BabyMama & The Thought Police

One thing I neglected to note on my to-do list for 2021: get pregnant. 

That isn't to say it wasn't planned, just that it wasn't any of y'all's business at the time. Being a woman of a certain age, and having witnessed many loved ones struggle with fertility, I didn't necessarily know that 2021 would be the year of the bébé, but surprise, here we are! Twenty weeks pregnant, baby! Sorry blog, with all the other announcements, you get the sloppy-second, offhanded remarks. (Still loveee you!)

I never necessarily understood why people played it so close to the vest in the early months of pregnancy, why it was all so hush-hush until suddenly BAM they were SUPER preggers and ready to announce. And while I still think that knowledge is power, and we can all only benefit from sharing our experiences and learning together... I get it now. The missing piece for me had been the lack of understanding around just how risky those early weeks are. Given my age / physical factors, there was about a 20% chance of a miscarriage. TWENTY percent. ONE in FIVE. 

Holy shit. That felt so, so high.

I had no idea miscarriages were that common. The concept blew my mind. Probably because this is one of many "women's issues" that doesn't get talked about as much (though these days, people tend to be more open) - which sucks, because it isn't just a woman's issue. It impacts family, friends, would-be-fathers, and the whole 'village' of people who would have loved that baby. It's a sad and scary thought. 

"So, why the secrecy, Gina, if you are so adamant about people discussing these things?" you ask, rightly so. And, had something happened, I know I'd have needed my people. I know I'd have reached out, had talked to my loved ones in our closer circle. But you know, that's a controlled conversation. 

If you put a pregnancy announcement out into the world, it ripples. The random woman at the grocery store your mom knew in high school suddenly knows that your womb is occupado. It's big news and people are excited. And people want to ask you about it when they see you. And what happens when you're out for a walk and suddenly someone asks about your baby that's no more? A happy query about the little life you lost? How do you react to that sucker punch to the heart? It feels like, it'd be a lot. Like, if it's someone you're close to checking in, it's comforting; but if it's an inquiry when your guard is down, it's a sob fest. I couldn't risk it. 

And honestly, I kept a big set of walls up around my own heart, pumping blood for two, in that first trimester. The more you love something, the harder the loss, was my defense mechanism. I didn't think too much about it, didn't set too many plans in motion,* didn't let my mind wander and wonder about who this teeny creature might become. Mind you, I also didn't  necessarily spend all those weeks feeling constantly afraid or worrying, I did my best to spend them blank. Uninvested. Almost detached.** And some of that remoteness has carried on into the second tri. 

Yeah, I get that that makes me sound like a monster / bad mom, and as if I don't care, but I have a good reason: the thought police. 

As a fairly high-strung person, I've spent years learning how to manage my anxieties, calm my mind, and mitigate the restlessness when it strikes. I've got my strategies for keeping everyone around me from thinking I'm a total nutter and/or off the rails. That doesn't mean my brain isn't still a hive of chaos, but you know, that I've figured out how to work and live in harmony with that. But now there is someone else in there, someone else who is directly impacted by that chaos. A mini person who shares my body and feelings. And gosh, I sure don't want to scare them.

So, I find myself dealing with a side effect of pregnancy that I hadn't thought about previously: keeping my chill so this wee one doesn't have to feel my worries. I knew having good physical health would be important, but I hadn't considered the massive importance of mental health. I want this womb to be a tranquil getaway, a place of peace and comfort, before our tiny human has to violently exit said womb and come join us in this frenzied world. And yes, sometimes I just have a wave of hormones and start sobbing for literally no reason, but beyond that, serenity is the absolute objective. 

I'm certainly not at the point where I have this all figured out. I don't know the best way to keep a positive vibe internally 24/7 to keep this child in that zen mode. I know I am approaching this imperfectly and will have some major fluxes in anxiety that surely are the opposite of zen,*** but this has been a good perspective shift for me in the long run, too. If I think that my mental chaos isn't "good" for the baby, why would I think it's fine for myself? Because, while I'll surely adore this little spawn, it will only be dependent on me for a certain period of time. I am going to be with me literally til the end. So some of this care and energy that I'm so willing to funnel towards another, it's gonna need to come back to mama. Because mama matters. And right now, doing good for mama is also doing good for bébé. We're literally in this together, and we're going to tackle it with a calm AF smile. 

Wish us luck. 

Good vibes and ice cream only.

* And now I feel completely behind on things lol damnnnnit.
** Even on the way to the twenty-week ultrasound, when my husband was just a bundle of excitement and joy, I felt just numb. Because I was terrified we'd get there and that the ultrasound would show no movement, no heartbeat, that something was wrong and I just didn't have the motherly instinct to know it. I couldn't get myself excited, because the more I thought about it, the more I worried. I even took a photo with my bump before we left for the appointment, just in case that was the last moment where our baby was in there. It was a pretty effed up thought, and as soon as I snapped the pic, I immediately shifted my brain back to blank. It was okay if I didn't feel joy, as long as I didn't feel scared as hell and sad. Blank was better... I don't tell this story to make everyone worry about my sanity, but because I'm sure I'm not the only woman who has ever felt this way. We're all just doing our best, and we're all doing okay. 
*** Like, did the baby freak out when I woke up after having a nightmare last night?? Did my accelerated heart rate and panic cause that little floating fetus to bob about like "ahh what's happening" and now it's traumatized? How could I possibly even know?! Ahh. 

When Life Doesn't Give You Lemons

Two weeks after the stay-at-home orders went into effect, we made our first masked trip to the grocery store. I was armed to the teeth with hand sani, but was terrified. Entering the store, I skirted around like a paranoid lemur, or a kid playing "the ground is lava," except the people were lava... I was surrounded by lava monsters.

With my anxiety off the charts, and my inner monologue telling me that this visit to the vegetables was going to be the last thing I ever did (for surely I would catch Covid from a cucumber and be dead by morning), it wasn't going to take much to push me over the edge. I clung to a tiny paper list (afraid to touch my phone) with essentials and a few specialty ingredients. Next up: lemons. I wanted to make these 'honey lemon cloud cookies' (I started my "distract me from the end times" pandemic baking early), and I needed fresh lemons. 

This was the moment that my panic about the state of the world and my first world privilege met, and did a tango. (A poorly choreographed, sporadic tango.) There was the display stand for lemons. There was the little sign with the price. And there they were, empty little shelves, with not a single lemon to be found. 

And I immediately started crying. 

Because of a lack of lemons. 

But of course, it wasn't really about the lemons. It was because my heart couldn't take one more thing. One more change. One more uncertainty. First a cancelled honeymoon and isolation from my loved ones, and now no lemons? What was next? Where would it end? Next time would there be no food at all? Would we all end up fighting for a can of who-cares-what-veggie and bartering our wedding rings for some flour, like in those post-apocalyptic films that I binged watched throughout those early days of the pani?* That empty shelf escalated into a thousand worst case scenarios in my mind, and I let them drop via tears onto my mask, afraid to touch my face to wipe them away...

And now here we are. Over a year later. We've all had a lot of ups and downs during this time. Some of us have been really lucky, and some haven't. The mental, physical, and emotional toll has looked different for each person, with a lot of striking similarities for many. But what now? What happens after a year lacking lemons? After all this hypervigilance and fear and sadness? After months of playing worst-case-scenario-roulette? 

Well here's where I'm personally at....

1. I still plan to mostly stay at home. I'll still be working remote. I still will mostly be getting carryout instead of going to restaurants. I still won't abandon my quest to watch every single WWII documentary available on streaming services. I'm not ready to fully dive back in. If you're vaccinated, and you are ready - cool, you do you. But I'm just not there yet. There were a finite number of situations in the past year where I was to be in a crowded space with strangers, and I spent a month leading up to those events having absolute panicked meltdowns, put my best game face on for the benefit of others when the time came, and then hyperventilated and sobbed in the shower for an hour once the events were over. I'm not saying it was entirely rational, but I'm not saying you'll see me out at the bar every weekend now either.  This might take me some time, and I know that probably feels weird, but I'm just not the exact same as I was before (yet? ever?), and I can't help it. Thanks for being cool about it.
2. I'm only seeing certain people in person. They're vaccinated, they haven't shown a total disregard for human life during this, and I miss them. Honestly, I'm coming out of this pani with major fucking trust issues, so while I will always care about the people I've always cared about, there are some people who I just probably don't need to ever interact with in person again, based on recent actions. And that's okay. It sucks, but it's okay. Those I do see, I may only see briefly, and it may be outside, but I'll be very overjoyed just the same. 
3. You'll probably still see me wearing a mask. At the time of typing this, only about 37% of Americans are fully vaccinated. Wearing masks is still important for those who aren't. You know, solidarity. And honestly, wearing a mask has never been a bother to me, even with my asthma. So, if it doesn't bother me, it shouldn't bother you. Don't make it painfully awkward, don't bombard me with your opinions about it, just let me do my thing. 
4. You might need to be patient with me. I might not be okay with more than a quick hug, even though I really, really miss hugs. I might only want to chat/hang out for a brief time and then leave because I'm exhausted, or anxious. I might get frustrated when I finally feel okay about seeing you in person and you say you can't because you have other plans (Is everyone just making tons of plans?? That feels too devil-may-care for me right now, in my social-prude state.). And I might be unnecessarily pissy that I didn't hear from you more when I was really down and needed you to (virtually) show up - though that's not fair, because you were going through your own shit and I likewise probably wasn't there for you when you needed me to be.** Basically: I might come with more emotions than I normally do, and they might be sitting out on my shoulder making faces, instead of tucked away neatly in my purse like usual. 
5. I still worry about things, even when they're beyond my control. I know, I know, I know, worrying constantly about things beyond your control isn't sustainable. I get it that I have a finite sphere of influence, and that in all this, I can just do what I can to control my own personal actions to do my personal best to protect myself and my loved ones. I can't make someone else get vaccinated. I can't control what nutball conspiracy theories someone adds to a spew mountain of Facebook comments, or who believes them. I can't influence global policy to ensure equity in vaccine distribution. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't break when I see this virus ravaging India, or when I hear about an immunocompromised person who was unable to get vaccinated dying, or when I witness the anxiety amongst my friends with kids who don't know how best to protect their little ones with the world reopening. I wish I could just shut off that switch and say "I'm good, I'm vaccinated, so, the pandemic is over for ME, let's get back at it!" but I am not there. This thing is still happening. And the longer it goes unchecked in some areas, the more likely it is to mutate and come back around to impacting me - so yes, I'll probably continue to worry and care and be vocal and if that bothers you, well, then shoo. Because my mama bear nature applies on a wider scale. 

There is going to come a point where I'll look back on and read old posts and statuses from this time and not feel them so deeply maybe. Right now, when timehop puts me back a year, I just nod and find that I am in a very similar mental frame now as I was then. The lemons might be back on the shelf, but that shelf still feels empty. I hope it won't forever. And I hope someday this will feel like a distant memory. In the meantime, stay safe, friends, and treasure your lemons while ye may.

And for now, we look for alternatives.

* Yes, I sometimes call the pandemic a "pani," like it's some sort of casual friend that I have a little nickname for. I know other people call it other things. I know it's stupid. But I need to minimize this monster in my mind sometimes in order to survive, so just let me have this silly quip. 

** Don't worry, I promise not to ever talk about this outloud with any of you. What's past is past, I know we all did our best and our individual best looked different on different days for each of us. So some days when I was curled up in a ball and needed you, you might have been in your own ball needing me - this year was just a stalemate of support in so many cases, and what good is it actually being pissy about it? So, just know that this subtle bitterness is all in my head and won't ever surface in person. Love you, mean it. 

Ten Years (Yet Only Moments) Ago

Every year on this day, I try to put a few thoughts into words but never quite manage. Today I'm sitting at the sunny dining room table while a flurry of handymen install a new A/C unit and do duct / HVAC work in our house. It's probably not the best time to delve into my memories of a loved one lost but, hell, when is a good time?* Where I really want to be is on the road, headed north to my hometown to spend this day with my family (whom I miss so frickin' much) as they celebrate the legacy of a damn good man. But it's pandemic times, and me just a few weeks out from being fully vaccinated, so, here we are....

It always amazes me to think that what I know of any person is just a small part of what makes up their life. I only ever know them through my particular lens, and my interactions with them, despite there being infinite other instances they share elsewhere with others. I knew Vern as an uncle, not as a father, brother, or son. In those capacities, I saw him through the eyes of my cousins, who grew up in a loving household; my mom, as she laughed and joked with her big brother; and my grandma, as her first born doted upon her. 

I wasn't even alive the first half of his life, but he was there for all of mine. And there are still such distinct moments I shared with him. Moments that I know are still happening in another time and place.  

• My uncle and aunt had a library room in their old house. It had floor to ceiling shelves with books. Vern told me that if I read every one of those books, I'd pretty much know all that needs knowing. He loved learning, and always knew something about everything. As a child, I more than once thought he was probably the smartest man in the whole world. 
• That library didn't just have books, it also had hundreds of movies. VHS tapes and eventually DVDs. Every New Year's Eve we would have a movie marathon. My mom, sister, grandma and I all got to pick out a movie to watch. We'd make the drive out to that room, that library, and pick out how we wanted to ring out and in the new year. His love for movies was infectious. Any tape you picked out, he could tell you some extra tidbit about. That room was a school of knowledge and fun facts, with Uncle Vern as the professor.
• They lived out of town in the country, in a small unincorporated community that pretty much featured just a winding road, a bar, a cheese factory, and my aunt and uncle's house. So they jokingly called Vern the Mayor. And I believed it. Because he seemed like the kind of guy who'd make a nice mayor. Everyone knew him and liked him, and if you needed anything, he'd be there to help.
• Given their location, every summer meant a giant birthday bonfire. All the cousins and family in one spot to bask in the flames of the previous year's Christmas trees, massed atop a giant pile of wood and fuel. Just be sure to grab him a beer, so long as you're over by the cooler there.
• Any celebration was made a little more jovial when Vern was there. Sunday Packers game potlucks, tearing up the dance floor at a wedding, or the inevitable silly stringing at a birthday. Somehow, you never saw it coming, but it always came. You went from blowing out birthday candles to just caked in silly string. When we moved out of the trailer, there was still silly string stains on the ceiling from one overly zealous celebration. 
• He had a beautiful singing voice. In the rare occasion I was with him at the same time in a church, it was a real treat to hear him belt out the hymnals. And any time there was a bar with a jukebox or a random karaoke machine, there was that voice. I have a vivid memory of sitting on a stool at a bar up north by our cabin, sipping a kiddy cocktail, my legs dangling, watching Uncle Vern harmonize a John Denver song with a stranger. Take me home, country roads, indeed.
• Times up at the cabin were great. Swimming in the lake, cooking back-to-back and butt-to-butt in that tiny kitchen while everyone played cards at the table, while some golden oldies streamed from a radio perched atop the fridge. My uncles and the cabin are interlaced in my mind. One of the last times being when Vern was sick, but everyone gathered up to build a new outhouse. Each of my uncles had a specific skillset when it came to building, whether electric, plumbing, framing, etc. Between the three of them, they could design and construct just about anything. Even my grandma's "pop back" garage.**
• Swimming at the lake wasn't the only spot for a dip. Every family wedding or event that involved a hotel, and you'd find Vern in the pool. I remember going with another uncle to 'find Vern' and of course we found him swimming. "It's brother Vern, the whiiiiiite whaaaaale," my uncle bellowed as Vern laughed and splashed. Minutes later my aunt appearing with a, "Vern, get out of the damn pool, you gotta get ready!" 
• My aunt. Goodness gracious did he sure love her. Their marriage is still one I hold on a pedestal in my mind as to what a happy married couple looks like. A married couple who has seen it all, been through times good and bad, and has come out stronger. Vern always had a mischievous look in his eye and a little chuckle as he'd pat my aunt's butt as she walked past him; a chiding little remark from her was always accompanied with a smile. Growing up, they were the duo with the longest marriage in my eyes. It seemed like they were still newlyweds somehow, and yet the just always had such a deep understanding and respect for each other. They both played their role in the relationship, and I watched as a kid, thinking I was seeing #relationshipgoals without even yet knowing what that meant.
• He was just a loving person. He wanted to make sure everyone felt cared about. Every year on Valentine's Day, he'd go down to my mom's office and bring chocolates and treats for my ma and all the women in her office. Every year. Just so they knew they were appreciated.
• And hugs. OH boy, did he sure give the best hugs. Almost overwhelming to a small child, but his hugs would just envelop you in love and kindness.

I could probably go on for ages, plucking out little memories, but that list will never be long enough because it unfortunately stops short. The "new" memories of my Uncle Vern exist only in my mind. The thought of his beautiful singing voice delivering a sad hymn at my grandma's funeral; or of him waving me out to the dance floor at my wedding as some Neil Diamond song he requested began to play; or of him chatting politics with Andy's dad at a backyard BBQ at our new house; or of him bringing a box of balloons/candy and a can of silly string to my non-existent child's birthday party. None of these moments are real. None of them happened or will happen. But they're there in my mind, in a parallel reality. And they make me smile to imagine. 

It was ten years ago today that my Uncle Vern passed away. Diagnosed in September 2010 with pancreatic cancer (which rapidly spread elsewhere), they'd given him three to six months, and there we were in the ominous month seven. I had graduated college in a recession and struggled to find a job in my field, so that year, my uncle's last year, I was living at home with my mom and got the gift of time with my family. He was the first close (actually close) relative who died, and being 22 at the time, I was lucky to have not felt such loss sooner. Telling the story of that year, and what it really looks like to lose such a light in such a dreadful way, is still not something I can properly put to words. But the point I guess isn't that he died, as awful and heart wrenching as it was, the point is that he lived. He really, truly, fully lived. And the world is all the better for it. And we all miss him like hell.

Silly string: you never see it coming, but it always does.

* If they grown men can handle a lady in a dainty floral face mask quietly crying as she types at her laptop, while they lug around filters, fans and ducts, then they can just get on out! 
** A solidly built garage is still no match for an old woman with a lead foot. Just before we had to take away my grandma's license, she had one last hurrah in which she drove her car straight through the back of that garage my uncles had helped build her. In another garage, a back wall might have stopped and perhaps killed an old woman from the impact, but not this garage. Instead the back wall sort of just popped open for her daring escape into the backyard and through the woods. The car may not have made it, but she came out of the whole ordeal fine (just pissed off, per usual).

The Whole of the Moon

2020-One. 2020-Won? 20.21. 

Here we go again. Another turn of the page, as we flip into a new year. It's hard to imagine what the encore to 2020 could look like. Since I can't see the future (would I want to??), all I can do is craft a vibe I'm aiming for and try to fulfill that, regardless of the landscape I find myself in. 

For my typical start-of-year list (see oldies 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019), I never included a "word of the year" until this past year. In 2020, I had both a word and song. The song was the vibe I wanted to root to. The word, a theme to aspire to. Maybe doing both ended up jinxing things, so this year I'm sticking with just a jammer: "The Whole of the Moon" by the Waterboys. 

As a high level, I want to be more big picture. These past nine months, it's been easy to get tripped up and caught on small hurdles. To feel like I'm failing in little moments, and not realize the bigger accomplishments. As someone who is both parts of this song, I need to find a better balance between the two. 

I wrote up some elaborate novel in which I had a goal based on various song lyrics, but wowww was that sure overthinking things. So, I scrapped that and started over. And then I let a few days pass, and the world flipped on its head again (lol attempted coups, who knew? *weeps*). And then I scrapped everything again. Now, I'm returning back, a few weeks in, having rethought several times, and here's what we've got. 

• Wander out in the world. To be honest, I spent most of 2020 afraid to go outside. Even with my mask, and hand sani, and a doe-eyed desire to experience nature in safe, wide-open spaces, I found myself completely overwhelmed by the amount of other people out and about. This year, I'm hoping to get outside more, on less occupied suburban streets. To manage my anxiety and the people-phobia I've developed. And hopefully, we can also finally have a honeymoon / travel again.* 
• Write it out. Get back into writing for fun, not just for a place to dump my existential crises. (I had no idea that was the plural for 'crisis' - English is fucking fascinating.) 
• Create my own Brigadoon. These early months will probably be very home-centric. Since I can't go seek paradise via travel, I need to make our home our own sanctuary. (I also want to make sure our house looks nice for when people can finally come see it, but that's secondary to our own comfort in these winter months.) 
• More music. Jammers. More jammers. Because I spend too much of the day in silence otherwise.
• Be better in relation to others. A better wife, daughter, sister, friend, coworker, neighbor, etc. I have an expectation of what it looks like to "properly" fulfill all those roles, but with changing times, so too we must change our approach. Keeping myself grounded so I can be a better me for others is so important to me. Get back to being an anchor instead of a free-floating chunk of ocean garbage. And make sure everyone knows how grateful I am for them. Spread that love. Get a little more outward, instead of retreating inward.
• Stretch for the stars. My default "comfort" position is more-or-less a hunchback / fetal position mix. I can physically feel my body withdrawal into itself when I'm stressed out. So, once again, my posture needs a lot of work. While WFH has given me the gumption to not be completely chained to my desk all day long, it also means I've been working in less-than-ergonomically-pleasing setups for months. I need to keep the old body limber as I move into my palindrome year. 
• Keep my blood pumping. Speaking of being stationary too much... I need to get in some more cardio this year, and try to get my resting heartrate to a better place. 
• Figure out how to better contribute to the world. I want to figure out composting. Search for some local organizations to be involved with to help my immediate environment. Do some garbage pickup. Something. The joke at my job when things are high tension has always been, "Take it easy, we're not saving lives here." But maybe I want to be? Maybe I want to do something that's more beneficial to others? Since that isn't something in the cards in my current occupation, I need to look for philanthropy elsewhere. 
• Continue to curate my wardrobe. During quarantine, I got pretty active on Poshmark: getting rid of clothes that no longer matched me (for physical fit or appearance) and buying other secondhand items with those earnings. Helping close that loop and avoid new garments digitally, since hopping to thrift stores wasn't feasible. As I curate, I also need to be better about my ghost outfit.** I need to dress myself each day in a way that's less "trapped at home" and more presentable. And all day, not just a rapid change ten minutes before my husband gets home so he doesn't think I'm a scrub.
• Unfurrow my brow. I may have done permanent damage already. These worry lines may not go away. Must quit showing my apprehension on my face. 
• Keep learning and unlearning. We all have a lot of implicit biases and a lot of what we've learned in life is a product of our immediate environment. I'd like to continue to learn and grow, and unlearn where I need to. To continue to support BIPOC-owned businesses. To do what I can to be a part of the solution and not a part of the problem - by educating myself and advocating for others. I want to practice and get better about having conversations around race and other important topics. I tried hard in 2020 to learn and eloquently discuss, but I know I didn't always do a good job. Sometimes my good intentions didn't come through verbally or I got too frustrated. I need to do better. We all can do better.
• Budge the budget. Now that we have a house, our expenses are different. As we settle in and figure out how much it costs to "run" this household, I'm exciting to dig in on our budget. We had a large amount saved up for a down payment, and now that we've doled that out, we want to figure out how much of our other savings/incoming funds can go into investments with a higher return.*** 
• Keep the vices to a minimum. I've been largely sober this pandemic, because I know what a slippery slope it'd have been to hit the bottle during these unprecedented times. I'd like to keep that up (or down?). But I also need to look at some of my other vices, like my massive sugar consumption, and figure out how to stomp them down a bit. I don't want to emerge from the plague times as a junkie in any respect. 
• Micro progress is still progress. Instead of setting specific long term goals, I'm focusing on a short list of goals each week (many which lend themselves to larger / longer run ones). Not even each month, but each week, because if there's anything last year taught us, it's how much things can change on a dime. Looking ahead more than a week may not be practical. This also gives me flexibility to make progress and keep it right within my sights, even during emotional roller coasting based on global/national events. 

Yeah, the above are vague and overarching. That's the point of them. The weekly goals will focus on specific actions that feed in, but for now, a broad stroke is the best this gal can do. Sure, I probably missed some stuff in the re-workings, too. But I'll be damned if I was going to wait another week to try and get my new years post out. Sending you off with a wish: may 2021 be kinder to us, and may we all be kinder to ourselves and each other. Go team.

Make today your bitch, friends.

* Anyone else seem to have all of their 2020 trips just plopped into the new year? Last year was supposed to be a big travel hurrah for us... looks like maybe we'll try for it again?

** If you haven't heard this particular line - basically, it's the concept that the clothes you die in will be the ones you're stuck wearing as a ghost forever. Since death is unpredictable, you should always dress yourself in an outfit that is comfortable, fashionable, and reflects who you are, because you never know which outfit may end up being your garb for the rest of eternity.

*** I love talking money shit, so if anyone ever wants to dig in on savings and budgeting, you just hit this girl up!

Hindsight Is: 2020 Edition

Woof. 2020. We've (mostly) made it through.

Every year before I write this post, I go back to read my previous "Hindsight is" posts. (Linked here, if you feel like a trip down my memory lane: 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019). The stark contrast of this year to prior ones was almost laughable, but mostly sadable. Like, so sadable. The state of the union left something to be desired, putting it lightly!

2020 was like looking both ways before crossing the street, and getting hit by a plane. But funny enough, when also looking back at my goals post for this year, I felt an odd sense of calm. Even though I came at it much more sideways than I intended, I really did accomplish a lot of the vibe I set out for. It was to be the year of clarity - and even though things were extremely unpredictable, after I went through all the stages of grief for this "year of loss," I did come through the other side with a better understanding of my personal feels, relationships, etc. It was a real trip reading that post and reflecting.

Anywho, onto the 2020 recap...
((Note that this more or less completely fails to capture the dumpster-fire nightmare and wholesome wonderfulness and terror and joy that was 2020 - but, it's what came out when I typed.))

• We survived. Literally the biggest accomplishment. Surviving a pandemic, political turmoil, civil unrest, and everything in between. My car window was smashed in at one point, just to ice the cake. And while it seems like a lifetime ago, it was only February when my husband was in a tragic active-shooter situation at his workplace. I was so thankful for his safety then, and am grateful every day for the health and safety of so many loved ones during these trying times. 
• We moved up and out. We purchased our first home, moving up to the northern burbs and out of apartment living. I moved up to (another) a new role at work. And, our plant family expanded at an exponential rate.
• We celebrated life. Before the world shut down, we had a roaring 20's themed new years, a memorable Leap Day party, wing night, baby showers, lady pal movie night, happy hours and brunches, and of course the Shamrock Shuffle viewing before the lockdown. Weddings, showers, bachelorettes: everything looked different in a year of masks and Zoom gatherings. During our self-quarantine, we turned to virtual events like everyone else. Sidewalk visits and awkward video calls, with a constant theme: we miss each other and love each other and care so much about keeping one another safe. I also excessively celebrated the hatching and fledgling weeks of the baby falcons atop Miller, with the live cam feed that got me through the longest spring of my life. From watching space launches to getting video messages about random nonsense, ever little virtual moment felt like a big moment.
• We donated. Since it was more difficult to physically donate time, we did a lot of donating via straight-up cash. Being financially lucky during this time, we were able to put funds towards causes that matter to us, to try and help in the way we felt we could. We also volunteered to do absentee ballot processing on Election Day, which made for a good distraction and was really cool to be a part of history.*
• We escaped. Even though our honeymoon and several other trips were cancelled, we did take several days away in August, just to get out of our small apartment. Cooking and staying at an AirBNB in lake country was just the ticket. We also escaped through countless hours of television and movies, much like everyone else. I also meant to take up reading and failed, but did really get in a puzzle groove.
• We tracked. In January, we tallied up and realized we were eating out too often. So, in February, we foolishly did a month of NOT eating out - sigh, if only we'd have known. My bullet journal turned into a way for me to be more mindful of the days - noting if I'd gone outside, or spoken to friends or family, or eaten. Counting the hours of sleep lost or gained. And a daily note of the number of Covid deaths and infections, which kept my heart in a constant state of mourning, but also in a state of deep resolve - staying inside, not seeing my loved ones: that time lost could be time gained in the future. It could be a life saved. It was worth it. 

This summary lacks a lot of the depth of this crazy time, but it's been hard to put into words this turning point in history we've all experienced together. And how different we've each experienced it. I'm sad, mad, grateful, hateful, and every other feel, all at once, when thinking back. These months taught us all so much. Some of those lessons, I'm not at all happy about. And others, I really needed to learn. May this all help us grow and make a better world as we move forward. May we be stronger together, even when physically apart. May 2020 be a watercolor in the rain, and 2021 a blank sheet. A fresh start.

Slap some paint over 2020. Gloss 'er up a bit.
Time for a fresh start.

* I highly recommend volunteering to help at the polls or with absentee ballot processing to anyone who wants to better understand the election process. It was absolutely fascinating and it felt really good to contribute and help. (And, we ended up on the homepage of the New York Times!) You can contact your local elections commission for more info. 

Too Much Thyme On My Hands

It started off innocently enough... 

It was January 2020. I was feeling in a bit of a slump, so decided to spruce up / redecorate my desk at work. This included some brief research into fluorescent light tolerant plants, some pink cloud screen-prints, a Roger Sterling Funko, and several hidden Baby Yodas. The viney pothos I had inherited from a former coworker (and had delivered a slow death to) was replaced by a couple of spry ZZs and a pretty leafy thing that I was sure would bring me happiness and deliver additional productivity (spoiler alert: it is no longer with us). My black thumb and I knew we needed more greenery to make that cube life seem more exotic. It all looked so lovely.

Fast-forward to mid-March, after hours, as I haphazardly ripped out my monitor cords, threw my keyboard, mouse, and various electronics into a backpack, and scooped those green girls into my arms in a mad dash out to my car. The post-apocalyptic landscape of the cubicle jungle was eerily quiet, with miscellaneous cords snaking about half-cleared countertops. Half eaten snacks and partially drank cups of water still sitting, frozen in time. A gym bag still hanging from the hook. A sweater over the back of a chair. Two weeks of working from home was the edict. Just a precaution. No need to grab your things. We'd be back soon. 

I knew that was a fool's hope. I took everything I could carry and ran with it. Leaving a little trail of potted soil as I went. 

And suddenly in was May. Two weeks had turned into two months, and the latest from corporate was "mid-September" - which meant another four months on the horizon. Working from home had come with several perks, of course. Rolling out of bed mere minutes before my 7:30am calls. Being able to slowly become human / dress as a person as the day progressed instead of before leaving for a commute, a commute which no longer existed. Instead of spending any spare moments between meetings chit chatting with coworkers, one could pop in laundry. Instead of preparing an easily microwaveable lunch, one could bust out a pot on the stove. All those little perks were certainly there. But one can't ignore that confining an extrovert into a two-bedroom apartment all day, every day, with little separation between work space and living space, well... it's bound to come to a head at some point. 

As that cracking point loomed, I looked up ways to make a space less stressful, to add layers of joy, to brighten one's day. And time after time, the lists highlighted one constant: light and greenery. Light we had in buckets, but greenery was lacking. In addition to the desk ones I'd brought home, we had an inherited (giant) snake plant (which was half burned from having fallen on the radiator), an oxalis that I had been gifted after my short stint as a  middle school librarian (and had somehow kept alive for years), a few half dead bookshelf pothos, an overgrown succulent, and a stray cactus or two. We weren't plantless, we had about six living non-human things, but we certainly were no oasis. So, I decided to start my indoor landscaping journey.

With a mandate to use up vacation time, I found myself with many many half days in May and June. Being afraid to interact with the general public, I instead took drives to various gardening shops and nurseries where I could mask-up and explore options outside, or get curbside pickup. Each time, just quickly grabbing one or two plants that I had researched (and assumed I could keep alive) and dashing back home. After adding the first few, it occurred to me... my husband didn't realize I was welcoming new green guests to the apartment...*

It was the day he proclaimed, "Oh, I see you moved your office plant into the bathroom. It looks nice. Bet you thought I wouldn't notice!" with a note of pride in his voice that I knew. As I glance into the bathroom at the completely different variety of leaf, in a completely different pot, and gave him a kind "well done, you!" smile, I knew. And the game was officially afoot: how many plants could I bring in to the apartment before he began to notice? The answer: a lot. SO many. Maybe too many. This went on for months. It wasn't until three months after that day that he officially began to suspect and I finally confessed. 

Would it be shady to say that my sneaky plant routine got me through? That it brought my isolated-soul massive amounts of entertainment?** That this greenery game was sadly one of the highlight adventures of my year? Maybe. Probably. But regardless, I felt like I won. I somehow incorporated twenty or so leafy friends into the various nooks of our thousand square foot apartment before the game ended in August. And I certainly didn't stop expanding from there - our total tally upon moving*** in November was up to 43 greenies. And she's still growing, our little plant fam. 

Perhaps my want to add little pots of calm got a smidge out of hand over the months. Maybe one shouldn't simply buy a new bit of foliage every time they reach a tipping point. It's possible that flora isn't the only way to bring joy to a space. But all I know is, these plants have given me something to care for, on those days when I was too exhausted and worn out by the year to want to care for myself. They unfurled new leaves when it was time to push out the old. They wilted when they needed attention, reminding me that it's okay to communicate your needs. They adapted. Together we kept hydrated, we leaned towards the light, we breathed, and we continued to grow. They made 2020 succ a little less. 

Did you really think I wouldn't get a photo shoot with them? 
This pandemic is also sponsored by disco balls and Freddie Mercury.

* While he is an extremely intelligent man, well-learned and witty, his observation skills and awareness of his surroundings are sometimes laughabley bad. We once were at a stoplight, windows down on a summer evening, just chatting, no loud music on or anything. And the person in the car right next to us recognized my then-boyfriend. They rolled down their window and were yelling his name and waving at him. This happened for at least a full minute before I was finally like, "Um, are you literally not hearing/seeing this, I think they're trying to get your attention." And he literally had ZERO awareness that they were there. He often misses people saying hello. Doesn't always notice when I've added furniture or artwork, or rearranged things, etc. His brain is just preoccupied somewhere outside the corporal space of the here and now. Bless his heart.

** Like the time I could only get a later curbside pickup timeslot, so had to physically run down an alley, my arms full of green, to avoid being seen by my husband as he was arriving home from work - and then secretly repotted said plants in the second bathroom tub later that night. Or the time I brought home a comically large leafy monster and put it in a really obvious space and just stared wide-eyed at my husband for several days like, "SURELY you see it?!"

***Oh yeah, we bought a house. In case you didn't gather from the above, being trapped in a small space by myself all the time lead to me demanded more space. Because in 2020, a gal deserves a larger cage!

I'm a Hugger

My name's Gina and I'm a hugger.*

Are you a stranger who I've never met, being introduced to me for the first time? You're getting a hug. I'm sorry, I'll try to shake your hand, proclaim that I'm a hugger, and then will move in quickly before you object. I'm from the midwest, and was literally born and raised this way. Not sharing some sort of embrace upon meeting is the equivalent of me cold-shouldering you. I want to wrap you into my arms and give a quick squeeze that says, "We're going to be friends. Whether you know it yet or not." Because we are. Because I've just literally brought you into my circle: my physical arm circle and my metaphorical acquaintance circle. Welcome, about-to-be-friend. I hope you like it here.

Are you a friend, family member, or someone who I share any sort of fellowship with and need to be greeted upon our reunion? Then gettttttttt on in here, and welcome back to my open arms! I've missed you when you were away. I don't care how long or short ago it was when we last met, seeing your face brings me immense joy, and I want to bring that joy-face by my face with a big old hug. It's like you never left.

But it's not just meeting and greeting. When someone I care about is anxious or sad, or feeling (emotional) pain, I am there to hug it the hell out. I will literally attempt to smother away sadness with my unyielding arms. A strong hold to let them know, we're safe, we're secure, this link here is unbreakable and we'll get through this shit together.

It's not just a straight forward traditional hugs either. I'm a diverse hugger. When I see that a friend that needs a rescue while out at the bar, I'll swoop in and hug-walk-dance them away from the situation. If it's a coworker or hey-meet-this-guy-I-just-started-dating greeting situation, it definitely calls for an ass-out hug. If it's my Uncle Norris, only a bear hug will do. And if you're taller than me? Well, you can bet I will awkwardly attempt to assert my dominance by being an arms-over hugger (to varying degrees of success). There is a hug for every situation.

Don't get me wrong though, I don't want to sound like I'm some sort of hug-slut here. I don't want to devalue my hugs by saying just any old person on the street gets one. I'm not the "free hugs" guy. But given the choice, I'll always pick hugs, not drugs. Always.

Sadly though, now is not a great time for we, the huggers of the world. Social distancing guidelines and a lack of seven-foot-long arms make hugging fairly obsolete in this new normal. Sure, many of us are lucky enough to have other members of our household that we're confined with, but rounding out week nine of isolation means that those who share a roof with us are probably exhausted from the clingy bombardment of hugs. (And for those living alone, the stuffing has basically been squeezed out of all stuffed animals - and possibly real pets - at this point.) We have a lot of hug love to give, and I'm sad to think how things will be for us on the other side of this.**

In a pandemic, hugs don't just spread happiness and share love, they might also spread the virus and share sickness. Hugs have become a bit more dangerous. People will likely be more leery of coming into such close and intimate contact going forward. But you know, maybe that means that hugs will just become even more special? They'll be a way of saying, "We both are healthy at this point, so we can share a joyful squeeze in celebration!" or "I care about you so much that hey, maybe I'm willing to risk it - fall into my potentially-contagious arms, friend!" Maybe the value of hugs will skyrocket. And maybe, if we're lucky, some day we'll have vaccines and cures for all the bad things, and hugs will go back to just being a gesture of welcome and comfort, and not a rolling of the plague dice.

Come here, ya big lug!

* NOT a cuddler. Sorry, it is literally not in my nature. I've tried and I just can't. All you snugglers out there, just stay the eff off me, I'm not your kind. 
** There are plenty of good changes that I hope come out of this new normal. As I'm also a TREE hugger, I hope that some of the positive environmental impacts of humans not being in a constant state of rampant consumerism remain after. And that we all have a much greater appreciation for the outdoors and the beauty of nature. I hope the trees won't mind some big hugs once I'm unleashed on the world again (right now there are too many others out and about, I can't get safe-tree-hug-time).