Gridlock

After a 44-year absence at baseball’s championship event, our Milwaukee Brewers returned to the World Series last month. They won it all on the road, taking down the Tampa Bay Rays, another never-won, in five games. My city has yet to sleep.

I’ve loved baseball all my life, going to Brewers games at County Stadium in elementary school as a member of the Brewers Pepsi Fan Club. I kept score with my mom while watching my dad coach my brother, who played baseball through college, in little league. I became a baseball mom when my little guy showed a talent for the game. He loved playing baseball (until he didn’t) and I loved watching him play the game he loved (until he didn’t). I have a part-time job stationed outside American Family Field. I have a long, happy history with the game.

I got lucky and scored a pair of tickets to the Game 5 Watch Party held at American Family Field through the Brewers’ ticketing site. A $15 face value ticket was going for upwards of $500 on the secondary markets and I wish I was making that figure up. If it sounds weird to you to watch a TV show seated with 31,000 or so strangers, you’re not wrong. But it wasn’t weird, not at all. I wasn’t prepared for the energy, the root-root-rooting for the home team, the high-fiving strangers, any of it. But I was down for ALL OF IT! Much to the dismay of my knees, I rolled out the barrel/zing-boom-tararelled polka danced with my husband during the seventh inning stretch. I jumped up and down (again, the knees) when something good happened, and leapt out of my skin when Brice Turang lobbed that grounder over to Jake Bauers for the final out in the bottom of the ninth, ending the Brewers’ World Series drought. It was magic to be in the stadium, even though we looked up at the giant screen instead of down at the field. Unlike many, I didn’t cry, but my eyes did well up with emotion. It was emotional.

The guys no one gave a lick of thought to as a serious contender this season pulled it off. Milwaukee is the smallest baseball market that proved it’s got the biggest heart. “No one will watch this World Series if the Brewers or Guardians get in,” they said. Pfft. Our small-ball team sucked the soul out of every team they played, nay-sayers accused them of cheating at first, but then jumped on the Brewers bandwagon. How could you not? This bunch of self-proclaimed best friends watched over by the always-with-them spirit and forever-missed voice of Bob Uecker won the whole dang World Series. And I was there. Sorta. Remotely. By extension.

I wasn’t my very most productive self at work Thursday morning, not gonna lie. As soon as I got to my office after therapy at one of my schools, I marched my PTO request into my boss’ office and she kindly signed off. Not because it’s my final year of work and I’m burning it all down (I’m not), but because the Brewers have been in Milwaukee almost as long as I have and I was going to the victory parade. Plus I have like 1600 sick hours banked. But mostly because the Brewers and the power of friendship won the whole damn thing, clocking in as World Series champions. I was overdosing on reels and newsfeed highlights of the win and wanted to continue my gleeful, giddy celebration downtown with the rest of the like-minded lunatics.

At 10:52 Thursday morning, district staff received an email alerting us to a district-wide closure Friday. NOT because I and heaven knows how many other educators rushed their PTO slips to their respective offices and/or planned on calling in sick, but citing safety and transportation concerns. The superintendent wrote a congratulatory message to the Brewers in the cancellation notice, so the par-tay was part of it for sure, but really it was about access. And thence came the keyboard warriors. . .

Friday’s parade kicked off at 10:00 AM. We left our house, about 3 miles from the parade’s ending point on the Summerfest grounds, shortly after 8:00. As traffic inched closer into downtown, cars were already backing up. The closest spot we could find to park was 1.6 miles from where we ended up watching the parade. We hike and we walk all the time, so the distance wasn’t an issue, it was the magnitude of the crowd, the movement and the buzz of fans. All that could be seen was a swarm of bodies hustling north and east, everyone clad in shades of blue and gold, high-fiving, cheering, drinking (I mean, it IS Milwaukee), reveling, being in the moment.

Approaching an elementary school across the street from a high school a mile and a half outside the epicenter, traffic froze. Milwaukee doesn’t experience gridlocked traffic. Sure, there’s traffic mayhem after a concert or ball game, but within the city, I’ve never witnessed true gridlock. Cars were woven together, east-west and north-south, entire intersections stalled stagnant. No one could move and thankfully no one DID move against the ocean of pedestrians in waves toward the route.

There are a number of schools within and/or just outside the immediate cordoned off parade route, so I, unlike the keyboard warrior public school-hater trolls, understood the logistical nightmare buses and parents would face trying to get students into those buildings. The schools we passed en route were well outside the parade route, no one expected the impact to have been this far-reaching. People are going to shit-talk the decision to close the district, but it was absolutely the right call. Thursday’s crowd estimate for Friday was 400,000, which I believed had to be someone’s fantasy. Nope.

750,000 people showed up. Three-quarters of a million people showed up to party. Milwaukee sparkled Friday, y’all. Freaking shone like the North Star. When they passed around tagboard signs proclaiming “Won. Our Way.” and “World Champions,” everyone got one. People kept passing them back until everyone had one or two. We were probably 5 deep at our vantage point and there were at least 10 rows of fans behind us. It was so cool to see traffic stopped on the freeways above us–not gridlocked, but people wanting to bear witness! People joined from their cars on the freeway, jumping out to take pictures, honking their horns. Everyone was on their best, most celebratory behavior. There was no pushing or shoving, or posturing for position. Even when the players hopped off their bus right in front of us, running around with the trophy, everyone in our vicinity screamed their fool heads off in the most respectful way possible!! It was some party.

No one partied harder than the Brewers players themselves along the parade route and if you don’t believe me, please check out your favorite social media outlet for the proof! I can’t get enough of Sal Frelick or Jake Bauers’ debauchery (all clean, mostly clean anyway). Jackson Chourio and MVP William Contreras appeared calm and collected, but huge smiles and slightly more subtle dance moves were on display. Drunk Christian Yelich explaining how he got a black eye from ramming into the Comissioner’s Trophy is giving me life. Drunk coach Daniel Vogelbach attempting Stacy’s Mom on stage is something I’ll never forget and he’ll never remember!

My brother celebrated his Royals’ World Series win in 2015 and ever since has hammered on how important and memorable it is to be part of these celebrations. He’s said if your team ever wins it all, you MUST go to the celebration, it’s that worth it. Man, was he right about that.

This week was So. Damn. Fun. The most fun and joyful experiences to be had were had. Thank you, Milwaukee and thank you to the Milwaukee Brewers. My heart bleeds blue and gold for you, the best of the good guys.

Fill The Boot

Since 1954, the Muscular Dystrophy Association and the International Association of Fire Fighters have raised funds for people living with neuromuscular disease. During this joint effort, the “Fill the Boot” campaign, firefighters literally fill their boots with cash donations.

I had the good fortune to be working outside American Family Field a few weekends ago, as our Milwaukee Brewers ended the season with a record-setting 103-59 win/loss count. It’s always a good day at the ballpark, I say, but you can imagine the burgeoning fan frenzy accompanying this kind of season! It’s been a whole lot of really good days at the ballpark! I was doing my job outside along the third base line and encountered a woman with I assumed her two children, soliciting donations to fill her boots.

I approached her wanting to say thanks. I told her my son has muscular dystrophy and that her volunteerism for the Fill the Boot campaign meant a great deal to me. That donations like she was seeking went a long way toward supporting the MDA, including events such as Summer Camp, the “greatest week of the year” for so many children. You may recall from what to me feels like another lifetime, that my child was a 3-time MDA summer camper. His first experience at MDA camp week was life-changing and I still shed grateful tears whenever I think of it, which is what I did (get teary-eyed) during our encounter. Of course I did.

I don’t think tearing up was her intention either, but there we were, both blinking madly, staving off tears. Her daughter was about the age my son was when diagnosed. I can’t say with any degree of certainty that “Whoa, that could happen to my child??” entered her conscious thought, but I know she lovingly looked at both her kids and pulled her son in close for a second. Moms are incredible and working moms who volunteer? Even more so. She said she’d never met anyone directly affected by neuromuscular disease and she was happy to know that her canvassing meant something to a real person in the real world.

There’s no big life lesson or anything to be found in this quick post, except maybe this: tell the people who make a difference in your real world that they make a difference in your real world. Oh, and maybe just be kind to everyone–OK, almost everyone–one really cannot imagine the load another individual is carrying in their heart and on their mind, even if it looks effortless.

Also, go Brewers!

The Summer of Me

I made the decision to retire from public education at the end of this school year (in 309 days, not that anyone’s counting). I am not leaving for the reasons you might think–you can read the last eleven years of this blog to get my take on the trials and tribulations of public education in the US. My reasons to hang it up don’t include the kids or families, not the IEPs or demands of AAC; it’s not my coworkers or being the most senior of 180 speech-language pathologists in our district, or even the Sunday Scaries. Maybe it is little bits of each of those, OK, but right now, it’s this: I’m tired.

In point of fact, I am NOT tired. I’ve slept like a teenager this summer, sound and solid and longer than ever, though not in the teenagers’ way of sleeping til mid-afternoon. I’ve woken up naturally almost every day at a respectable 7:00-7:30-ish. With a few exceptions, I’ve fallen and stayed asleep for the duration. I legit feel smarter and less volatile, less anxious.

After nearly 23 years as a mom and seven years of post-accident caregiving, it was time to look in the mirror. My sons are pretty independent–the older not even living at home, the younger on his way out soon, and my husband’s recovery is at maximum compensatory gains. They don’t need me like they used to, but you know who does need me? Me.

My summer break began with the second of my Shingles vaccines. As forecast, the vaccine kicked my butt for a couple days, but hey–the likelihood of this “I got the chickenpox twice” gal getting Shingles is waaaaaay down compared to the unvaccinated in my age cohort. I spent the first couple days sans 5:15 AM alarm clock experiencing zero guilt about laying around feeling fussy all day.

I saw my GP for a thorough once-over, kicking the tires and such. Got my sertraline refilled and he ran a bunch of bloodwork from which he made recommendations for a healthier diet and supplements for what my diet is unlikely to contain enough naturally. I’ve been consistent with my vitamins since that appointment even though the horse-sized pills make me pukey. Look at me, all acting like a big girl and stuff.

My shoulder was cooperating briefly and I enjoyed yoga two-three days a week. I’ve complained loudly about my city, but their public recreation division offers a wide range of classes at a ridiculously low cost, including two free sunrise yoga classes at the lakefront. My on again-off again shoulder leaves me lagging behind where I once was on my yoga journey, but I was able to hit the mat and it felt so good to feel strong again. Then I slept on my side Saturday night after too little sleep last weekend, waking up to an unwelcome hitch in my rotator cuff. My shoulder’s back to being a dick.

I’ll spare you the details, but after several years of delay and rescheduled procedures, I finally got my baseline colonoscopy. Friends, do it. I swear that the very worst thing isn’t what you think it would be–it’s drinking the prep liquid. Just typing it out here got me dry heaving and gave me the full body shivers. SO. GROSS. For a not-whiny person, I whined a real lot, even barking that “I’d just take the cancer,” except that is not funny at all and no joking matter. The night before is no carnival, but if you follow a light diet for a few days before, it’s no thing, I promise. In all my days and months hospital bedside, I’ve only ever been the patient twice, when my boys were born. It was lovely to be taken care of, to have warm blankets laid upon me and propofol coursing through my veins. It’s also not cool to joke about IV drugs, I admit, but the speed at which I fell unconscious and the blissful black hole in my memory? I did not mind the propofol. AND I’m healthy, thank stars.

I saw my gynecologist for an overdue exam. I thought I only had to go once every five years, but it’s just this one test I need every five years. Given my medical history, I’m supposed to be screened annually. I’m pleased to report that I’m good. Gotta increase my calcium, he urged, so I’m doing that too.

Self-care for me isn’t manicures and spa days. It’s taking care of my physical health so I can do or continue doing things I love once I retire. I see many people who, through disease, disability, or disuse, no longer enjoy the mobility and health they once did. I’m going to rewrite the mantra I developed for my son when he was first diagnosed with MD for myself as I age: I want to do as much as I can, as hard as I can, for as long as I can.

Self-care also includes mental health and I cannot recommend this self-care regimen highly enough: Pick up two friends from the airport. Enjoy a meal and drinks at a beautiful lakeside beer garden, road trip to meet up with two additional friends for a Barenaked Ladies concert on Friday. Repeat concert experience Saturday night. If you really want to up your self-care game, buy the VIP tickets and witness a soundcheck–the tech stuff is super cool and you might even not-quietly suggest they play their newest song. Five star self-care, y’all.

Please take care of yourselves, everyone. Take care of yourself not only after everyone else’s care has been managed before your own. Be smarter than me and please prioritize yourself. NOW. Right now. And not exclusively because you’re staring down the barrel of the end days of your first career. Buy the concert tickets, hang with your friends, hike the mountains, go to the doctor, eat the extra frosting. These things are strangely interrelated, aren’t they?

No Apologies, OK, Well, a Few

I once met a guy who claimed he never took photographs. His stance was that whatever he’d seen or experienced lived larger in his memory than could possibly be captured via print media. I don’t subscribe to this theory, but I do understand the point, especially in today’s social media/influencer era. People are so busy documenting well, everything, that I believe it’s easy to miss the joy found in the moment. In fact, they unapologetically seem not to care about the moment because it’s about clicks, views, shares, etc. My niece and I had a brief text exchange about this upon her return from an Alaskan cruise. Of course her pictures were adorable and majestic, depending on whether the picture was of Denali, a glacier, or her cute self and fiance. I was heartened to hear her say that she snapped pictures for scale and then made sure to take it all in.

Just before their departure to the 49th state, we were on our trip to the 50th. At long last, my husband got the beach vacation he’d been chasing for many years. Our family of four spent a week and a half in Hawaii, on Maui, bookended by a few nights in Seattle to break up the flights and also to explore a new-to-me city. I’m not a bucket list gal and Hawaii was never my “dream destination,” but this time away together was a dream.

One of my brothers-in-law’s family owns a condo in Maui, and their generous family discount made it financially possible for us to enjoy the paradise that is Maui. I work a school calendar, so in mid-June often get asked, “Do you have any fun getaways planned for summer?” I found myself shy and sheepish admitting to vacationing in Hawaii. To me it felt so exotic, so out of character, so expensive! After having done little in recent years but rail against our diminished finances pushed by my husband’s forced retirement/my career as a public educator, I felt undeserving of a trip so grand, like Hawaii is too good for the likes of me.

Each time I’d talked about our trip, I prefaced it with the family discount and how we’d never have been able to go without it. I had to explain why I, who has complained about our finances for lo these seven years, could do something so irresponsible, so beyond our grasp, so expensive! I made sure to mention how we’d broken the trip into chunks. We paid for the condo last December, purchased airfare and rented the car in March, and were able to score steeply discounted hotels in Seattle after the FIFA World Cup sold less well than anticipated. All of this made a dent in the sticker shock, sure, and go, me for saving a couple bucks! But why did I feel apologetic, backpedaling on how great this trip could really be? I was, what? Unworthy?

That stops here. Feeling unworthy is unproductive and untrue. We all deserve nice things! My husband has wanted a beach vacation for years. Things haven’t been easy here these last seven years, and if anyone has earned paradise, it’s him. I’ve been put off the idea of traveling internationally the last few years and probably won’t feel entirely comfortable leaving my home country until 2029. Maui provided the beach getaway he wanted and deserved with the comfort I sought. I found myself thinking and saying that this might be our final foursome of forced family fun. Our children don’t want for anything, but their lives are not unaffected by our predicament. And then there’s me. . .

I work hard. I engage in a challenging profession in a system and historical period fraught with inequity. I’m not positioning myself as a martyr here; I haven’t worked thirty-five years posturing with a savior complex. I truly enjoy my work and the kids and families I serve. I can now confidently assert that it’s hard work. And I fully recognize my privilege as an educated woman earning more than minimum wage. But I hustle too. I have two side jobs because being an educator pays less than my advanced degree might lead one to believe, my husband’s income and future earnings trajectory was slashed, and we have two kids in college. But none of this means we have not earned the right to enjoy nice things. Why have I felt this way since the accident?

So I’m not apologizing for hiking on Mount Rainier or feasting my eyes on the floral shops in Seattle’s Pike Place Market. I will be modest about snorkeling in Molokini Crater and hiking above the clouds in a volcanic crater at Haleakala National Park, but I so loved the experiences. I’ll be mostly not sorry for swimming on a black sand beach and eating the most delicious cinnamon rolls and banana bread. Y’all, I did NOTHING for like 3 of 10 days, and I do mean nothing. Well, I did go to the beach and walk/hike in Kihei and Lahaina whenever and for however long I felt like it. I took few pictures. Mostly I took it in.

While I’m at it, I’m not going to be too timid about spending three action-packed days with my college friends in Minneapolis. BS Travel never lets us down and Beth and Sue outdid themselves! I WILL acknowledge and apologize for being the weakest link when it comes to Girls Trip planning. You just can’t imagine the time and energy these two spend to lay out the red carpet for Bridget, Julie, and me.

Paisley Park evoked terrific memories and later we shopped at the Electric Fetus, the super cool record store at which Prince shopped and was left alone. With no help from me (I do apologize), we escaped our annual escape room adventure moving our record back up to .500! Noel Coward’s play Separate Lives stood the test of a century’s time and still entertained at Minneapolis’ marvelous Guthrie Theater. Trivia games were played (and tiaras were retained) and we laughed, talked, made crafts, wore muumuus, and enjoyed being together. Thanks to Google Maps being a bit topsy-turvy, we found ourselves at Renee Good’s memorial on Portland Avenue in Minneapolis. *heavy sigh* It was a sobering moment–she was killed right there, in the street where my car was idling as I waited for the light to turn green. It felt right to have landed there and to acknowledge her. And even though I had just spent ten days with him, I got to spend another blip of time with my big kid in his adopted hometown.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank my friends and family for having spent time with me these last few weeks. Your time and attention are gifts for which I’m ever-grateful. And I DO apologize to (and also thank) everyone who’s stood by me through my endless lamenting over the losses. I will do my best to refocus. I will continue to apologize for wrongs I commit, but not for giving myself permission to enjoy something for which I’ve put in the work. I’m going to try anyway.

Please be stronger and wiser than me. If your head and heart allow, spend less time focused on what has been lost and worrying about what you cannot have or do. Do what you can while you’re able. I’m walking/hiking and practicing yoga a few times a week to ensure I stay strong and “able” as long as these old bones will allow. Never in my life have I been able to travel outside of school breaks and for the first time in ever, I’m planning ahead to an October, 2027 flight west to knock out a few more hikes in a handful of our National Parks.

Travel in October?? I must be dreaming.

Spoke Too Soon

My sons and husband returned home from four warm days in sunnier climes Thursday evening, one winging back to his home in Minneapolis and the others right back here to the 414. At breakfast Friday, my husband says to me that he’d not attended to the news at all during their getaway so was wondering if I could provide a quick update on the situation in Venezuela. Oh honey, that was so four days ago! This morning’s newsfeed, top to bottom, featured the dreadful news that an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent shot a woman named Renee Good in the head, multiple times, essentially at point blank. I tried to recap the little I knew at that time in the very little time I had to scarf down breakfast and get out the door for work, but paused.

He knew that I was preparing for a presentation to the department that morning, and I wanted to feel positive and relatively focused (focused for me, that is). Knowing that speaking about the unspeakable would derail me, I told him that I didn’t want to talk about it at that moment. How lucky am I, to choose not to have to talk about it?

Do you ever do any public speaking? There are audience members you seek with a mic in hand–you look for those nodding along with you, steady in their eye contact, laughing where they’re supposed to; they provide necessary feedback that your material is hitting and they’re not bored out of their minds. I’m still feeling poorly with this stupid cold I just cannot seem to shake, so continuing my remarkable streak of faking it til I make it, I mostly didn’t cough through the entire presentation and, based on my SLP audience barometers, I felt as though the material was well-received.

My point in telling you about my presentation isn’t to boast about the presentation itself (though I am consumed by the opportunity cost of screen time on early brain and language development). The monthly meeting was such a normal thing, a completely ordinary event. When our SLPs were filing in to the auditorium, I greeted my colleagues, we exchanged wishes of “happy new year” and inquired about the others’ kids, how was your winter break?, that kind of chat. It was lovely. Friday morning was business as usual but it didn’t feel normal to feel normal. That’s my point.

That’s how it starts though, right? Events like what happened in Minneapolis don’t affect YOU directly so can be ignored, it’s someone else’s problem, you can’t let it affect YOUR life. People die from gunshot wounds every day; people are debased and other-ed every day. Why would you be upset by <insert atrocity du jour here>? YOU’RE not the right type/wrong type ICE is trolling, so why should it matter? You go to work, you lock out all the terrible things people do to each other, and you present. You include your smarty-pants comments and insert “tone” when it fits because you know they work. You smile and say “thank you” when people applaud and say you’ve done well.

In my previous post, I told you I was good. It’s possible I’ve spoken too soon. Since I began taking this antidepressant, when bad things have happened to me personally and in this world we share during the insanity of 2025, I’ve said (not quietly and repeatedly) that I’m really glad I have these meds. I wonder but don’t really want to know how I would be feeling if I didn’t.

Decent people eagerly await the straw that will finally break this administration’s back. Every day I hope that <insert atrocity du jour here> will be what it takes for people to acknowledge the kakistocracy. Though I can’t imagine what, every day I know something worse will happen. And every day I more clearly understand that when an individual’s entire core self has become the bigotry and lies they believe, that person is no longer able to separate their very being from the narrative they’ve swallowed whole. They ARE their rage. We will be continue to be fed lie upon lie, demanding that we ignore what we’ve seen with our own eyes until tomorrow, when the next terrible deed is committed. Those conditioned to believe what they’re spoon-fed will believe and so it goes, over and over and over.

This can’t be our new normal. “Normal” is going to work, reading one of the books your best friend bought your for Christmas. Normal is doing your presentation on Friday morning, watching your team collapse in the second half Saturday, having homemade waffles for breakfast Sunday.

There’s a better than even-odds chance Minneapolis will become our home in the not terribly distant future. Part of my heart already lives there and the whole of it is with the community aching with loss and fear right now.

Minnesota/Wisconsin art credit to H. Wayne

Two Sides of the Same Coin

I checked in with my parents yesterday. We are not the kind of family, or maybe I should say that I am not the kind of daughter who speaks with her parents daily or even weekly. Many friends of mine speak with their parents and/or siblings daily so whenever my infrequency comes up in conversation with others, I recognize a look in their eyes. My news registers as an expression not of shock, but definitely surprise and maybe curiosity. We aren’t estranged or anything, just not close in the way some people define “close.”

My mom asked after my husband and each of my sons and then asked me, “how are you?” Ooooh, trick question! After my husband’s devastating accident and aftermath, I never answered the question. Like ever. I deflected the question back to whomever with I was speaking or talked about the kids, the weather, the Brewers, school, anything to avoid a direct response. I hadn’t thought about this question in a good while, how am I?, and it got to me to thinking about my sincere feelings on the matter.

On one face of the coin, I am good. G-O-O-D, good! I’m a proud member of Team Sertraline. I’ve been taking a low dose of the antidepressant for a year now and the way it completes the short circuits and fills the holes in my brain has felt like an awakening. I’d gotten to a point that anger and anxiety were my two constant, most reliable companions. I could not imagine not spending my time in the company of my two unhealthy besties exclusively and for too long frankly, I didn’t want to. Anger and anxiety weren’t just feelings I experienced, they came to define who I was. Don’t be too surprised if you didn’t know that about me–I put on one hell of a performance as a well-adjusted, functional adult. I’m an exceptional “fake it til you make it” role model.

When I hit my medication’s titration, I didn’t feel like a different person, but I did notice an after-the-fact effect, like instead of hitting zero-to-sixty in 1.7 seconds, maybe I hit only zero-to-30, a safe school-zone-driving speed. Instead of my brain preparing to rear back and holler immediately, I’d consciously pause to wait for others to react first (and they do, I just don’t always have to be the maddest first). Instead of being shocked at someone’s behavior, I sigh knowingly and wonder how I ever actually hoped/believed that person would do the thing they’d said they would.

So, Mom and everyone, I’m good. I am working in an elementary school with educators I admire, serving students who challenge me professionally and stick with me personally. It’s exhausting and I love it! A few weeks back I began research for a presentation I’m doing in January and after a few hours of scouring source material then drafting my outline, I was charged up by how much I enjoy doing it! I decided that, barring unforeseen circumstances, my last day as a speech-language pathologist is June 16, 2027. It’ll mean 36 years with the same employer and that reads like a pretty good number to me.

I got to do fun things with the best people in 2025. After my husband’s forced retirement and almost a year of being a one-income family, I allowed myself to drop a couple bucks on non-essentials (though, TBH, I continue to be mired in guilt when I spend money on myself). Financial stressors meant we missed traveling to my dear friend Sue’s daughter’s wedding in spring which still eats at me, but I did enjoy a road trip with my husband and older son in summer. We climbed a mountain. We. Climbed. A. Mountain! I loved my annual college girls’ weekend, even the forced crafting component, Beth. . . With my Barenaked Ladies girls, I got to see my favorite band twice (once from the front row and it was, as always, a dream). I flew to the Oregon coast to spend a few days with my best friend. Empty nesting isn’t destroying my brain or heart, which feels like a powerful win. Don’t get me wrong, I miss my sons but am anchored in my belief that they’re where they’re meant to be right now. Our family of four together saw Sir Paul McCartney in concert in Minneapolis, just down the street from my big kid’s college home. Our mortgage is nearly paid. I am in good health and believe the lies people tell me about not looking my age! You guys, I saw the Aurora Borealis!!

But. . .

Mom and everyone, I’m also not good at all. For the many undeniable highs 2025 has bestowed upon me, they occurred during an undeniably low year in the United States. Those of you who don’t “do politics” might want to stop reading here. I’ve long said that people can agree to disagree, but when your point of view demeans people and espouses ignorance, bigotry, and hate, we don’t merely disagree.

There’s a popular meme, an oldie now, that goes something like, “my desire to be informed lies at odds with my desire to be sane.” This one speaks to my very core. For all the holes Zoloft fills in my brain, I remain unable to detach from news about the conduct of the current presidential administration. I just can’t ignore it–and even knowing I’d be happier not knowing whatever terrible thing has occurred today, ignoring it would be passive acceptance. If you know me at all, it should go without saying that I stand for public education, special education, women’s rights, public health, disability rights, I mean! I’m a female special educator serving impoverished, underserved, and high support needs students with disabilities in the state’s most vulnerable neighborhoods. Most of the people I encounter in my work are good and decent, doing all they can for what they believe is best for their child.

There is no space in my brain where I’m good with the president’s incoherent rants built on lies and make-believe. His words and conduct are deplorable and worse, go unchecked (indeed by many, celebrated!) by his spineless sycophants and the media! Who among us was even surprised that the president talked about his wife’s panties recently? We don’t even bat an eyelash at the insanity anymore. If you’re not thoroughly repulsed by a US president telling a woman reporter to be “quiet, piggy,” then you’re good with it? I am not good with it. How could I be “good” when I and people I know and love are targets of the administration? How can people who know and claim to love me support candidates who dismantle public education, destroy women’s rights, and mock the disabled? And I beg and plead once again, can someone please help me understand the religious right? ‘Cause holy shit, to me that just seems like the most unlikely, no, impossible marriage of guiding moral principles.

So, no, I’m not good, not always. Two sides of the same coin.

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I leave with you my good wishes for a wonderfully Merry Christmas! I’m not religious whatsoever, but I’m a deeply committed Santa Claus/Christmas tree/deck the halls/Nutcracker/light all the lights/Christmas carols/agnostic kind of Christmas gal. I love having my children home for the holidays, finding just the right gift for the right person, and principles of goodwill and togetherness. The winter solstice was yesterday and I’m all for deep reflection this time of year and the hopeful promise increasing light brings. The Zoloft helps.

2025 MDA Muscle Walk

The proliferation of cruelty and the tide of hate-fueled and -filled media is too much for me right now. Individuals seated in our nation’s highest offices and those stationed at their network’s anchor desks or podcast bully pulpits incite violence: peacocks in full boast mode, feathers fanned out in a gross display of racism, ableism, and other-ism-ing. As the meme goes, it’s a tough time to be a empath.

Absent one shred of evidence, the “others” were loudly, widely, and categorically assigned blame for yet another horrific act of gun violence. Names of “others” are being taken and lists compiled as threats are leveled against educators, writers, influencers (god I hate that term), university professors, health care providers. . . You know, the ones who were once thought to be the helpers, the good guys.

Free speech for me but not for thee, seems to be this week’s rallying cry.

Others have and will write more eloquently about the collapse of human decency and the rise of identity politics. My heavy heart needs a media vacay. Writing tells me how I feel and I’m not here to present a dissertation—read the works of talented journalists and yes, “influencers” whose job is to be much better informed than I am. This post is merely a healthy diversion for me.

Big Kid called last week, sharing among other news items, that he would be volunteering at the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Minneapolis area Muscle Walk. You may remember my fund-raising campaigns during the years between my son’s diagnosis and my husband’s accident. Together, we (YOU!) raised $10,000 toward research, care, durable medical equipment, and summer camp for kids living with neuromuscular disease.

My heart overflowed knowing my son, himself diagnosed with neuromuscular disease and a beneficiary of the MDA’s support, was volunteering for the Muscular Dystrophy Association Muscle Walk. I’m 99.7% sure his cousin pulled him in and got him to the event early Saturday morning. She is truly special, that girl, that woman now! She sent pictures and (you better sit down for this shocker)—I cried. Happy tears, this time.

I miss the version of me that raised awareness and funds to support my kid and the thousands like him. I felt so purposeful and a little less scared engaged in that endeavor. I still support the MDA and encourage you to do the same, but that season of my life has faded as my energy had to be redirected.

Fortunately, I had the opportunity to witness and do a little something good while I was at work today. As each Sunday almost always is, today was a great day to be at the ballpark!

Stationed a short ways down from my employer’s marketing footprint outside American Family Field stood a group of firefighters along with 8-10 young people holding boots and signs like the one above, soliciting donations for the MDA’s Fill the Boot campaign. As the pairs made their rounds around the stadium, I thanked them for what they were doing. I said that my son has MD and that I sincerely appreciated their efforts, that what they’re doing meant a lot to me, a mom whose life is directly impacted by this terrible disease. Even if they were only there to log volunteer hours, it mattered to me and I wanted them to know there is a real face behind their efforts.

I never have cash on me, but grabbed my purse to fish out the emergency fiver I keep with my work ID and filled the boot. OK, I didn’t fill jack squat with five bucks! I did what little I could with what I had available in that moment—admittedly it amounted to very little, but I felt a moment of content, grinned a tiny grin and breathed deeply. I felt like I wanted to write a little story about how even in these dark days, a couple firefighters and a bunch of kids still showed up to perform acts of kindness and decency. And here I am with that little story.

Maybe we could all do a little with the little we have—doesn’t that just sound crazy in this timeline though??

Tell Me Something Good

Until last summer, I didn’t know I had a bucket list. I’d asserted often enough that didn’t have a bucket list so I guess I believed myself. I love the great outdoors (but don’t love roughing it), but I’m a nervous traveler so unless someone else is doing the planning, I tend not to stray too far from home. While of course there are wide open spaces and the bright lights of big cities I’d like to visit, there’s not one singular spot on this earth I feel I MUST SEE before I die. But there is something in the sky that I MUST SEE: the Northern Lights.

There is a small chance the aurora will be visible where I live tonight. Will I stay up late enough to head out in search of relative darkness in my city, crazy with light pollution? A fool’s errand, perhaps. 8:00 PM Wendy is highly aspirational and planning to hop in the car after nightfall. Whether I can actually keep my ol’ peepers open until late-late tonight still remains to be seen. When the Northern Lights were last visible at my latitude, everyone I knew–everyone on Facebook anyway–shared their photos. That may have been my only experience of true FOMO, I can’t lie when I say how sincerely I felt I’d missed out on something important. I even took a self-imposed social media break for a couple days. How silly of me, really.

Tonight I will look to the heavens and cross my fingers and toes I get to see them dancing.

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The countdown to summer vacation sits at eleven days. Our district, in a wondrous display of calendar confusion, has staff returning for our last day of school on a MONDAY. For the first year in several, I am skipping joyfully out of the year rather than bolting at a flat-out sprint. I was assigned to an elementary school this year and met with a challenging caseload that was outrageously high to manage in the time allotment given. I worked my butt off the first semester as my caseload exploded (an impossible 29 students to see in two half-days). I couldn’t and didn’t do it in two half days, so other parts of my job fell to the wayside.

I wasn’t a great PST this year but once the imposter syndrome subsided, I was a great SLP. I worked hard to plan meaningful lessons, learned about nonspeaking autistic children, and more about augmentative/alternative communication. I saw progress in each and every one of my kids and suffered only one subtle black eye for my efforts. Let’s just say that one of my little friends did NOT want to be done with the dinosaurs that day and I was a beat too slow to catch his hands!  I complained to my PST friends a whole lot the first semester as my caseload grew hourly, and I appreciated their listening ears and generous hearts. I appreciated those open ears and kind heats equally when I was able to share my delight and successes with those very kids the second semester.

I recently got a phone call from a former student, a young man who graduated high school in 2023. He left me a voicemail saying he’d found some papers we’d worked on in speech-language therapy and wondered if maybe I could help him with something now. We connected a few days later via text and phone. Educators sometimes wonder if our kids hear us, if we do in fact make a difference to our students. When a student calls you two years post-graduation to say he remembers you as always trying to help him and always being really kind to him?? Tantamount to an Oscar or an Emmy. Maybe a Tony because speech-language therapy is a live performance! Yes, a Tony. That’s how his call left me feeling–and I told him so! I was able to connect him with the type of resources he sought and I can’t wait to hear what’s next for him.

Speaking of awards–Last Friday our department celebrated the end of the year by recognizing our newest SLPs’ completion of their Clinical Fellowship Years, sending off our honored retirees, and handing out our first-ever SLP Honors Trophies. I’m not much for creativity, but I do love a microphone in hand. Twice previous I’d been a game show host, but my collaborator (OK, not really my collaborator, she wrote the whole thing and let me be my idiot self up there as the emcee) was on leave this year. To close out this year, I created the SLP Honors, “awards” recognizing excellence and ridiculousness. Some categories were true and sincere, like “Always Got Your Back,” or “Most Likely to Earn 3 PhDs.” Some were silly, like “Weirdest Work Injury” and “Broom Closet Award/Least Instagrammable Speech Therapy Space.” Yes, the award winning SLP was given a storage room in which to see students. *sigh* for #SLPLife

It was great fun for me to read the nominations as they came in and more fun to hand out recycled trophies and new certificates at our luncheon meeting. I work with some incredible professionals.

Closer to home, or technically farther away from home: my big kid finished his third year of college with his best semester GPA so far. He can’t believe he’s a senior. HE can’t believe it?? Get behind me in the line of disbelief, kid!

He has two minors and a major he hopes will land him a job in the field he desires. My heart leapt to hear him say he now knows what he wants to do in this life. My little kid navigated a challenging first year of college, earning a spot on the dean’s list both semesters, playing intramural sports and having fun with them, and forging friendships. I’m proud of them both for their determination and hard work.

It feels out of character to write and reflect on the good news about which I’ve written here. Things have felt so hard for so long that I wondered if I’d ever feel up again. Positivity and optimism aren’t exactly my brand, ya know. At all. But with the help of therapy, physical activity, and a low dose of anti-depressants, along with my wonderful supporting cast of coworkers, friends, and family who love me and whom I love right back, I made it through this school year. Hate and cruelty, lies and stupidity are running amok and unchecked these days. Not too many months ago my fingers would have been bled dry then calloused over from my incessant doom scrolling. I don’t have a whole lot to say here on my little blog anymore. I can say with surety that it’s fucking fantastic to have had a little run of good news lately.

What’s good with you? Tell me something good.

The Finish Line

We live two blocks from the county park that served as the finish line for the Milwaukee Marathon. Saturday morning’s sky shone the perfect blue shade of spring and despite sleeping two hours later than usual, my husband and I were out the door for an earlier than usual walk.

We parked ourselves near the finish gate with about 3:30 time elapsed. That means that people crossing the line had been running for over three and a half hours! Running the whole time. Three. And a half hours. In a row!

I’d been to one marathon prior and the human drama is more than ephemeral–it carries weight, has mass. You see a spectrum of runners–bodies of all types, shapes, ages, and sizes. You see people cramping and limping across the finish; you see expressions of joy and disbelief as runners round that final corner; you see people holding hands across the finish line; you see arms raised in celebration; you even see runners sprinting that last tenth of a mile. Witnessing triumph in complete strangers brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t actually witness my niece Lauren crossing the line when she ran the Chicago Marathon in support of the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Team Momentum, but I cried happy tears each time I saw her along the route.

You also see marathoners who’d never previously considered themselves runners, but somehow find themselves at the finish line of 26.2 miles. That was the case of the family I happened to meet by virtue of our observation spot. As Dave (so said the sign) was rounding the final corner, his cheering squad went into overdrive. Cowbells clanking, his family members held up their signs, jumping up and down as they cheered him along that last tenth of a mile. When he passed us just before finishing, three of his family members stepped back from the course–each openly crying. One of Dave’s faves said to the others, “I don’t know why I’m so emotional.” I did.

But also, I didn’t. By now the three family members were full-on sobbing, in search of a Kleenex tissue. One woman repeatedly wondered, “I’m so emotional, why am I so emotional?” Of course me being me, I’m crying right along with them, total strangers to me and I to them. I said, “I don’t know you all and I’m emotional right now!”

The group laughed at/with me and then shared their story: that Dave had not previously considered himself a runner, but trained and ran in honor of their cousin/uncle who had passed away four months ago. Dave assumed the entry bib of their now-departed family member and ran a marathon because his cousin couldn’t.

What an experience to start my Saturday–the peak of human decency and dignity wrapped up in the warmest of hugs. Our exchange lasted no longer than a minute, I’ll never know their names or see this family again, but Dave and his family will stick with me.

Gonna Jump in the Shower

Why do people say, “I’m going to jump in the shower?” I’ve never jumped in–that is a recipe for certain disaster! Does anyone actually jump in? Not one to take that leap, I do however, wish I’d had my keyboard in the shower this morning. Some of my most cogent, cohesive thoughts flow from my brain as the water flows over my body. If only I had the long-enough term memory to later channel brain thoughts into keyboard strokes. By the time I’ve squeegeed the shower stall, toweled off, and slapped moisturizer on my face, any semblance of shower-based inspiration has circled down the drain along with the water.

Have you had the experience of expressing yourself so clearly and logically in your head, constructing a prize-winning piece of prose or oration only to sputter all over when it’s time to make it real? That. Plus, running water + electronic devices = disaster.

News Flash!!! Let me tell you about my friend Ann’s success as an illustrator. Ann is a wonderfully talented artist, whose friend, Kelly Nelson, a wonderfully talented children’s book author, tapped her to illustrate her new book. To date, I’ve only seen a few of Ann’s early drafts and unfinished plates, but I could not be more proud of and excited for my friend! Ann is as good a human as the world has to offer. She’s so kind, freaking hilarious and lightning-quick with a comeback or aside guaranteed to slay. Ann is compassionate and loyal, and I hope everyone gets to have a friend like her in their life. For the longest time, I described Ann as my friend Barb’s best friend, which is true, but I’ve now eliminated the adjacent part and feel fortunate to refer to her as my friend.

Their book is titled The Carpenter and the Cat, available for pre-order.

Thinking of how decent and good Ann is somehow steered my brain to a 180-degree tailspin. Shower-me kept saying (well not saying of course, but thinking) that I just don’t get mean people. I just don’t get people who avoid introspection in favor of casting stones. I just don’t get people who aren’t happy unless someone else is necessarily sad. I just don’t get people who find fault at every turn except their own, always instead on the attack. I just don’t get people who find joy in stomping on the fingers of people one rung below them on the ladder. I just don’t get people screaming hurtful things at people who make easy targets–trust me, the outliers know they’re outliers–and your cruelty says more about you than it does them.

That’s not at all how it sounded in my head in the shower, but that’s the gist of it.

The chatter is constant and there’s so much noise right now. I’m in desperate need of quiet. I don’t even listen to music in the car much these days, in pursuit of peace and quiet. Maybe that’s why my shower stall, with its falling water ambient noise, is the place where ideas come to me and flow uninterrupted? Along with some anticipated visits (including one from Ann!), I must carve out some quiet time during this break in the school calendar. I hope to make time for nothing, creating space and time for my thoughts to flow, not race, as thoughts too-frequently do.

Be more like the characters in Kelly and Ann’s nonfiction book–helpful, concerned, of service. It costs exactly nothing to be a decent human–please consider making the investment.

Be well. Take good care, everyone.