At the beginning of March, Jared, Sullivan and I went to San Diego for some friends’ wedding. The wedding was gorgeous and special and filled with love. Seeing friends was awesome and filling, too. And eating Mexican food was divine. 
Even though we had a wonderful time, the most poignant part for me was the lack of dread I felt about going home. Usually (okay, always), when I go on vacation, especially a short one, the ugh feeling of having to go back to real life taints the last day or hours. Certainly the traveling. This time, I felt none of the negative. Which tells me I’m in a good place.
I’m still loving my job. Challenges have come up lately, some pretty huge, but I haven’t wavered on knowing it’s the right organization for me and I’m the right leader for it. Jared and I are both really enjoying living with my parents (and really hoping they feel the same). Even being cooped up this winter and all battling illness. Jared loves to cook (and is really good at it!) and we’ve been sitting down to eat all together most nights. Sullivan remains a love bug, with his hilarious personality growing daily and his ever-present smile now polkadotted with teeth. Henry remains Henry: infuriating, lovable, wicked smart, caring and expressing a new fascination with Russia. The weather hasn’t even deflated me too much. All in all, I feel really lucky.
Not to say I don’t start twitching when the woman in line in front of me at Joanne’s made THREE separate transactions for five items so she could use all her coupons today. Or that I don’t almost fall asleep on drives back from Portland, which forces me to stop in Freeport to get a drink to stay awake and oh, while I’m there, hit up some outlet stores. Or that pumping breastmilk in front of my office computer 2-3 times a day for two+ months hasn’t gotten a little old (although, it ebbs and flows in bothersomeness). Or when I snap at Henry for spitting toothpaste on the front of his just-put-on-clean pajamas.
But those are small things. Infinitesimale. Most days I feel like I’ve climbed up a rung or two on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
And then I watch Paycheck to Paycheck and I feel so angry. Here I am, with a good job, a good husband, smart kids, caring parents, supportive in-laws, two cars, education, yadda yadda yadda… and life feels hard sometimes. But there are SO many women struggling SO much just to wake up, work their asses off for nothing and do it again the next day. I don’t understand our country sometimes. I don’t understand the Christian right. If I believed in God, I’m picturing him pissed off. If people invoked my name to speak hate and disdain for others on my behalf, I would be livid. I would flood this place. Or bring back leprosy.
I’m very tired of the smokescreens. And the curtains blocking the fake wizard. This isn’t about religion. Or politics. Or land. Or racism. Or education. This is all greed. Those things are methods of distraction. If we tell you poor people are lazy and sucking away your resources, you won’t notice we’re screwing you over with tax breaks, loopholes and paying people less an hour than it costs to go to a movie. I know I’m not the first to think this. Or even the millionth, but it doesn’t make it less depressing. We’ve got so much of America (and the world) so far down on the hierarchy of needs mountain, the next three steps are so obscured by pollution, that people don’t even (can’t even) lift their heads to see something more.
And we all watch John Stewart and live with our online slacktivism (I wish I’d made that word up) posts of selfies and mustaches for cancer. But why aren’t we marching? Where are our signs? I work with activists every day - real ones - who are blogging against the media’s sexulization of women, fighting for transgender rights, SPARKing change, teaching new fathers how to be role models for their sons by not “manning up,” and planning conferences for younger girls to learn about feminism. They push me to show my boys what “use your words” really means.
I remember marching with my father through Balboa Park, protesting wars, and shaking our arms. I remember writing to my president to preserve our national parks and wildlife. I remember the first time I handed in a ballot, taking a picture with my dad, with the sticker on my forehead, goofy on the responsibility of a vote. When I’m too busy asking Henry if he’s wiped and washed his hands or telling him to stay in his chair and eat his blueberry yogurt, I miss the opportunities to tell him about what we can do for each other. To demonstrate compassion through words and actions, so when he votes, he’ll know what taking care of people can look like.
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