can help you succeed as a student parent. MSU has a Family Resource Center that serves as a wonderful compendium of all the university and community resources available to support student parents (the FRC Resource Guide for Students with Children (pdf) is bookmarked on my computer). I joined the student organization, Student Parents on a Mission (SPOM) through which we have enjoyed discounted & free family-friendly events and activities. I have shamelessly taken advantage of the free subscription to Care.com, the five free days of emergency child care, the Finals Childcare provided by The People's Church across the street from the university (and which I learned about from SPOM),  and even the discounted Sick Child in-home care when missing class would have meant running afoul of the ABA attendance requirements (don't get me started on those). And I have applied for and received the Council of Graduate Students' Child Care Grant every semester for which I have applied, which has helped make it possible for me to enroll my daughter in a Montessori school.

Once you are enrolled, your interactions with your professors will be tantamount. My professors (many of whom have children who attend the same school as my daughter) have been understanding when I have had to bring my daughter to class, miss a class or even come in late (True Story: during 1L, my daughter fell asleep in the car on the way to my school & by the time we arrived she was starting to snore. I carried her into class late, laid her on a blanket in the back of the class, and she sawed logs audibly for the duration of class. Yet the professors were very understanding). It is on me to let the professors know my situation in advance, if possible, and ASK them if they mind the accommodation I need, when I need it.

Okay, the second wind is all but gone, so I will sign off here. 

Part Two will come soon(ish) because school reading, four job applications and a coworking business proposal, my daughter's social calendar (a sleepover one night and a birthday party), a day trip to Frankenmuth with another #lawschoolmom and her kids, the next #WritingWeekend story, and oh yeah...classes all need to be done this week. 

Part Two will cover:

1. Ask for what you need: Peer Community
2. Self-Care: Do It.
3. Set your child up for her own success
1. with her own emotions
2. school as co-parent

Single parenting through law school is a humbling exercise in logistics, project management, occasional outsourcing, and LOTS of design thinking. BUT it is also workable if you are true to your family, your values and your dreams (personal, familial and professional).

Mourning Father #WritingWeekend Week 1 inspired by @Buzzfeed #51BeautifulLines

For years, I have been something of a writing coward, despite having completed a degree in creative writing and taught writing. Aside from the occasional writing contest, intermittent blog posts, and the occasional voluminous Facebook note or comment, I have generally kept my poetry and prose to myself. But when I read Buzzfeed's list of the 51 Most Beautiful Lines of Literature, decided to use it as an opportunity to save my writing muscles from atrophy. So, I will take one line each week and will write a story, poem or essay inspired by the line and will post it here. I do not promise brilliance or even consistent quality. I only promise consistent effort. 

Shortly after making this decision, I learned that my father died. We were not close. But I have been a mess anyway. Writing this first essay has helped.

Mourning Father

“At any rate, that is happiness: to be dissolved into something complete and great.”
Willa Cather, My Antonia

I was fine. Whenever anyone asked about him, I’d shrug and say, “I’m past my daddy issues.” Mind you, they had hung on like a motherfucker, well past the time when they should have been laid to rest. But since thirty is the new twenty, and – as the meme accurately states – the first forty years of childhood are the hardest, I forgave myself the tenacity of my longing.

But then I got over it. No. I accepted that I would never know my elusive half-siblings. I dismissed my father with a forced bravado to match the finality with which he had apparently dismissed me. And I found comfort in knowing that the four years I’d been an in-state Blue Devil had not embroiled me in some inadvertent incestuous love affair given the rumored size of my father’s family and my complete unfamiliarity with any of them.

Last week, I was sitting on the couch, giddy with anticipation as I worked on the proposal for the property where I plan to anchor my entrepreneurial dreams. Then I checked Facebook and saw a message from a niece I had met once: “Hey aunt Karen, your dad is in the hospital. It's looking like he's not going to make it. Call my mom.” I blinked a few times in rapid succession. I had never called him “dad.” That’s just not the man I barely knew.

In one three-minute phone call, my resolute and confident embrace of the future was dragged back to the vortex of my past pained confusion. Lung cancer for years? Stage four bone cancer? None of his kids were told? Pulling the respirator today? TODAY?! How the hell do you expect me to get there in time?!

These tears feel like a fraud. An unearned release from a sideways ache that I hadn’t realized was there. Am I mourning the man he was (whom I barely knew) or the man he could have been (whom We never knew)? Or is this grief for the dissolution of the illusion to which I have occasionally clung since I was old enough to care.

Because my father could have been anyone.

Sure, Nick was married to my mom and his name was on my birth certificate, but that could have been a matter of convenience, of marital presumption, of largesse or mere ignorance. No. MY father, the one who gave me my high cheekbones, who had a deep understanding of my therapeutic longing for the Earth, who was the source of my high-fallutin’ “difference.” MY father… he had to be … more. And interested, but thwarted somehow. For a damned good and noble reason, maybe a royal one! Not an absentee, philandering, unstable war vet, but … a…. prince! West African. No! East African… descended of the Pharaohs. Or so I had hoped as a grade schooler, accentuating the almond shape of my eyes, doing my best Cleopatra walk and toying with the idea of learning Arabic (I settled on French).

With each slap, threat or insult from my stepfather, MY father had loomed large in my imagination, reassuring me and eventually empowering me. Because my blood, HIS blood does not cower, it boils over and reminds the tyrant, “I might not be able to do much while you are awake, but you will eventually fall sleep.”

But when I saw the blurred photos through Facetime – my father intubated and unconscious in a hospital bed – I knew my prince would never come, because he did not exist. That flawed, absent, profligate, and dying man was the only father I’d ever had, could ever have, and would never have because he would be gone before the day was through and we would never, ever know each other.

It wasn’t the bounces on My Daddy’s knees that I had craved, nor the sage silence of a fishing jaunt to a creek. In the end, I missed his canned tomatoes. I never got to try them. When we met almost four years ago, we had talked about our mutual love of gardening and preserving the bounty of our harvests. I was partial to jams and jellies. He canned tomatoes. I think. It was one conversation, in segments, over three – maybe four – hours. And then we never discussed canning again.

 We never really discussed anything again. In the four intervening years, I could count the number of conversations we had on one hand. Maybe my questions felt too much like interrogation, while his answers were just too elusive for me. But even in those few conversations, there was something in his voice – gravelly, jovial, North Carolina pine woods drawl – that had tickled a genetic memory and felt like a cornerstone of home. The missing brick was laid in place, and while I may have wished for a different bricklayer, at least it was no longer a missing link.

I did not look in his casket. And it wasn’t just the hazy-headedness from a red-eye cross-country flight. I could not do it. Having only one visual memory of my father, I did not want that replaced by an embalmed corpse. And it wasn’t because I loved the man I had met years ago. I didn’t. How could I? I didn’t know him. I just want to remember him as he chose to be when I met him, and not as some mortician felt he should look, because I’ll take truth over hagiography any day.

And the truth that speaks to me the most is the truth of my sisters.

I have sisters. J I am the eldest of six children. I have met my three sisters and their children. I have not yet met my brothers. In one of the last conversations I had with Nick, he said that his goal was to someday gather all of his children together. And while I was very nervous about meeting one of my siblings whose life choices were more dangerous than anything to which I had ever been exposed or would ever want to expose my daughter, I had wondered what that future introduction would be like. I didn’t expect it to be at his funeral.

Scripture says that the sins of the father will be visited upon the son, but what about the daughters? As I sat in the pew with two of my sisters, a niece and my daughter, I wondered at the different kinds and degree of pain and grief we each had for this man who had failed at least two of us in unique, but total ways.

It’s not that I scoffed at the remembrances of others who spoke of the man who would give you the shirt off his back. It’s just that I realized I didn’t know that man, and I had nothing to say about the man I barely knew, to a gathering of family I didn’t know at all. 

It was the realization that I have five siblings, fourteen aunts and uncles, and over 100 first cousins spanning from two years old to fifty years old that changed my tears. From grief for the father I did not and would not know, to anger over the family I never got to know. The tears that came to my eyes at the funeral were tears of fury. Fury at my father. And fury at my mother. Because knowing my paternal family was my right, which neither of them seemed to have respected. Nick didn’t try hard enough to stay in my life. Mom didn’t try hard enough to make me part of his family’s life.

That may be unfair. It’s probably unfair. But watching my sisters from the corner of my eye, seeing their beauty and poise, and their tears, I felt … cheated. The dissolution of my father-daughter fantasy sucked, but never knowing my sisters (and our brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents) felt … feels like theft. You can only ever grow up with someone once (and I grew up as an only child). Now it remains to be seen if we will learn to grow old with each other, probably not as family first, but hopefully as friends, united by but not guided by our variegated memories of Nick aka Nank aka Rottweiler aka Bulldog aka Wild Mule aka Emanuel aka my father.