It wasn’t just poor social skills. At one point, I tried to interject with a silly little anecdote about being SEVERELY hungover on a ferry to Morocco, courtesy of some mad scientist sangria the night before. He began watching the TV at the bar across the room.

Fine, fine. We’re not a match.

But what was wild was that, at the end of the night, he mentioned getting . . . → Read More: snack]]> Last night, I went on a date with a man who did not ask me a single question all night. By the end of the date, I could tell you all about his parents’ divorce, the death of his first dog, and a bar fight in his early twenties that injured his rotator cuff. He could not tell you what I do for a living. How many kids I have. There’s not a basic fact about me he’d be able to answer a trivia question on.

It wasn’t just poor social skills. At one point, I tried to interject with a silly little anecdote about being SEVERELY hungover on a ferry to Morocco, courtesy of some mad scientist sangria the night before. He began watching the TV at the bar across the room.

Fine, fine. We’re not a match.

But what was wild was that, at the end of the night, he mentioned getting together again. WHAT. And then texted later about cuddling on the sofa watching shows. Needless to say, that won’t be happening. I cannot imagine a lonelier scenario than spending even more time with someone who has no interest in knowing me.

I’m not chasing being chosen. I mean, I made that mistake in my younger days and look where it got me. I know myself, and what’s on offer, and I’m not like, OH PLEASE LET ME LOVE YOU.

The last entanglement I had was with a man I met at a funeral. And y’all, if that says anything about the doomed nature of that romance. I’m laughing as I type this because it was, in many aspects, a satisfying sort of love. Until it wasn’t. There were inherent challenges (like distance), but at least that guy knew what he had. We’ll talk about him later.

The other day, a man I met online asked me what I was looking for. I said, “Magic.”

I’m pretty great. You don’t even have to agree! Because I’m not looking for you to affirm it! I’m intelligent, I’m funny, really truly kind, supportive. Considerate. Professionally accomplished and annoyingly good at most things I try. I’m conventionally attractive and I take really good care of my body. I am so in tune with the energy of people around me that I know what they need before they even think to ask for it. I can know that your mood has shifted from eight hundred miles away (whether you or I like it or not). I’m ACTUAL magic. And I don’t want anyone who isn’t fucking dazzled by it. In turn, I want to be obsessed. Bordering on unhealthily so. I mean, life is short. Living in the half ways are not for me.

It really is impossible to breadcrumb a girl who knows she’s a snack.

I was speaking off the cuff, because I am not a creator in the true sense. Just a blogger with a camera.

“I could not care less what a man does for a living. I only care if he likes himself. Because a man with shame is a liar. He can’t help it because he’s always trying to cover something up that he’s deeply embarrassed by.”

Some of y’all will remember when the blog was at the height popularity, I was what, 25? All I can say is thank you for sticking with me. I look back at pictures (especially in the press!) from that time and I look…dead-eyed and deeply uncomfortable. I had no . . . → Read More: men of a certain age]]> The other day, I posted a reel on my public Instagram about men and shame, and it got a lot of private feedback from women who found that it resonated. That it mirrored their own experience and their frustrations.

I was speaking off the cuff, because I am not a creator in the true sense. Just a blogger with a camera.

“I could not care less what a man does for a living. I only care if he likes himself. Because a man with shame is a liar. He can’t help it because he’s always trying to cover something up that he’s deeply embarrassed by.”

Some of y’all will remember when the blog was at the height popularity, I was what, 25? All I can say is thank you for sticking with me. I look back at pictures (especially in the press!) from that time and I look…dead-eyed and deeply uncomfortable. I had no idea how to handle the public attention, the public scrutiny. But it came anyway.

I also had no idea of my own power. Just a platform and a voice and a huge desire to make other people like me.

Once I outed myself in the Times, I got what I thought of back then as hate mail from a renowned political columnist. But now I see it as a hard truth wrapped in exasperation. I remember she told me to get some self respect, which I was immediately defensive about. But honestly, I believe she was begging me to know myself. She was trying to do me a favor.

I think that’s what we’re asking from men my age. To have known themselves. To have done the work.

At yoga this morning, I jokingly asked how I was supposed to tell men I date that I’m….spooky. Which is really just code for deeeeeeply intuitive. I know way too much without being told. It’s a trait that, in the yoga space, is recognized and respected but in dating, it’s super tricky. I don’t have to remind y’all what happened in Vail. Oof.

Anyway, when it’s not freaking people out, or driving me batty, it’s pretty great. I anticipate needs before they’re even a conscious thought, which makes me really good at…stuff (she says with a wink), but also makes it really uncomfortable being with men who are performing. And I think a lot of men my age are still performing. Performing their roles, their masculinity, their relationships with power. And they don’t like themselves because of it. And that tension ripples outward.

Surprisingly, to me at least, I test very well with the 30-year-old crowd in online dating. And while I’m not quite ready to entertain cougar status just yet (it’s probably a whole lot of fun, tbh),  there’s something really appealing about that demographic. They know, and are able to articulate who they are, what they want. They’re refreshingly self aware. Are they all going to therapy? All signs point to yes. If I decide to go that route, I’ll let y’all know.

In the meantime, here’s a little thought. If a woman you’re around brings you peace, that’s not an accident, baby. It means she’s done the work. And inevitably, you’re going to get very uncomfortable if you haven’t done yours.

Ask me anything! I’ll answer! Just be nice but not like, too nice because I cry REALLY easily . . . → Read More: ask me anything (before I eat the whipped cream right from the can)]]> I did really well the first two weeks. Ran a (virtual) 5K at a sub 8-minute mile. Kept the beds made and the rugs vacuumed on the daily. Washed my hair. My ability to cope with the uncertainty of this weird new normal slowly degraded however, and now I’m in this weird place where I only feel… safe (I think that’s the word. Unanxious. Grounded. Okay.) if I’m eating. Or too distracted to think about eating. So let’s get distracted, shall we?

Ask me anything! I’ll answer! Just be nice but not like, too nice because I cry REALLY easily right now.

What Would Ma Ingalls Do?

Get the sod house ready. In other words, get you a PLAN. If Pa got sick, you know he was prepared to sweat it out alone in the sod house to protect his family. We decided that if someone in this house gets sick, they go straight to the sod house (master bedroom) where, only the designated caregiver . . . → Read More: Everything I needed to know about surviving quarantine, I learned from watching Little House on the Prairie]]>

What Would Ma Ingalls Do?

Get the sod house ready. In other words, get you a PLAN. If Pa got sick, you know he was prepared to sweat it out alone in the sod house to protect his family. We decided that if someone in this house gets sick, they go straight to the sod house (master bedroom) where, only the designated caregiver (me) is allowed to drop food and brief messages of comfort while covered head to toe in garbage bags. If it’s me who gets sick, well, I’m screwed. I’ll have to live off that bottle of Tums on my dresser. Like Ma taking a hot knife to her infected leg, I’ll do what I have to do.

Put some stuff away in the root cellar. When things took a serious turn, I bought one extra of everyday necessities and stuck them in the freezer in the garage. It seems like something Ma would have done. You know, put away some flour in the event the crickets come this spring. Or in our case, a loaf of Mrs. Baird’s, some whole milk, and those no-sugar-added popsicles I like to eat while bingeing Netflix right before bed. I also made extra dinner a few nights in a row and froze the leftovers for when things really get bad. At least I know if I fall ill, my two year old will still be throwing perfectly healthy lentil soup on the floor in a tantrum over god knows what.

Nextdoor.com is the Mrs. Oleson of the Internet. Do not engage with that old bag. Nope, not even to set her straight. You see her coming your way from down the road, you fake an errand at the blacksmith. DO WHAT YOU MUST.

Take care of your neighbors. I’d like to think it doesn’t take a catastrophic event for me to be a good neighbor. But in times like these, it’s just as important that your neighbor has spinach for their smoothies as it is for you to have your morning banana, so before you do that provision run, you might want to check in next door. VIA TEXT. DON’T BE CRAZY.

Dirt and sticks make great toys. This is a great opportunity to teach your kids about gratitude. In the absence of outside entertainment, we’re teaching our kids to make do. You know, with a house full of toys, technology, and endless attention from their parents. Hard knock life, right? I will say I was rather proud when we explained that parks are a no-go right now, my kid, ON HIS OWN, acknowledged that he is lucky to have a playground in his  backyard. He still throws an epic fit when I won’t buy yet another season of Paw Patrol the Plots Just Get Stupider, but we’re getting there.

Brush your hair 100 times before going to bed. Okay, this has nothing to do with our current predicament, but it’s really great for your scalp and let’s be honest, what else are you doing?

Her eyebrows raised slightly, but she said nothing, so I continued to explain how in all of my encounters since Charlie’s birth, I have been stripped of my personhood and re-summed up in a single syllable: Mom. At the store. Our pediatrician’s office. Even my husband now calls me “Mom” in Charlie’s company. In the months since my since my son came into this world, I’ve felt like I was slowly disappearing from it – dissolving day by day, partly because of the isolation of the stay-at-home role and partly from the very real truth that I am no longer the person I used to be.

I spilled my guts, all the while fearing that I was alienating a new friend I’d made at library story hour. Our children were playing together in the backyard splash pad . . . → Read More: a mom by any other name]]> “I’ve come to understand that a mother is not a person, but a service,” I said.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, but she said nothing, so I continued to explain how in all of my encounters since Charlie’s birth, I have been stripped of my personhood and re-summed up in a single syllable: Mom. At the store. Our pediatrician’s office. Even my husband now calls me “Mom” in Charlie’s company. In the months since my since my son came into this world, I’ve felt like I was slowly disappearing from it – dissolving day by day, partly because of the isolation of the stay-at-home role and partly from the very real truth that I am no longer the person I used to be.

I spilled my guts, all the while fearing that I was alienating a new friend I’d made at library story hour. Our children were playing together in the backyard splash pad while we gnawed at pretzels under the patio umbrella. My friend was quiet for a moment and I knew I’d done it. We were so different already (she, a pastor’s wife and me, a… well, whatever I am), I feared I’d driven a giant, neurotic wedge between us.

But then she said, “I never thought of it that way. I guess it’s easier sometimes to socialize through our kids – less chance of rejection, maybe. But I am going to try to be better about that.”

There’s this feeling of relief at being understood suddenly, after ages of shouting into the darkness, that’s so overwhelming it actually feels like grief. I do so much of that – screaming inside my own head – and all that ever comes out is a sigh, to which my husband will say, “What can I do for you?” He means well. He loves me. But he doesn’t understand because he can’t. Everything he had before Charlie was born, he has now. The same social structure. The same career. The same face, hair and pelvic floor. He gets to sneeze without peeing and when he leaves for the day, everyone he meets will assume he has a name. And they’ll call him by it.

But she understood, even if only a little. And I wanted to cry when she closed that gap between us.

I wonder sometimes if my expectations are off. I mean, I know our postal carrier’s name. It’s Paul. It has never seemed extraordinary to know that. To say, “Thanks, Paul!” when I see him on the porch. Yet, my own name gets lost so easily in the parental shuffle. I know it’s there on the chart at the pediatrician’s office, right next to Charlie’s name. No one has to memorize my face and put it together with my name in order to make me feel like a human. They just have to read it. And still, every visit begins, “Mom, can you get him undressed to a diaper?” Even when we lived in the hospital for a month, Charlie and I, the nurses, the doctors, the techs, the therapists – they all had names. I knew them. I used them. But I was always Mom.

When Charlie was born, I was so enamored of him and so thrilled to be a mother – his mother – that naturally I didn’t fight it. Instead, I basked in it. Mom. Mom. Mommy. Twenty months later, I feel completely lost in it, struggling for reasons to *not* wipe banana on my pant leg (who’s gonna see? or care?) or even to brush my teeth some days (what’s the point?).

When I finally told my husband I no longer felt like a person anymore, he seemed angry at first, but I think that’s the initial response to anything he can’t fix. We decided that it was time to end my stint as a stay-at-home mom – something I hadn’t felt like I could give myself permission to do. I was miserable. Dying one small death after another. But my son was so happy and clever and thriving that putting him in day care had always seemed unnecessarily punitive. After all, it’s not his fault that it’s not enough for me. That I don’t love this the way so many other women I know seem to. My sisters. The countless mothers on my Facebook feed, who caption photos of their days at home with, “I love my job!” I love my son in such a deep, wonderful, frustrating and all-consuming way. But I do not love being at home. Admitting that last bit has been enormously difficult. But there it is. Out there.

So a few days ago, Charlie and I took a tour of an early education center we’re considering with the end goal that I can re-enter the workforce, and perhaps, reclaim a little of myself before it’s too late. It’s a nice enough place, if perhaps, a little too structured for my liking. We arrived a few minutes late and made our cheerful introductions with the center’s associate director. I was Heather. This was Charlie. She cooed over him appropriately and then we got down to business. Before we began the tour, she offered to put my belongings behind the counter.

“Here, Mom. Let me take your bag for you.”

“My name is Heather.”

She smiled and blinked. Did I make her uncomfortable? If I did, it didn’t register. And I didn’t care. I was taking back my name and I had to start somewhere.