Last Days As One

Ode to Nesting

I get up and there is so much to do

Make Solly eggs and clean his last night’s poo

Got a new couch one spot does not align

It’s making me go crazy - tears benign cuz I’m fine.

Really.

The drive to get things baby ready’s wild

Instinctual and in one way so reviled

Cuz what my body really needs its sleep

But clean I must cuz mother nature speaks

Oh no my other out th’ womb babe wakes!

Will I ever finish these blogs w’out breaks?

He’s sitting up, the monitor don’t lie

How long can I keep on, let toddler cry?

I will finish one more stanza, and rhyme, it won’t

Should I wash the clothes or give my feet a soak  ...

…Wait, I rhymed that (how awesome!) - despite toddler fussing

I’m growing one inside and out, see I’m crushing! (it)

That’s the end of the poem because I had to go get Solly out of his crib. Then I had to wash the bottom of the coffee table. Why? I have no idea. The nesting thing is crazy. It’s like the imperius curse in Harry Potter - like someone who likes to clean things and set up spaces has possessed my mind and body. I would usually prefer to write or work on a creative project in my “spare” time. But right now, I must order the butterfly decals I thought of at 3am in-between thoughts of how I’m going to mend the first giant riff in my two freshman ensembles (delivered to me via an email that had 19 screenshots of group chat messages on Valentine’s night), and if I should place the decals flying out of the crib like the image in the amazon picture, or do something more original.

What’s even weirder is, once all the things I can physically do are pretty much done, I slowly walk around during Solly’s naps like one of the Gray Garden’s women and turn objects over in my hands with a far off look while making pictures crooked so I can straighten them again.

I’m going to have a girl! What!? I want her to know that I’m totally excited to meet her and totally terrified all at the same time. I’m excited and terrified that she might and might not be like me. How cool would it be if she played soccer too! And how cool would it be if she hated sports and was totally into jewelry making? A girl brings up all these feelings being pregnant with a boy did not - like “will she encounter all the tough stuff I did in adolescence and puberty and though I’m sure she’ll be fine, will I be fine reliving that?!” Ha! Sounds selfish. It’s interesting that I teach the age I hated being most (9th grade) with much success because of how my intuition/guts knows their brains and hearts. But there is a healthy distance between us due to the controlled roles of student/teacher which make it safe. I spend 9am-5pm addressing teenage issues but then I am done when I drive away and nobody is sulking at dinner or crying at 2am because there was a group chat gossiping about them. Somebody told me that you’re a good parent at the age you were parented well and the age you weren’t can be harder territory. I had some good parenting the whole way through, but I don’t think adolescence is any parent’s strong suit. As I spin out into anxious thinking, I’m reminded by Rob that “smart people who love you have your back” - Abby Bartlett, West Wing, Season 4, Episode 8. I’m also reminded by Rob that “you don’t have to figure everything out.” Which hit me in a new way yesterday. I usually add the evil epilogue “right now” to that phrase. But what if I simply don’t have to figure it out ever? How freeing is that? And how confusing to internalize this idea in a brain structure like mine who confidently stands on the fact that she can think/create her way out of the nebulous “it” that keeps us full of fear and in a box. 

Anyway. I do want to write down some things my future daughter can read later in life as her mom sits down for a few minutes, only week(s) before her birth. 

To girl baby:

I am 37 weeks and five days pregnant. And I’m strangely choking up as I “address” you for the first time in writing. You are me. I am you. We’re all one right now. And that’s so much fun. I love walking around everywhere with you. Oh damn it, now I’m crying. I’m sitting upstairs at 1665 N Richmond Street #3 looking out the back window at a muddy winter sky and snowy roofs and two skyline buildings that are tall enough to see from Humboldt Park. Anyway, I so much have enjoyed our time together as one person. I love my big belly and I love that people see us together - even if you get more attention and that’s where their eyes go. I have not had a hard pregnancy. All the songs you’ve heard for 9 months? Real talk. They were all sung to your big brother, and because we’re one, to you too, so I didn’t feel the need to sit in a chair and sing to my belly button :)

What else. So, I’m super nervous and excited to meet you. It’s not a bad nervous, it’s just that human scared of the unknown that I’ll get to know in time. You’re moving around a lot while I write. Super cool. You move like how I remember sleeping with my littler sister to be - slow soft rolls of another groggy, lovely little being very close to you. You don’t kick or punch much. I do feel you playing with your hands and wiggling your feet. Also, thanks for being head down no matter if we do this VBAC style or ‘slice and scoop”’style. You like to stretch out when I’m sleeping and your feet are high up into my chest. I get up multiple times a night now and it’s like someone told you you could have a little party before settling back down which I find kind of funny. We’ve done a lot together over these 9 months. We moved from Wabash in the South Loop to Humboldt Park. We started year three as Theatre Dept. Head at ChiArts, where they’ve all known me pregnant more than not pregnant. We went to Disney about a month ago and last week the other arts heads threw you a little party and when I gave the extra cake out to the freshman the sophomores were hard core hating on me even though I give them snacks out of my little box on my desk everyday. They need to get over themselves. Your bump on my front has been a joy to many students as they guessed your gender in October, give/gave name suggestions, and say hi to you and I when we walk in the room (“Hi Baby Calhoun, hi Mama Calhoun!”). I want you to know … well … a ton of stuff. But I don’t want to overwhelm you, seeing as you’re about to make this rough move from a 24/7 warm bath to bright lights, clothes, a loud toddler, and cold winter air. That’s gotta be tough. But I got your back. 

I want you to know I’m not super girly, but I’m creative and super sensitive to people and life and the human condition… I guess I’ve felt those female self care things (like jewelry and nails and hair) were a waste of time because I valued running and being outside and mud and writing and theatre more. And there’s only so much time in the day, you know? Now. If you like those hair/nail things, we’ll totally do them, okay? You can like whatever you want. I don’t want to let you down.

The nine year old in me (because Anne Lamott says we’re all the ages we’ve ever been) - (oh gosh I’m crying again darn it) - would really like you to know how great the basics are: sky, grass and water and how lovely wide open space and clouds are too. Running too. I was really good at it, but you totally don’t have to be - it’s just a great way to feel your body on the ground and in the dirt and in space. When you get overwhelmed remember sky, grass, water and running/walking. The nine year old in me would also like to tell you to soak up being a kid and not rush it. And if you get scared it’s about to end when you hit 11 or 12, don’t worry, you’ll find that you can retain a lot of it even when you become a grown up - it’s just hard to convince people of this because it will feel like a best friend is leaving. They’re not. They’re just going down the street for a candy ring and a slushy at the 7-11 to give puberty its space (puberty needs a lot of space). The childhood playfulness will return though and stay if you make a home for it.

Okay - your bro just woke up - I gotta go get him ; ) Sometimes he wakes up crying and I think he’s had a bad dream. When you ask him about it, he’s pretty vague and just says things like “sleep sack off” and “cars on pajamas” because he’s 22 months old and that’s the way he tells me he’s sad or scared.

Anyway, we only have a little more time together in this way. I love you here and I’ve loved taking you on our two-in-one ride for almost 38 weeks. Maybe during long car trips in the future, you can look back and take a tip from your womb self about how little you asked “are we there yet” and how much you enjoyed the journey. Granted car rides have restricting seatbelts and the womb ride had a jacuzzi, but just saying. 

You’ll probably have a lot of questions. I’ll do my best to provide a list of advice to address some life things preemptively. But we’ll have more time to discuss when they come up in a few years.

“Mama’s list of important life advice things”

--have humor

--lean into compassion / empathy / equity (for self and others)

--play lots

--hard work is good

--making friends with smart loving people who have your back, and keeping them close

--people who make things plural or not plural at their own discretion (“Starbuck” or “Jewel’s Osco’) are not trying to bug you - they’re just doing their best

--The West Wing will seem very outdated to you, but not the relationships and connections you see in the cast on the show

--snow in shadows melts slower than in the sun so if you want to build a snowman because you just watched Frozen or because you just want to, use the sunny snow to pack him, and then place him in the shade for his longest life

--black cars and white cars in northern cities both show winter slush and dirt equally 

--in middle school, you might disappear as the person you once were during 7th grade. If this seems to put you in danger of not reappearing, we might take a year long trip as a family (finances depending) and homeschool you this year. If you are not in danger, I will stand beside you as you become slightly monstrous for a year and then find yourself again in 8th grade.

--Your brother had two extra alone years with us so he may have a harder time sharing attention, but he will work at it

--I put pink, blue, yellow and green butterflies flying out of the peaked roof ceiling above your crib in our cool upstairs attic type space that is your room/hallway. I copied the amazon image. I apologize for not being more original. Sometimes exhaustion makes you normal and that’s okay.

--if you are put off by having two grounded, yet out of the box theatre parents who are also teachers and might be spontaneously weird as well as slightly critical of every teacher you will have - you’ll have your brother to confide in.

--You can totally be an artist. You can also totally be a doctor. As long as you contribute something of yourself to the world.

--People deserve a lot of grace and second chances - especially those under 18 

--this is a funky election year and you might be born the year a Jew, a woman or gay man is elected president. That’s super cool. 

--shadows are fun and so are bubbles. Neither will last forever and that’s okay.

--There will be parts of old fairy tales and Disney movies that are super racist, sexist ect. Moana is cool though.

--cell phones will be a part of your life like they never were mine. So will social media. Please listen to my advice about all that stuff. I work with high schoolers and let’s let stories of their mistakes be enough to keep you from making some of them too.

--if someone tells you that your hand is bigger than your face - don’t put your hand to your face, just nod and agree.

--If a friend lets you down or betrays you, it’s worth opening and trusting to make more of them instead of assuming everybody will be like this and closing off your openness to love 

--if you have fellow students who derail your classroom and the teacher is at a loss, find ways to read lots of books under your desk and just go on with your learning. A Wrinkle In Time and Harry Potter are good ones. 

--hurt people hurt people - allow your anger to fizzle into empathy and either heal the relationship or maintain a polite respectful distance

--If some books are missing girl main characters, just change the lead boy’s name to a girl’s name.

--if you don’t want to look too stiff when you dance, take some theatre movement classes - you’ll always know where your hips are after that.

--if a little child says “play with me” - you god damn better play with them.

--stick with the five second rule for food that drops on the floor except if it’s a banana or ice cream - they are no second rule category foods

That’s it for now. 

I can’t wait to meet you! 

It’s gonna be one lovely, great adventure.

Your Mama.

PS: Here we are together at the Garfield Park Observatory (pic by a ChiArts alum) on February 1st 2020 when I was about 36 weeks : )

Crunchy Snacks and Thinking Time

Lately, I’ve been thinking. When do I have time to do this “thinking” between being 7 months pregnant, caring for a toddler, and working full time with teenagers who don’t seem to notice my growing stomach (except one girl who tracks my weeks and tells me the size of the baby in relation to fruit/vegetables which is great because I don’t have time for this app like I did with Solly)?

Here is when I have time to think: eating crunchy snacks while watching political dramas on TV. Every night is a battle. I love the writing on The West Wing, but I love Lentil Curls more. Mr. Aaron Sorkin, your wit is fantastic. But no amount of literary, moving, smart, intelligent dialogue can compare to salty crunchy stuff. 

When I’m crunching and can’t hear the words, I have time to think that I haven’t had in a while. Lately the topic has been “things I tell myself I don’t need,” because I have this image of myself as being unique/minimalistic and falling outside the sentimental pitfalls of the general population. It’s the same reason I never wore pink as a child. I refused to be sold the idea that all girls were frilly. The positive side of this part of myself allows me to think outside the box as an artist. The negative side is the pitfall of superiority that I have to keep in check - the notion that I’m “above” what other people need and feel. 

In my newfound crunchy think time, I’ve decided to allow some consideration for the ideas that I have formerly repelled in the name of being unique/minimalistic. Here is the list.

1. I resisted buying lots of baby clothes for Solly. I accepted lots of hand me downs because I was like, “all new moms go overboard on the infant clothes and it’s a waste of money and I’ll just take what I get because babies outgrow things super fast.” But...if I’m being completely honest with myself I sort of wish I had gone wild with the cute clothes. I’m beginning to entertain the idea of making it rain for baby #2...

2. I think newborn photo shoots are dumb and way too expensive and it’s weird to pose a tiny naked baby in a wool hat in a wheel barrow. At the same time, I kind of wish I had some of these of Solly. So...maybe the second time around…? Maybe not though. It’s super weird. 

3. I didn’t sleep train Solly till he was 8 months old and I woke up twice a night during all that time to breastfeed him. I was into being self sacrificing and thought breast milk contained some magical properties like the ability to fight diseases, or become a wizard even with myself being a muggle mom like Hermoine’s was. But now I have proof that Solly is very beautifully normally not a wizard so I will not wake up as long with baby #2. Formula will be just fine a little sooner.

4. I work hard to not seem anxious or fearful which in fact I am if I give myself a break from the busyness that holds it at bay. Hmm. Not sure what to do with this one. Working on it.

5. I’m sooo good at guilt tripping myself. I have this internal “must spend every free second with Solly because I work all day” force that’s stronger than Luke’s or Rey’s. So it’s hard to fulfill myself artistically. BUT, I did a two week round of That’s Weird Grandma (my old company Barrel of Monkeys/ now Playmakers Lab) and I had a blast! And Solly got to see my onstage. And this all makes me a better mom, actually.

Once I work my way over the things I resist doing so I can seem chill/unique/minimalistic, here are some randos:

1. I think it’s a little creepy that behind Rob and I, are these strangers walking past from vacation pictures that hang on our walls. I wonder what it’s like to watch my life. And how many other homes do I hang in and what do I think about their parenting, their relationships and their snack choices? 

2. If I write a children’s book I think it will be called, “Giraffes, Rabbits and Turtles: The Untold Story” because of how little air time they get in toddler conversations due to their not having a signature sound. Just because certain animals are mute, doesn’t mean they don’t have a lot to say. The sequel might be called “Giraffes and Elephants: The Non Gender Conforming Animals” and how much diplomacy and liberal change they represent on blankets and pillow cases of those unborn whose gender is not known yet.

3. I never understood why you have to DO something with leaves. Why do people rake them and put them in bags or rake them and pile them on the curb for pick up. Are leaves not garbage when on trees and then suddenly they are garbage when on the ground? And the fact that grass won’t grow if you let leaves sit in your yard all winter...isn’t that underestimating grass? Doesn’t grass grow in the wild even when leaves fall on it? 

In this last day of the decade, I’d like to put this advice down for posterity:

--nobody is “above” the feelings of being human and the actions that go with them

--vulnerability and play are the most buoyant and brave and life giving qualities 

--feelings aren’t facts

--get good help 

--go outside

--carry granola bars in the middle counsel of your car for homeless people

--Elmo is crack so delay your child watching as much as possible

--families are all messy and keep trying anyway

Happy 2020!!!

Blueberries

I went to the Arts Schools Network conference in FL last week and got to speak and lead a session about my favorite theatre educator, Viola Spolin! It was really fun. I had a room full of theatre educators K-college and got to teach Spolin’s philosophy of play as a way to access intuition and freedom in performance. She is the only person who came up with a theatrical philosophy and method that was developed to meet the needs of a diverse youth population (immigrant children in Chicago during the 20s and 30s). 

Also, the conference had a lot of fruit plates. A lot. (See thumbnail pic where one buffet line was near a giant dolphin). And on every one, scattered lonely blueberries. They are the confetti of the conference fruit plate. And you can never collect any with the large tongs meant for chunks of melon. If you actually wanted to dive for blueberries in the cracks and crevices of melon and more kinds of melon you have to hold up an already crawling buffet line of teachers to pick them out one by one. This is not fair to the buffet liner who really likes blueberries or the blueberry who really likes being eaten.

So then I thought about other things in life that shouldn’t merely be tossed on as a visual extra, but celebrated in their own dish. Education is one. We toss it on top of the other American institutions and yes it’s there and you can see it like the blueberries, but if a child really wants to absorb and take in the information and grow, it takes a lot of time to collect those blueberries and are there enough? Education needs its own bowl. It needs served as an important part of American society that can fill up its kids.

Okay then there’s the new class I’m teaching this year called “Theatre Studio” - designed to incorporate the executive functioning habits of theatre into the freshman year so that they stick...hopefully. I’m on a constant creative search for the best way to create a culture in an arts high school with long days and a diverse population. I realized that the work ethic and executive functioning skills an actor/artist/human needs to have, weren’t being explicitly taught - and most of our 14 year olds are complete novices. So instead of sprinkling this in like some scattered blueberries on a fruit plate, I gave it its own bowl. It’s been really cool. We’re 11 weeks in and finally able to see the real work happening because they now have some stumbles under their belts. You can’t reflect or grow in a meaningful way without stumbles.

This is the first winter we’ve had to spend actual money on Solly’s seasonal clothing. He’s not a baby this winter, he’s like a small person who needs stuff that adults need to keep warm. And you can’t sprinkle this on the plate: aka use a vest and extra three sweatshirts when it’s in the 20s. You’ve got to give winter toddler clothes their own blueberry bowl and it’s not cheap! Snow suit, mittens, boots, another coat that’s really warm but is not a snowsuit, a coat for the car seat that straps the kid in under the coat so if there’s an accident they don’t fly out of their car seat (which doctors tell you is a thing...but is it a thing?) And it’s expensive! 

Epilogue:

Things I’m okay leaving sprinkled without giving effort to having their own bowl.

--cleaning my son’s cups with all the little straws and tiny parts thoroughly

--cleaning the living room

--deep cleaning the bathroom

--deep cleaning anything

--having clothes that go together

--getting a haircut

--writing thank you notes for my wedding three years ago

--writing thank you notes for my son’s baby shower 2 years ago

--writing thank you notes

Favorites and Fish

Things you have to have a true taste for: anything canned with the word fish on it, cilantro, and raising teenagers for a job.

I mean you have to understand what tides in the high school oceans had to shift in order for Derek (name changed) to become nominated by his peers for ensemble rep. 

Whatever teacher started saying “you’re all my favorites” is full of shit. They are all LOVED. And that’s the truth. But do I have favorites? Hell yes. And I’m careful that this fact doesn’t produce actions of deferential treatment, because that’s not okay. And usually when I’m within the school I’m so busy putting in the enormous effort to love all, I don’t think about favorites. It’s only when I get home and grumble my way through my sort-of regular habit of making gratitude lists (because Brene Brown says it brings joy and I’ll do whatever that woman says), that certain student names pop on the regular. 

My favorite students don’t have anything to do with gender or year in school or talent. They tend to be those who stumble, and then are brave and humble enough to learn and make a change (even if it’s barely noticeable). You’d think I might say that my favorites are those who truly extend themselves to notice a need in someone else, especially when that someone else isn’t popular or liked by many. But...it’s often those who aren’t doing this yet but you can tell they may figure it out soon. I will say that the pride for these students rivals what I feel when I walk into Walgreens for one item and am able to think of at least three other items I didn’t know I needed but I do, and now I don’t have to make a second trip to Walgreens next Tuesday and I’m elated.

Derek came into our school freshman year with energy that ricocheted off walls and others. At one point in our circle chats he spoke about how often he had to be pulled out of classes in middle school for anger issues. That he’d flipped tables. In his first two years at ChiArts he would often escalate verbal teasing to a point where you didn't know if it was real or fake and sometimes he didn’t even know. I’ve gone down and had numerous chats outside classroom doors with him (after a teacher has reached out for some assistance) and our interactions always begin with a subtle twinkle in his eye and the phrase, “See what had happened was…” But there is this humor and this warmth that are never far from his vibrato. When students have a sense of humor, I find that the intensity of emotions can be lightened when I use mine to draw theirs out in their teenage brain fog. Humor allows for relaxation which in turn allows for reflection on both the student and the teacher’s part. You can only tap into this kind of restorative approach if you have a relationship with the student, which is why I make sure to teach all the freshman theatre students so I know them the next three years. You also need snacks. Lots of snacks. Derek comes up to get a snack from me every day. It’s then that I learn about his living situation, his music he writes and records on the weekend, and his audition form for the fall play that he forgot to get signed (he made the play ; ).

Somehow an elixir of things that included our shared sense of humor, and other strong student / teacher influences around ChiArts allowed Derek to push past the giggling and disinterest when we did movement to music. I discovered that movement was his way in. It got him out of his head and out of his yelling. I found myself watching him move during this unit with my rapt, “I’m watching you read a card I wrote you face.” FYI, those few seconds when you watch someone read the sappy blurb on the card you gave them is so weird and I wouldn’t have any self awareness of my own expressive if I hadn’t seen my face in a living room decorative mirror while Rob read a birthday note I wrote him. Oh, and you should hear Derek’s synopsis of the play “A Doll’s House.” Comic gold. The kind of thing playwrights would kill for in their sluggish end of Act I moments.

Anyway, Derek was just voted as the representative of his ensemble. We have 8 ensembles. Four for musical theatre and four for acting. I meet with the 8 reps every Wednesday at lunch. Major changes had to happen for Derek to be the junior actor’s nominee. 

This growth in Derek is a good reminder that humans and toddlers don’t stay in the “no” zone forever. Cuz right now we’re DEEP into toddler “no” zone. Will I ever be able to bring a ball to a park without creating little kid world war level arguments. I never thought about that aspect of parenting… That I would purposely leave toys home when in public because after a day of classroom management at high school, I sure as hell don’t want to manage the park kids too. But if Derek can be voted ensemble rep, anything can happen. And maybe there will be a day in the future where I can bring a ball outside my apartment.

Sometimes I want to throw social norms to the wind to tell people - or the dad/daughter duo in the Newark airport I overheard last weekend, to read my blogs. The dad said to his 9ish year old daughter (I’m scary good at guessing ages), “See what happened to your fish? No dog. No way.”

I was the child who convinced my parents to allow me to have a menagerie. I was persuasive and also maintained a B average cleaning their poop and cages so they could never say “well how do we know you’ll take care of the next one?”

Here’s what I wanted to tell this airport dad. Fish are nothing like dogs! I know TONS of people who can keep a dog alive and thriving and who can’t for the life of them keep a fish alive. Why?! Can you imagine a dog needing to keep his “air” an exact cleanliness and perfect temperature, 24/7?! A fish needs an perfect water temperature, cleanliness, and the exact number of weird fish tank treasure chests so as not to overwhelm him but still allow him some stimulation and/or places to hide. Of course dogs require some physical work like walking, but this is MINDLESS. Anybody can walk a dog. You must be a biochemist engineer savior to keep a fish alive. I wanted to tell the dad to skip the fish guilt and get the dog.

I wouldn’t trust myself with a fish, and I’m sure Derek wouldn’t either. But his ensemble trusts him to represent them and that’s huge. Probably because he says things like he did in the theatre advisory meeting today like, “you just have to be patient, and, you know, find out what makes people tick and figure out work arounds for them when they’re off.” I think that puts him well on his way to owning a fish someday. Me? I can’t even keep a plant alive. But I have been able to keep my 18 month old alive and happy so that’s something. Maybe I’ll have a chance at a fish someday. In the meantime I’ll keep raising teenagers.


Hearing the Roar, Seeing Nothing

The “(Not Fair) Air and Water Show” is the name I’ve given to the late summer Chicago event that lasts three days and makes those with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) go bananas while roaring noises seemingly fly feet from your roof but when you rush to look you see nothing but empty sky. Some people have to work. Some don’t like beaches. Some have a toddler. This means this is not a show for all people of Chicago as its often advertised. It’s a show for those who have the time, sand affinity and lack of children to make it to the crowded lake front in the heat.
My guess is that some brainy kids who were never asked to go to stuff in high school became stunt pilots to rub it into a city of millions for three days that they finally ended up cool and even if you can’t see them and you want to, you can’t escape hearing them all weekend.

Anyways, this whole idea of “hearing the roar, seeing nothing” got me thinking about my job at The Chicago High School for the Arts. The teenagers roar. A lot. For a laundry list of reasons that you may or may not expect. Their ChiArts day is 8am-5pm (longest in the city) and they are doing three hours of vulnerable acting work everyday in front of peers … even in front of peers who may have posted an embarrassing meme about their weird eye twitch the night before. These add fuel to the flames of regular growing pains and especially those whose lives are compounded by trauma. So, roar they will.

I’m starting my third year back at ChiArts as the Theatre Department Head. I teach freshman, so I’ve now taught or currently teach all the theatre students except the seniors. And when I welcomed everyone back in our all conservatory 90 minute meeting, I went in (as usual) armed with humor, a tight outline that included plans B, C, and W for my raucous theatre kids (this mom was and is an improviser of a high level ; )  But the weird thing was, as I did my deep breathing to make sure I had a still body for the wait time needed to quiet the students… they... got quiet (my comedic self wants to fidget and move but that gives away power onstage when you’re asking for it from 140 teenagers). They listened when I reminded them of the routines and systems like wearing their black clothes to arts classes, and they played fully when I had each ensemble of 20 (there are eight) come onto the blackbox stage and play a mildly competitive warm up game against one another. They listened with empathy to each other when we opened up the last 20 minutes to students who wanted to sing or share a monologue. And it felt after two years of a lot of trust building/giving/love/care/planning on my part and mostly just roar on their part, like this was a moment I got to SEE the airplane through the endless clouds.

I went home and replayed the afternoon to my husband because I almost couldn’t believe how well it had gone (a phrase I don’t utter often). It’s a reminder to keep looking up even though you only hear the roar. One of my colleagues Tina said, (I’m paraphrasing) “a student needs to have 100 failed true attempts at something to change a habit.” And most often they’re in my care when it’s attempt numbers 32-48. Or 17-25. Rarely do you hit the 100 threshold and get to see the lightbulb growth moment with your own eyes. When you do experience a 100 moment, you better save that stuff and put it in your box labeled “warm fuzzy files” you keep under your bed for the darker days. I got one of those emails this summer, and you can bet it’s going in the fuzzy files. This was a student who struggled for a few years, then had a major shift and so I helped him win an all expenses paid scholarship to NYC for a musical theatre boot camp with free tix to a couple broadway shows to boot.

“Hello Mrs. Calhoun I hope you are very well.... What can I say, going to Gathered and being able to Show detail and life in my dancing and not just singing a song but truely  Connecting to my songs and staying grounded with my work all around has really showed me where I am in my journey and I’ve surprised myself so many times while i was there. I’ve learned so much from artist there and Especially From being around Mr. Yonover, i’ve learned how important it is  to keep networking and staying around people that I can benefit from and that would really advocate for me to get to the next level. I will Keep in touch with him for my endeavors. But. With this being said, I would really love to come back to school with a plan that includes all my teachers. I belive I will need You , Mr. Richard, Ms. Slavick, Ms. Scatchell, Mr. Helem and Mr. Westerman and Even My friend Malachi.  I have some where to go and with learning more about Equity and non union, I cant do this without You all. I am willing to put in the work in many areas of my craft. So this is the next step in collaboration. sooo. Team assemble!!! Thank you so much for everything.” -DR

Oh yes, we will assemble.

Then there’s Solly. The mom guilt has been coming in like a thick layer of clouds since school started at the beginning of August. It’s not just that the income from my job is important, which is needed, it’s that I truly love my work and probably couldn’t be as good of a mom if I didn’t have ChiArts in my life. But mom guilt is a roar I can never escape from and can only sometimes negotiate to make softer. I hope there is a plane that appears at some point...the benefit to being a working mom. But I really don’t know. It’s a lot easier to hold hope for this analogy in the school setting because I’ve seen proof. All you need is evidence from one student to keep pouring into the others - knowing you may never see the plane but it’s going to fly near some time in the future. I’ve never been a mom before so I don’t know if the “(Not Fair) Air and Water Show” analogy works for me and Solly. I try to be hopeful and think things like: having multiple caretakers helps his social skills and gives a variety of people to trust… or, he’ll get to grow up with a mom in a leadership role and that’s good for how he’ll view women all his life. But again, I can’t completely silence the guilt. The roar of working motherhood that gives me the FOMO itch every time I look at his picture at work. 

I’m thankful I work at ChiArts. I’m thankful and over the moon to have a toddler running around - even if he is in a “No” phase (like says it ALL THE TIME). I’m thankful for this last sweet window of summer that August brings - with its cicadas and tall thistles and earthy smells and geese. I’m thankful for Humboldt Park and the little funny “beach” that Solly and I have claimed as our happy place. And I’m thankful for the “(Not Fair) Air and Water Show” for providing this analogy in a somewhat bothersome way for three days last weekend. 

The Story We Tell Ourselves

A dry time in writing, a rich time for Goodnight Gorilla. I work full time and though I head a department full of artistic kids and I oversee artistic teachers, and teach a couple theatre classes, I am not engaging in my own art. This is a challenge because I often have more to give to ChiArts when I’m learning and growing in writing/improv/theatre as a companion to teaching and administrating. I also get endorphins from creating - even if nobody sees my work. I do NOT get endorphins from Goodnight Gorilla. No matter how thankful I am that it has no words and is the shortest board book in Solly’s collection.

Solly is in a screechy phase and it is not for the faint of ears. He is passionate and knows what he wants and screams to get it. You can’t reason him out of screaming to touch light switches or eat crushed ants. This time period of toddler rearing is LOUD.

Brene Brown came out with a Netflix special recently and a major thread was this concept of “the story we tell ourselves.” For example, if someone brushes you off, the story we could tell ourselves is that this person is annoyed and doesn’t care about your thoughts or feelings. She encourages you to have vulnerable conversations with the person so that you can uncover the truth instead of the story you’re telling yourself - which could simply be that the person had just gotten a phone call from their ill parent and the perceived brush off had nothing to do with you. 

The story I told myself when I flew with my toddler on a plane by myself last week was, “this large man next to me hates being in the middle seat and hates that his vacation is over and hates that he is next to a lap child who just wiped crumbs on his sleeve.”

The man started sleeping as we took off, so I couldn’t fact check my story like Brown says to do. But I was positive it was true. It was all I could do to keep Solly from entering into others’ personal space around us. We went through my bag of tricks quick. Food, stickers, car, books, little electronic light up thing, scrunchies in a bag he puts on his arms and legs...food again…

As the guy woke up he got his snacks out and Solly started to eye his pretzels. Right before he started screeching for them, the man said, “Hey man, here ya go,” and held the bag open for Solly like a friend would do. Solly went to town. I breathed a little easier. The story I had told myself starting to crumble like the pretzel Solly couldn’t fit in his mouth. Later in the flight the guy was face timing a buddy and was like “Yeah, I’m just hanging here on the plane with my people” and turned the phone to let his friend see Solly. I’m almost certain Solly fell asleep leaning on his arm when I had my moment of drowsiness and didn’t hold his head properly. He never said a word, just took the weight. 

The story I had told myself was smashed, except for the part about hating his vacation was over. True story, “this larger guy on the plane is quiet, chill and kind.”

Even though I didn’t have a vulnerable convo with the guy like Brene may have wanted me to do, at least he spoke words. The story I’m telling myself at home right now is, “my son is a creativity stealing tyrant,” and it can’t be fact checked because he doesn’t talk. This is hard! I wish every day with him was like those “right before the natural disaster strikes” moments in movies where the family is playing happily and hugging as they roll toys across the floor and eat fresh strawberry shortcake from the berries they picked in the montage just before. If it was non-stop these moments, I could rationalize the time away from my writing and theatre and the story I would tell myself would be, “I’m giving up art, but I’m creating this beautiful sugar drop of a human being.” But I don’t think this is true…

I had to invent a dialogue with Solly in order to check my story due to his lack of words. See below. 

Mama: Solly why do you have to scream every time you see my purse (which is all the time) based on that long trip where it constantly produced raisins for you?

Solly: I want them.

Mama: I KNOW. That’s clear by your scream. Can you try “please”?

Solly: Screaming works fast.

Mama: I’ll always love you, but this makes it really hard to like you.

Solly: I wasn’t born to make you happy, I was born to be me.

Mama: You sound like a teenager. 

Solly: Maybe we’re all the ages we’ve ever been and will be before and after we reach them.

Mama: The story I’m telling myself is that you’re a creativity stealing tyrant, which sounds pretty harsh, and I’d like to come closer to the - 

Solly: I am.

Mama: What?!

Solly: I am because I love you and I want ALL your attention ALL the time especially cuz you work everyday. 

Mama: Oh. So the story I’m telling myself is correct.

Solly: Yes. AND you’re my favorite.

Mama: So it’s more like “my son is a creativity stealing tyrant who also loves me very much”?


Solly: Yes. 


Mama: I seem to have gotten less intelligent with you around. Are you stealing brains also?

Solly: Yes.

Mama: Why is Goodnight Gorilla so important to you?

Solly: I like that balloon that keeps showing up. It reminds me of you.


Cue gratitude.

"Na-na-na-na"

Solly loves animals. He hugs his owl (a Hedwig Harry Potter one I call Butterbeer because I don’t accept pre-named animals) every morning while squealing and enveloping him in a big baby hug. He had the thrill of his life last month when we visited the LA Zoo with my friend Jantre and a swan paddled over to just us. I will never stop feeling an explosion of self worth when a zoo animal chooses me.

AND...Solly turned a year old last week!!! WHAT?! Where did that shortest/fastest year go?! In what other year of our lives do we triple our weight, start off a crying noodle blob and then end the year walking and understanding that throwing food is funny? Has anyone made a documentary about this?! Or at least written a book?

In what other year of my life did I have a giant growth in the front that turned into a human, someone moved my bladder and intestines to the OUTSIDE of my body to get the human out, blacked out during this and told Rob I’d like to buy a Christmas Tree farm, then squeezed more life out of the boobs in the staff bathroom twice a day at work and had anxiety every time that I hadn’t locked the door to the teenage hallway properly, and finally, told students to stop asking if I was pregnant again because the body is like a balloon and once expanded fully, will always look slightly with child.

We just went to our one year pediatrician visit and were told by Dr. Narayan that we should reserve “no” for a few things that are dangerous or hurtful to others so it really has an impact when we say it. I explained that it’s been hurtful when Solly expresses disinterest in theatre by crawling down the aisle and/or trying to crawl onstage and asked if this falls into the “No” category. I was told “No.” Which seems hypocritical. Then I remembered I’m 36. Dr. Narayan told us that we should redirect Solly or distract him if he is behaving poorly.

It’s really hard not to say no when you are trying not to say no because it means you’re thinking about no more often. When Solly tries to eat cat litter or sticks his hand in the garbage I have spontaneous new language that erupts as I try to repress the word “No.”  

“Ah ah ah - oooo - yeeee - yuck yuck yuck urghh dkn dkn dkn.”

Well that’s all fine and good until my made up language goes out the window when the cat pees on the floor and you yell “no-no-no-no” or the cat scratches the couch and you yell “no-no-no-no” or the cat licks your popcorn and you yell “no-no-no-no-shit-really?”

If it weren’t for Snug the cat, and the couple times Solly’s tried to touch an outlet, he wouldn’t have heard “no” much yet. Damn cat and outlets. Now it’s become his sound of choice.

“Na-na-na-na” stands for “No” and also “Mama” because he hasn’t mastered “M” yet, which is confusing because “Na-na-na-na” is now used to repel and compel me.

What makes it even more complicated is that “Na-na-na-na” also means:

“I want water”

“I don’t want clothes. At all”

“We’ve overread this book, tell me you realize this too”

“I want to touch that heavy picture frame hanging on the wall by a small hook”

“Lift me up so I can see into the microwave and open and shut the door”

“Don’t make cow sounds anymore that was so this morning and now it’s late morning.”

“Lift me up so I can see in the dryer and open and shut the door”

“Why did you sing that song like you are on a stage, this is my nook turned nursery with a bookcase wall and this space is for gentle singing”

“I would like to open and shut your shirt - how does this work with fabric”

“Don’t kiss me right now, I must examine this speck on the floor”

“Lift me up so I can open and shut the picture frame”

Solly knows other words. “Dada,” just to name the only one.

Dr. Narayan also brought up “replacement behaviors” at our visit. Instead of saying “No” we’ve tried “gentle hands,” when Solly reaches for the cat. The same cat that taught him “No” in case you’ve forgotten. So this is the part of the story where there is redemption in the form of coincidence not necessarily intention, from the cat. Understanding “gentle hands” is tricky. But not when what you want will get up and run off if you are not gentle. Thank you, Snug the cat.

Now, if we say “gentle hands,” Solly goes slow so the flowers don’t walk away, the newborn infant doesn’t get up and leave, and the pop up book pages don’t escape to hide under a blanket.   

1 point for Snug, 0 for the parents.  

Now, onto disciplining a toddler. Solly is walking! Bye bye babyhood!

He’s waking up from a nap right now and saying “Na-na-na-na” so I guess I better go. Or stay.


Grati-tag

Three mini chapters on babies and teaching.


NAILS

Cutting a baby’s nails has the high stakes of a college essay, the physical exertion of a 5K and the precision skills of someone who knits while off-road jeeping. There’s not much more to be said. Just that I think this type of parenting struggle would make a great reality TV show. Also, I don’t regularly cut Solly’s nails. I am only after ONE nail. The snaggle one, making his face look like he battled that razor sharp Florida grass during naptime and lost big time.


THE NAP

You set up these wonderful plans with grandparents and block off huge chunks of time that include travel, packing diaper bags, portable cribs, and your sanity that can now fit in the small side pocket with the broken zipper. The only thing you can’t plan is THE NAP. You could have the most “incompatible with naps” child in the universe, but the minute they are at Grandma’s, they sleep like a dream. Then, the grandparents are like, “Will we see him? When will we get to play with him? When will he wake up?” After an hour or so goes by, inevitably one or both of the grands runs to Walgreens to pick up more ketchup because it’s closer than the grocery, but on the way they realize they also need two more burger patties which Walgreens doesn’t carry (glad about this, because, gross), and by the time they get home, the baby has already played and is, yes, onto his second nap. It’s not the baby’s fault. It’s THE NAP. It knows. And gets jealous of grandparent day and wants baby all to himself. Then, like a fickle friend, is done with baby for EVERY OTHER DAY THAT IS NOT GRANDPARENT VISIT DAY.


THE TAG

I have been whispering two things as I lay Solly down to sleep.


“Humor and kindness” I say, then kiss his cheek. I’m trying to get these things in his brain. I know he’ll need them, and so will the world.


Then, like the second grader who plants her grass seeds in the milk carton on the school windowsill, I can’t take my eyes off the black dirt while waiting to see the green fruits of my whispering poke through. Kindness is tough to recognize in a baby, so I’m not too worried that I don’t see this yet. Not a lot of baby’s hold doors open for people or have the index finger/thumb control to write and mail a check to Unicef.


But humor isn’t hard to recognize in a baby. I’ve read the baby book(s). Only one of them - the parenthetical “s” is there as a goal. I also have a nephew who is 6 months older than Solly. Calan and my one baby book both point to the fact that babies start to get smiley around 5 or 6 months with everyone; golden retriever style with no discriminating. Developmentally babies don’t have stranger danger till they’re 9-12 months, at which time they only reserve grins for family and friends. Solly is about 6ish months while I write this and NOT a smiler. This is hard for me. I value laughter so much that I did stand-up comedy in LA. I thought my impressions of inanimate objects were pretty fun, and so did the three folks in the late night bar audience. So chalked this up as a success.


As I watched my smiley nephew, I would turn and make stretchy faces only a theatre parent can make at my serious baby, and began to be disappointed by the lack of response. Then a huge alarm went off in my brain. I was disobeying one of my teacher mantras with my own kid: “I may never see the impact of my efforts, but I’ll keep investing anyway.” … BUT … I WILL be around to see the impact because I’m the parent now, not the teacher! Oh no. What if I keep trying to get Solly to smile and he never does? Or he never laughs at a fart?! Or he thinks puns are stupid! ... I mean they are …. but less so when read from a candy wrapper. The candy is the sentence, and the pun is the little punctuated wink at the end. If the pun is the sentence, groan, right? I digest. I mean digress.


I’ve worked so hard not to be emotionally invested in outcomes as a teacher. Process and growth, yes, but outcomes, not so much because I don’t have control over how the student internalizes the information. … BUT I’M SUPER EMOTIONALLY INVESTED IN MY SON. He just has to smile!


Then I had to ask myself. Must he smile for me or him? Because he’s a pretty chill, contented baby. … I guess more for me then. And that’s when I realized I’d just stepped foot into my first parenting cliche. Wanting my kid to like the things I like: smiling. Also, I dislike cliches almost as much as puns. This was my first encounter with supporting my kid to be his own person. But he’s not! He’s still an extension of me** I carried him and grew him in my belly uterus and my body still feeds him! He should like SMILING!! But if he doesn’t. I mean. I’ll still love him. But I’m not gonna lie, it will be harder.


I couldn’t help myself. I had to add another word to the nightly two if he wasn’t responding to either of them. Also, as a high school arts department head and teacher I have been battling student apathy and getting 10 out of 20 journals back on average (one of my classes is the two steps forward 1.95 steps back type***). Half the class are getting F’s just because they won’t turning in a one page weekly journal.


So, at Solly’s sleeping times I began to to mumble “humor, kindness, and work - at least enough not to fail things”


Oh my god. An immediate change in Solly. Till this point he had stared at toys with casual interest and turned one or two over in his hands. Now, he began finding the tags on these toys with crime lab specificity. Like someone was paying him to clock in and out around naps and only hunt down tags in between. This work became never ending. Solly sonar could locate any tag - a plastic rattle with a little half centimeter tag would be pinched in his fingers, the underside of an ikea chair was no match for hiding its tag, and you’d think a white blanket would mask a white tag - no way. My grandma gave him a toy called “Taggies” which is a square with loops of fake fabric tags along the edge. Solly would have none of these. He quickly found the one REAL “made in China” tag with lightning speed and put it in his mouth with a satisfied, … smirk maybe?


I now call them Grati-tags. Because I am grateful that my son has discovered a work ethic. And that maybe he’s found some humor in this work. And without making it about me of course, maybe I can help grow the smirk into a smile. But I won’t push it. I’ll try not to. I didn’t birth Solly so I could have a mini me. I birthed him to give me extra help around the house. Just kidding. I birthed him for the same reason I teach. I love seeing discovery, growth and wonder in children. And there are definitely those three things happening with the tags. #Gratit-tag


**cliche, apologies

***cliche, but I tried to put my own spin on it










Be Kind, Laugh Often

I’ve always had a rich inner life. Post-baby, this inner life has been noticing small things in daily tasks “that are HILARIOUS,” to which my pre-baby brain, which had more credible discretion, questions. So here are a few in list form because some may or may not be worthy of expansion.  

  1. As if being a baby isn’t challenging enough, some toy maker went and made a series of bears dressed as other animals. Friends and family have given us some as gifts. People are going to wonder why my kid tries to lift the fur off all the animals at the petting zoo birthday parties, stating “I’m just making sure they’re all bears underneath.”

  2. After watching comedians’ Netflix specials I sometimes hear their voices in my head a few days afterwards commenting on the world in their tone and style. This happened after Tig Notaro’s special “Happy To Be Here.” I noticed a building going up. All they had so far were steel beams. And they were rusted. And in Tig’s voice I heard “So. Really? They’re just going to set it up for failure from the start?” I know. Not that funny. That’s why I feel an intense urge to contact her and gift her with this so SHE can make it funny.

  3. In Chicago there are these tiny corner places I call “i ran out of time to get real food so I’m at this place.” That’s all. I didn’t get much further with that one.

  4. Recently I took my baby on a plane by myself. Where do people learn to “acknowledge the baby and say just enough but not too much so they don’t have to engage for the whole flight”? This is a skill on par with passing the bar exams or convincingly renting Father of The Bride for "someone else" for the 6th time in a row.  I absolutely don’t have this skill. I either have to ignore the baby completely or make “eyes” and entertain her the whole flight. There was a girl across the aisle from Solly reading Girl on Train. She’d read and go in and out of interactions with him seamlessly throughout the flight - not ignoring Solly and not feeling guilt to engage the entire time. Well done! Maybe the key is having a book open...

  5. The other day I was driving and thinking of all the things my son might become. The only one that he’s not allowed to be is an asshole. Have one, yes. Be one, no. As a teacher, I know not to educate in the negative. You don’t tell Susy NOT to swear, you tell her to SAY richer words. So I won’t tell Solly not to be an asshole. I’ll inform him that he must be kind and have a sense of humor. Those are my only two non-negotiables (I’ll probably throw in working hard at some point). People LOVE to guess a baby’s age. I get it. By necessity I spent 5 summers recruiting 5th graders for our middle school in South LA and got exceptionally good at identifying and approaching 10 year olds. I now do it for fun (sans the approach part) when I see any aged kid walk by. I’m always right. And it feels good to be right. So when people guess Solly’s age, which seems to be every time we’re in public, we agree. With it all. “6 weeks?” Yes. “3 months?” Yes. “2 Weeks?” Yes. And then I’ve taught Solly to look at me and do a side eye smile when we walk away - introducing him to the humor of an inside joke. Just between us. By showing kindness by allowing others to assign any age to Solly, we are handing out little bursts of joy which could change the world. Maybe. Or at least make the next interaction these people have with someone a little nicer.

"He's 4 months?" ... Yes!. (not really he's only 3)

"He's 4 months?" ... Yes!. (not really he's only 3)