Checking in

 I love catching up with Justine.

It doesn't happen that often--not nearly often enough--as she lives in Brooklyn and works in finance for an international arts organization, and I live in St. Louis and work in communications for an international professional services organization. We both have two children in varying stages of late teenagerdom / early adulthood, dogs, husbands who were also college classmates, siblings, nieces, and mostly non-overlapping friend groups. But when we do have an opportunity to talk, I relish every minute. 

The first funny hat that
I ever saw Justine wear

Justine and I have known each other since we were 18 and assigned to live together in a first-year quad at our alma mater. We found out after moving in that, by square footage, ours was the smallest quad in our residential college. She was a polyglot from Toronto with one of the best senses of humor I had ever encountered. I was a debutante from South Carolina with evangelical tendencies. She befriended me anyway. We bonded over Strange Brew and convinced a classmate from Dallas that she had gone to high school every day on a dog sled, which was difficult because dogs are color blind and could not tell whether the traffic lights were red or green. She taught me about the Barenaked Ladies, and I taught her about grits. Her first experience tasting them went something like this:

"It doesn't really taste like anything."
"Crumble some bacon in it and try again."
"Oh, OK. Now it tastes like... bacon."

I think it's her honesty that I appreciate the most. 

Justine knew me before I learned I could give myself permission to be someone other than who I was taught to be my parents, teachers, church, geography, and gender norms. More than thirty years later, while my sense of self has changed, my appreciation for our friendship has not. This morning she called to chat about some volunteer work for our upcoming college reunion. The obligatory part of the conversation took about 10 minutes, and then we stayed on the phone for another 45, during which we both began multiple sentences with phrases like "I wouldn't tell a lot of people this..." and "Just between you and me..." She is a person I trust completely with the whole truth of me. Or at least as much of it as I know thus far.

Now when we get together,
we wear lots of orange
and new funny hats

I have been fortunate in my life to have several friends, like Justine, to whom I can turn when I need to exhale, lower all my defenses, or not put on any kind of show. These friendships are sealed in moments of authenticity. We've let each other vent, cry, and ask taboo questions. We've sat in silence and doubled over in laughter. We've held each others' hair and rubbed each others' backs--both when drunk and when painfully sober. We've watched relationships come and go. We've moved around the country and around the world. We've struggled through kids, from non-sleeping, puking infants to non-sleeping, puking young adults. We've burned brightly and burned out. 

Thanks to these friends, I have found relief from always feeling like I have to keep up appearances, read the room, meet or exceed others' expectations, and derive my sense of worth from (a very American, capitalist understanding of) productivity and achievement. While I feel obligated to show much of the world how many items I can check off my to-do list, these friends show incredible patience, support, and love as I continue to figure out what's on my to-be list.

I recently started a practice, recommended by my therapist, of trying to check in with myself in the same way that I would check in with my friends or they would check in with me. This means that at certain moments during the day--yes, I set an alarm--I pause, take a few deep breaths, and ask, "How are you feeling?" Feeling, in this sense, could mean physical (shallow breathing, tight shoulders, butterflies) or emotional (nervous, tired, content). My friend Margaret even encouraged me to take it a step further by putting a hand over my heart and adding a term of endearment: "How are you feeling today, sweet pea?"

The goal is to get into the habit of actually noticing and acknowledging when there is a change in how I am feeling without the alarm. I guess this is why they call it a practice. 

Checking in is not a new, difficult, or even particularly deep idea, but it is radical for someone like me who prefers to stay busy, let her thoughts dominate her choices, and--to co-opt a phrase from another southern debutante--feel about that tomorrow. And here's the kicker... I don't even have to do anything about what I learn when I check in. I don't have to change or fix anything. There's a good chance there's not even anything to fix. I can just be feeling what I'm feeling. It's a moment to discern what I'm tasting and accept it--the bare naked, inside out, true grits of me. No bacon required.

Double Standards: The Musical

My younger child is dramatic -- and I say that not only because he feels ALL THE FEELINGS so deeply all the time, but also because he loves to perform on the actual stage, preferably with an English accent. He recently turned 10, which is the birthday of the iPod Touch in our house. So on the big day, Nick and I brought him to the mall and into the Apple Store, where we were the only three people not there to try bending an iPhone 6+. Ten minutes later we were on our way home with a new favorite gadget.  Sorry Kindle.

Since then it's been all showtunes all the time.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

However, I did pause a moment when he came downstairs the other day singing, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" from A Chorus Line. For those of you who aren't intimately familiar with the lyrics, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" is more commonly known as "T!ts and A$$."

I looked around furtively and decided to hide my Mom of the Year tiara before someone from the committee could come take it away.

Nick says I have a terrible double standard when it comes to musical theatre. Mature themes that would give me pause on television, in popular music, or at the movies are all fair game when presented in musicals. Or movies based on musicals.  Case in point: On Christmas Day 2013 we sat with our then third and sixth graders and watched Fantine be molested in a coffin... and then sing about it.

It's amazing how clearly you can detect your spouse's raised eyebrows and pointed look in a darkened theater.

Of course, that was nothing compared to the discomfort that oozed from his pores when we all went to see the national tour of Pippin a few weeks ago and watched the protagonist learn the hard way that a whole lot of meaningless sex is not the answer to a fulfilling life. And when I say the hard way, I mean trapped in a cage with two women, a man, and a whip. Yep, this with two kids who still say "ICK!" aloud when they see kissing on TV.

In my defense, I find it much easier to have the hard conversations with kids when the subject of said conversation is set to a Tony-winning tune. For example:

• "Lovely Ladies" from Les Miz gave me the vehicle to explain sex work and the lack of options for countless women who are turned out on the street, not only in the 19th century but also present day.

• 

  IMHO, suitable for children

  "Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen" from A Chorus Line helped me explain wet dreams to my pre-pubescent kids. It's like the Judy Blume of musical numbers.
• "As Long as He Needs Me" from Oliver has come in handy lately with the subject of domestic violence and the NFL. I've used it as a cautionary tale to explain the difference between a man who says he loves you and a man who acts like he loves you. The dramatic one and I agree that this song, along with the final 4 lines of "It's a Fine Life," are some of the most tragic lyrics in all of theater. (For contrast, see "Suddenly, Seymour" from Little Shop of Horrors.)
• "Everything Else" from Next to Normal is a particular favorite of my daughter, because she loves catching me listening to music with profanity. But I love it for giving me the opportunity to talk to my type-A, horse-obsessed overachiever about what it means to find balance in life, to explain that pursuing a passion is good if it creates a healthy outlet for your emotions but not if you use it to ignore and suppress the pain and problems that come with adolescence. Where was Next to Normal when I was a teen?
  
• And the finale of Pippin is a great reminder that no matter what they try in life or where they go to find themselves, my kids can always come back to our family. We may not be glamorous or famous or even extraordinary, but we love them and will be there to hold their hands.

I believe wholeheartedly that these lessons can begin for the youngest of kids with the most innocent of musicals. In Enchanted, Amy Adams reminds us all that a long walk (or run or skip or dance) through Central Park is a great way to put things in perspective. (Of course, we children of the 70s already knew that from Godspell. I dare you to watch the "Prepare Ye" scene from the 1973 movie and not think of it every time you see Bethesda Fountain… or the "Friends" opening credits.)

And how many of today's kids will one day read about fractal theory in physics class and automatically hear Elsa sing "Let It Go" in their minds?

So, please forgive me when you hear my child burst out with a few NSFW/NSFS lyrics. I feel I must continue to embrace my inner Gleek, for she's got a lot to teach my children along the way. 

Of course, it doesn't always have to be be profound and pedagogic. Sometimes it's just fun to have a good old-fashioned sing-along, and musicals are also splendid for those improvised silly moments.  Our current favorite, also from A Chorus Line, is "Nothing." When else in life do you get to be an ice cream cone?

…frozen fractals all around!