Dayton Daily News

I'm honored to be a guest columnist for the Dayton Daily News. Here is my latest piece:

 

The New Thanksgiving

Rebecca Rine

I have a confession: I don’t like Thanksgiving.  I know this declaration is as un-American as saying I don’t like ponies, apple pie or baseball, but hear me out.  My dislike of Thanksgiving is not born of historical inaccuracies regarding how the Pilgrims took advantage of the Indians.  Although that is a very important fact to acknowledge, my objection is based more on how nothing about gorging myself on turkey and side dishes makes me feel like I’m giving thanks.  It makes me merely feel like taking a nap.

My problem with Thanksgiving is that there is, in fact, very little thanks being given.  Sure, we go around the table and devote a quick obligatory minute to saying something we’re thankful for, but often it’s while football is blaring in the background and we’re checking Facebook to see if Jenny whom we haven’t seen since high school likes our comical status update.  

We spend hours cooking a turkey because that’s what the Pilgrims ate with the Indians, gosh darn it, so we will do the same.  I don’t understand this literal reenactment—the folks back then also lived outside and didn’t bathe for months, and I’m not about to do either of those things, so why not stray into new territory and update our traditions to better foster gratitude?  (By the way, I’m quite certain the Pilgrims didn’t put marshmallows on their yams, but I digress.)

I want to be a modern-day pioneer and initiate a tradition that’s a bit more real and gritty. If it’s meant to be a day of giving thanks, I say let’s do this, and let’s do it big. I would start in my own neighborhood by knocking on my neighbors’ door.  After learning their names, I would ask them to join me in the street to celebrate and give thanks, and we would move on to the next house and the next. 

People would peek through their blinds wondering where all the laughter was coming from, and soon they too would join.  The mass of positive energy would snowball into an infectious, vibrant parade of giving thanks. It would be like a musical where suddenly everyone knows the words and choreography. Snapping and jazz hands would most definitely find their way into the mix. The ticker on the news would read, “Dayton does it again—world’s most grateful city!”

It would be a celebration to rival Mardi Gras.  People would parade down Far Hills, holding up enormous signs of things they’re grateful for—“Honk if you love your kids as much as I do!” or “I didn’t make as much money as I hoped this year, but all of my needs were met!” I want Thanksgiving to turn from being a passive day of something lukewarm and underwhelming you receive to a kinetic, super-charged jubilant celebration for outwardly expressing thanks.

Gandhi once said we should be the change we envision, but I know change is hard, especially since the change I envision is a little nutty.  What is easy is eating so much turkey, potatoes and pie we start to sweat.  And maybe that’s why we do it. It’s a preserved tradition that’s been passed on to us and it’s comfortable, but I also think it’s important to challenge ourselves to see how we can extend ourselves.

As a parent I do feel an obligation to pass down the old traditions to my wee ones to remind them where we’ve all come from, but lately I’ve been feeling a stronger tug to mold them into people who aren’t afraid of change.  I want my kids to be grateful, not just act grateful on a special day because they’re told they should.  I want them to go out of their comfort zones and not be embarrassed to express gratitude and utter joy with life and to reach out to others. Unbuckling my belt while gasping, “Holy cow, why did I eat so much?” is not exactly setting the stage for this goal.

But you know what?  The other dirty little secret is that I will do none of this.  These scenes are fictitious fabrications in my caffeinated brain.  What I will do is leaf through a cook book, looking for the best sweet potato recipe, wondering why I’m bothering since I’m the only one who eats them, but then quickly reminding myself it’s just what we do on Thanksgiving. I will watch the parade on TV with my kids through sleepy lids.  I will say to myself, “Next year will be different.”

 

Bio:  Rebecca is a freelance writer living in Kettering.

Back from Break!

I haven't written in this since December.  So that makes it a 6-month hiatus pretty much.  Oy vay.  I guess when life happens, it's hard to find time to write about life happening, no?  The skinny is I had my hip replaced.  Looking back I'd say it was nearly a piece of cake, but the truth is, it wasn't.  But now it is, so no need to dwell on the ugly bits of the past. Today I am stronger than I've been my entire life and each day I enjoy being surprised by what my leg can do and what it can't yet, but I will push it to do.

Each morning I drag my butt out of bed at 6:15 (a younger version of me would scoff at how late this is, but it's the best I can do these days) and hike my dog, Steve, up and down the hills of Kettering, Ohio.  Sometimes he pulls me to the point of running, and I can almost do this without looking ridiculous.
Nearly every day, I sit "pretzel" style.  I just sit there and breathe, enjoying this new-found freedom.  Sometimes on my break at work, I walk to the art institute and climb the big hill there, and when I get to the top I sit pretzel style in the grass, looking over Dayton, marveling at such an underdog city.

It's humbling that no one in the world knows the depth of your struggles.  No one knows the pain I endured. No one knows the pain you endure, not completely anyway.  It's just a part of life that we swallow down and hope we can handle it, and we always do because we have no choice, but we always end up the better for having gone through it.  Those are the sort of thoughts that wash over my brain when I sit pretzel style.

In writing news:  I'll be a guest columnist for the Dayton Daily News again here soon.  I haven't written a piece since the election, so I'm overdue.  I think this column will be about nature and kids.  It's brewing in my head, but I need to see where it goes yet.  I was just published in Morehead State University's literary journal.  It's an essay about how really horribly I handled going back to work when Cece was born.  I was a hot mess.  It's 20 pages long, so I'll attach a portion of it here.  I'm working on my second book, and this will be included in it.  What's that saying?  I can't give you the milk for free...or something about you'll never ask for milk if I give you the cow?  Who knows.  I'm notorious for never remembering common sayings.  I once told a lady, "Thanks for letting me pick your ear" when I meant to say "pick your brain".  Don't worry, this hair-brained conversation will not be in  my next book. My point is, I'll attach a portion of the essay, and I hope when the book is published, you'll buy it or borrow it to read the rest of the essay, not because you owe me that, but because you're hooked and you can't wait to see how it ends.

I’d Like to Thank My Colon

 I’m in a closet at an investment firm.  It’s been converted to a “mothering room,” but really, it’s still a closet that reeks of garlic from the salad dressing in the mini-fridge that’s meant to hold breast milk working mothers pump to take home to their babies.  It’s disconcerting to see my bottle of freshly pumped milk neighboring a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch, but I refuse to let them—the creamy- dressing-eating stock-market zombies—take over my mothering room, so I defiantly put my milk next to the dressing as if it were a soldier, standing unapologetically proud to rightfully claim its territory in the mini-fridge.  If it could talk, in my mind it looks around the fridge and defensively says, “Yeah, so what?  I came out of her boob.  What are YOU lookin’ at?” The cool-kid crowd of dressing and Bennigans leftovers look at my breast milk and he’s forced to fend for himself as they stare him up and down with a snarl.  A more polite employee might put a label on her milk warning others not to drink it, but not me.  I like the idea of a six-figure-earning employee thinking he’s going to sneak just a little free milk to put in his coffee, never to realize the difference.  Besides, this is supposed to be MY room and MY room alone since I’m the only breastfeeding mother in the firm.  In fact, I’m tempted to drive the point totally home by squirting milk everywhere like a dog marking her territory, turning the room into a lactose Pollock painting. 

The room also carries the stench of burnt hair and drool—burnt hair because employees curl their hair in here before work—employees who definitely are not mothers, but are simply women who are trying to stay on top of the tall command to look fabulous demanded by those in charge—and it smells like drool because stoner employees nap in here and use the same blanket over and over that’s now rolled up into a ball and shoved into a cupboard, the smell of sleep lingering in the stale air.  The combination of garlic, burnt hair, and drool is not my first choice of ideal conditions in which to prepare my daughter’s food. 

This room has become such a non-mothering room, in fact, that it’s occupied nearly every time I come to use it.  When my breasts become swollen water balloons ready to burst , I feverishly knock on the door as if out of an episode of The Brady Bunch where 6 kids are fighting over one bathroom, only it’s not my bladder that’s full.  I stay at my desk as long as possible simply because it’s not feasible to stop working if I want to work only a 9-hour day.  I see my baby for only an hour a day as it is, so I must make sure I don’t have to stay any later.  So I work until the feeling of hot knives scraping along my skin becomes unbearable as my breasts reach the full mark.

I’ve got two suction cups attached to my bare milk-suppliers; my Ann Taylor shirt is pulled up and lassoing my neck.  It doesn’t exactly fit into my everyday style of clothing that consists of tank tops and thrift-store t-shirts that advertise Manischewitz or the Rolling Stones.

I kick off my high-heeled shoes which make me feel like I’m a sixth-grader playing dress-up, trying to mimic someone professional instead of actually being someone professional.  Being barefoot and shirtless in a closet is the most comfortable I am for my whole day at work.   

My high-end breast milk pump sets on the counter, tubes connecting the machine to the suction cups to my body.  I splurged on the more expensive pump, rationalizing that I needed to pump milk as fast as possible at a job where taking a lunch break was seen as not being a team player.  I turn on the machine and you’d think since it’s the Cadillac of breast pumps, it would hum smoothly, but instead it hisses and jolts like an angry cat working something up out of its stomach.  On the lowest speed it regurgitates a k-yoo…k-yoo…k-yoo…kkkkk-heeee sound; on the highest speed, a k-yookkkk-heeek-yookkkkk-heeee sound.  The sound is always alarming to me, especially when it comes in a closet at an investment firm and I’m nearly naked and employees who can’t live without their salad dressing or afternoon siestas are knocking on the door.  It seems so surreal and out of context, like when I have one of my recurring dreams where I’m going to the bathroom in the stacks of encyclopedias at the library.  I keep my eyes locked on the door handle the entire time, knowing that I locked it, but convincing myself that staring at it will make it be extra, extra locked.  I fear being walked in on and trying to explain the scene.  It looks much sexier than it actually is with my shoes and bra haphazardly thrown onto the floor as if someone were in the throes of passion.  Nope, I am just a mad, half-naked scientist amidst suction cups and tubes, simply trying to make lunch for her baby in a closet in an investment firm. 

Through the door I can hear the muffled voices of men and women in suits, discussing investment terms that I don’t understand, but I give a knowing nod and solid eye contact to convey understanding in any discussion I have, when in reality I’m constantly wondering which part of my daughter’s life I’m missing out on.  I pretend to take notes in meetings, but the notes are always to-do lists that inevitably have some variation of the command “Get out of here” as one of my chores to cross off my list.  At the end of stock market-update meetings, the facilitator often asks, “Are there any questions?” and I’m often tempted to raise my hand and ask, “So what IS the stock market?” because I’m still not even clear on that yet after two and a half years of being immersed in it.   So to say I am a fish out of water would be an understatement.  I am a fish who’s on the sand, flopping around, convulsing in the blinding sun, screaming and kicking trying to get her ridiculous rump-raising heels off and swim home to her baby.  I am, in fact, a bottle of warm breast milk amidst a cool-kid crowd of Bennigans leftovers and dressing. 

My goals in life are simple:   go for long walks with my family; teach my daughter the importance of nature, music, homemade meals, and gardening; go camping; go for bike rides; play guitar; volunteer; be grateful and kind—not exactly characteristics that would qualify me to work at one of the world’s fanciest investment firms where the word “money” alone sends employees into orgasmic delirium.  But the Executive Vice President liked me in my interview.  I was myself, which is a little sassy and silly.  I didn’t try to impress her because I don’t think I wanted to.  She asked me why I wasn’t wearing a suit—all the other candidates she had seen that day were wearing them.  I told her honestly I don’t have enough money to buy a suit nor do I feel comfortable in suits and I was banking on the fact that she would like my personality and see my strong work ethic without the guise of a suit.  She hired me on the spot. 

I should’ve listened to my gut back then when it warned me I cannot pull off this charade of fitting into Corporate America.  There are plenty of fantastic, responsible people who find it a great environment in which to thrive—I am not one of those people.  But I wanted it to work.  I was Cinderella’s ugly stepsister shaving away the corns on my feet, cursing when the glass slipper of a stressful, stuffy, well-paying job wouldn’t fit.  I wanted to enjoy the long work hours and pour my heart into what I was doing instead of getting caught up in the fact that I was using none of my talents or knowledge or degrees I’ve worked hard to obtain because those things don’t pay the bills as easily.  I wanted to wake up one morning and put on my heels only to realize I didn’t feel like I was merely mimicking a professional, but I had actually morphed into one and I could stop my juvenile resisting.  That never came close to coming to fruition. 

I compare my being in Corporate America to Elton John being forced to be a hockey player—it just doesn’t look or feel right or natural.  At work, I would often stare out the windows of the office kitchen into the adjacent building while my brown-bag lunch was warming up in the microwave, hoping to see other workers who didn’t want to be there to remind me that, yes, this is what adults do and I am one of those adults.  It’s simply what…we… do, so stop over-analyzing it so much.  We stuff ourselves into suits and put on our play-well-with-others faces and we use corporate phrases created to mask our true emotions like, “Who’s going to drive the bus on this project?” and “That was a real teachable moment.” 

Everyone else seemed to be so good at fitting into this world, but it literally made me nauseous each morning when the elevator doors opened and I knew I’d have 9 hours ahead of me of pretending to be something I just wasn’t.   I felt embarrassed and sensitive that I just couldn’t buck up and handle the situation.  I kept scolding myself for being so hell-bent on finding a job I’d like.  Why can’t money be what leads me?  Don’t I owe that to my daughter?  Am I being selfish? 

In the closet, I look down at a photo of my little Cece Lou.  A photo of your baby is meant to induce milk flow while you’re pumping as if your body will be tricked into thinking your baby is actually in the room with you and in need of food, thereby producing more milk.  It’s an unnatural gimmick humans have created to rationalize juggling too much in life and for each of the three times I pump at work each day and I see the picture, my heart seriously revolts and pouts at the whole situation.  She’s 4 months old in the picture and she’s wearing a sunhat while sitting on a swing.  Her chubby cheeks nearly engulf her face and the rolls of fat on her arms and legs are waves of doughy goodness.  I was kneeling on the ground when I took the photo looking up at her and she’s looking down at me with a gummy grin and a line of happy drool is caught mid-drip in the photo slipping from her mouth.  The money I’m earning cannot replace time, the money I’m earning cannot replace time, the money I’m earning cannot replace time is a thought that nestled in and picked away at my brain like rust on a bicycle chain or a vulture on a carcass.

Robo Hip for Reba

In just over a week I'm having hip-replacement surgery.  It's surreal that the date is now just around the corner because it took me 6 months just to get an appointment with the doc at the Cleveland Clinic, and then another 6 months to book the surgery.  Not to mention, I've been waiting literally my whole life to be pain free. 

I was born with hip dysplasia, and had my first surgery to "fix it" when I was 6 month old, then again when I was 2 and then again when I was a teenager (13 or 14?) at which time I was in a body cast for 2 months, followed by traction due to complications, a year of crutches and therapy. 

I've been thankfully bull-headed this entire time, pushing myself to work through my limitations, wincing in pain but insisting on not missing out on things that the pain and fatigue would otherwise keep me from doing.
I remember my surgeon when I was a teenager admitting to me his highest hope for my condition would be for me to have a fused hip, which would entail my dragging my leg with no joint motion.  I'm grateful he didn't tell me this prediction before my rehab because since I didn't know that reality, it didn't exist to me. 

I woke up at 5:30 nearly every morning as a teenager to walk on the treadmill, mentally visualizing the healthy, stronger me who would never limp, who would run with the wind hitting her smiling face.  As I write this, I can still see the wood-paneled wall in the living room where the treadmill was.  I would stare at that wall into the wood knots and family photos hung there of my first communion and siblings' sports teams.  I saw a stronger me, and I created a stronger me--never a non-limping, able-to-run me, but a stronger me.

But there have always been limitations.  My leg has been in pain in some way literally every day for nearly 37 years.  A simple walk in the mall as a teenager would leave me staring at the ceiling in bed that night, wondering if it would be better one day.  Now as a mom, I chase after my kids, again thinking I can simply work through this and suck it up, but with one leap towards them as we play "monster" I realize the time has come to quit pretending this is simply a "mind over matter" issue.  The matter is that my hip is done.  It's bone on bone and it's causing hip pain, knee pain and now back pain.

But the paranoid side of me fears that I should deal with this and avoid surgery because what if the surgery makes it worse? What if my body has accepted this disability and somehow goes off-kilter at a pristine, perfect, manufactured hip?  I guess I'm just afraid of the unknown.  I cannot imagine what it's like to walk without reminding myself not to limp.  I have no idea what it's like to run with ease, and I certainly don't know what a day without discomfort feels like.

It's like I'm a prisoner who is being released and now is suddenly really intimidated by the prospect.  Even though my hip has been nothing but crummy to me, it's been MINE.  It's my red-headed stepchild whom I've loved unconditionally.

Hell, maybe it's time to slap that child and kick it out on its ass.

I think I needed to write this to come to that conclusion.  Hell yes.  New, robotic, perfect hip, here I come.  I can't wait to welcome you in to the mess that is me!

Dayton Daily News

Here is what was published in today's Dayton Daily News.  It's my goal to really tackle writing this year and immerse myself in this fine community!

My husband, two kids and I moved to the Dayton area a year and a half ago from Chicago, and as a newly inducted Ohio voter, I felt the weight of my vote this election.  I took this enormous responsibility to heart and spent most of the election in limbo, quietly listening, actively not listening at other times, and just genuinely trying to find answers to lead me to a decision.  I tried to block out the obnoxious noise of the election to focus on the election.

But there is a stigma attached to indecisiveness, especially in the arena of politics.  I’ve come to learn that being undecided does not show thoughtful consideration in the eye of most voters; it shows naivety, gullibility or lack of intelligence and awareness.  

Being decided on a vote, on the other hand, has a warm, fuzzy feeling attached to it.  Being committed to an answer leaves us feeling confident and strong in our convictions. It implies that we’ve done our homework and have gathered all the information needed.  It is a perceived stamp of intelligence, and as tempting as it was to join this comfort, I remained in voter’s purgatory for nearly all of the election, cringing at most of the information I vowed to ingest with contemplation. 

My being an undecided voter caught the attention of The New Yorker magazine that sent a photographer to be embedded in our house for four straight days to investigate what in the world causes a voter to be undecided.  I was an anomaly—an undecided voter is one thing, but an undecided OHIO voter?  Alert the media!

I teach critical thinking skills to my English composition students at Sinclair Community College.  Students look as though they were kicked in the guts as I tell them they must listen to the other side of their argument before they can write a sound, level-headed argument essay. I recently asked a student, “Why is it so hard listening to people who don’t think the same as you?” His answer was alarming:  “Because they’re wrong.  That’s a fact.”

I can most certainly understand this nineteen-year-old student, as I am quite certain I had the same stubborn stance in my younger days. However, it made me look at the election process in the same way—we often come to conclusions—a vote—long before the facts are presented to us.  We skew these opinions and convictions into facts and truths, when in reality they are personal attachments, beliefs and our egos. 

It takes a release of our egos to be critical thinkers who challenge ourselves to see beyond our own self-interests and allow opposing views to make their way in without infuriating us.  That is not to say we should agree with everything we hear.  But we do tend to listen to and embrace views that validate our own thinking, and we rally against anything that steps outside this cozy circle.  It is much easier and fun to show allegiance to one side and look for evidence to further prove the other side is wrong and maybe even ridiculous and moronic.  It is much more difficult to open the slammed doors in our brains, letting even off-kilter points of view make their way into our consideration.  It demands we think and not simply comfortably follow.   

It’s a dirty little secret that I was undecided for so long.  I would politely sit through pep talks from liberal friends about how Obama is amazing and Romney is nothing but a money-hungry jerk who wants to make the rich richer.  On the converse, I would respectfully sit through spiels from conservative friends who touted Romney’s plan and warned that Obama is nothing but a socialist who wants everyone to be on welfare.

Isn’t there any gray area in politics?  Maybe Romney could be right about this and Obama right about that?  Does it have to be that only one candidate can be absolutely right about everything and the other candidate is absolutely wrong about everything and is nothing but downright horrible, ridiculous and vindictive? Does life really deal in such absolutes?

Now that the election is over, we all have to be okay with the outcome. If your guy didn’t win, take a good look at the guy who did win because he is now your guy.   If your candidate didn’t become the president, you have a choice.  You can either go into the next four years with the outlook of “He will do nothing right ever” or you can open your mind, sit back and be pleasantly surprised to find that the person running our country will do something right.  Try to find one thing he might not mess up.  Start with that.

All Things Considered

I'm sticking to my goal of getting my essays out there.  Actually, I should say I'm sticking to my goal of trying to get my essays out there.  I'm going to submit the commentary below to public radio's show called All Things Considered.  If it's not chosen, my plan is to send them something every week until something is.

 

Kissy Monster

She was called Kissy Monster by her nephews because of how she covered them with kisses whenever she saw them.  She was killed in the 9/11 terrorist attacks.  I don’t know what her real name was and I can’t even remember where I read the tribute to her, but as I read it last year I shivered with grief for her and the thousands of others who lost their lives that horrific day.  I pictured her nephews squealing with laughter as their energetic aunt wrapped her arms around them and they squinted their eyes as the kisses landed. 

I don’t know anyone who died in the attacks, not even a friend of a friend who died, but every year on the anniversary, I think about the typical, everyday people who were going about their lives as they always did until life stopped abruptly that day.  People were going to work, dropping their kids off at school, running errands to check off their to-do lists.   This seemingly ordinary, mundane life is what ties us all together.  It is exactly what Kissy Monster and everyone else was up to that day 11 years ago.

For me, 9/11 is a day to be grateful for the glorious ordinariness of life. My life is filled with routines as tedious as paying bills, breading chicken, and fighting road rage.  When my head hits the pillow I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever leave a mark on this world in any extraordinary way, but it has occurred to me that each of us makes a mark.  This humdrum drudgery is no drudgery at all.  It is the precise heartbeat of life and how we maneuver our way through the ordinariness is what lingers in the minds of those left behind long after we’re gone. 

Instead of wondering if I’m leaving a mark, my goal is to ask myself if I was a good Kissy Monster.  Did I engulf my family with love and laughter? Did I reach out to friends and hold them close? Did I happily invite the wonderful ordinariness of life or did I drag my heels complaining that I’m nothing spectacular?

I was reminded of this today as I left the house and my family came running up to me screaming, “HUGS!” and I doled out my usual dose of “love bolts” which consists of holding my chest up to theirs and exuding sounds of electrical bolts shooting love into their chests.   I thought of Kissy Monster then and wished I knew her name.  Maybe one day my kids will give their kids love bolts.  I hope this more than I hope that I succeed in anything else I do in my life.

Pluggin' Away

So it's official--I'm working on my second book, but this book will not be self-published.  No, I don't have a publisher yet, but I won't stop until I get one.  And, no, I haven't tried to get one yet either, but I will. Yes, I will.  I'm actually going to take some stories from my first book Sunbathing in a Body Cast and add a whole bunch more and rename it Sunbathing in a Body Cast:  True Stories of a Resilient Runt.  I was going to call the book I'd Like to Thank My Colon but I think the other title holds a bit more pizazz to it.  It's hard to carve out time to write every day, but this past weekend I sat down for 15 minutes and wrote 1200 words, so I know I have it in me.  Most of the stories deal with social observations, being a mom, crazy things I think about, my walk away from corporate America, and plenty o' self-deprecating humor. 
Amidst this work in progress, I have the date of Dec. 11 looming in the back of my mind because that's when I'm going to get my hip replaced at the Cleveland Clinic.  It's hard to not let that be the only thing I think about every day.  Of course my brain goes to a dark place and hopes I don't kick the bucket on the operating table.  It's not likely, but wouldn't that just be my luck?  Today I went to run after my 20-month old and could barely do it from the stiffness and pain in my hip, so I'm looking forward to the day when I can do it.  I'm not even 40 and I'm slowing down and it's a reality check.  People always talk about how one day you'll feel old and it's shocking to have that one day be this day.  I'm active and healthy and strong, but this feeling of slowing down is suffocating to me.  I want to be able to run after my kiddos when they're young, but I also want to do really cool stuff with them when they're adults like travel.  Cece and I talk about going to Italy and she's told me countless times about how she's going to be "a single lady and travel."  So Mama needs this hip to keep up.
So beyond the thoughts of this surgery and teaching writing classes every day and running after my family every day, there is a start of my next book, and in my bones I know it's good.  It's good because ever since grad school I've been quietly sitting back and absorbing as much as I can about writing.  I finally feel like I get it. It doesn't always come out as though I get it, but I do get it now and I hope I have the courage to keep letting it out.

Work vs. Life Cagematch!

I sometimes write for the Faculty Forum at the college where I teach. This is my latest article:

Work vs. Life Cagematch!
Rebecca Rine-Stone

A student recently came up to me after class with a concern. He had been out of school for twenty years, and he was nervous about his writing. I assured him that’s understandable, but I would do all that I could to give him the help he needed. Then he said, “Well, I’m intimidated by you because I mean, here you are the TEACHER. You don’t know how intimidating that is.” His assumption that I have my life neatly lined up enough to evoke awe caused me to nearly spit my cold Folgers out in laughter.

His perception at least assured me my outward appearance and professional persona are belying my true inner tug-of-war struggle, trying to find balance between work and life. I was relieved he wasn’t able to see behind the curtain of my production because there he would witness my career and personal life duking it out, ferociously yanking each other’s hair with bloodied nails and smeared mascara, shrieking, “She’s mine!” “No—she’s mine!” as I look on, mouth agape, wondering whom to devote attention to first.

So much time is spent focused on the students and what they need from us that I feel talking about work/life balance for teachers is akin to discussion of taboo topics such as money, religion, or admitting I love watching The Bachelor. Discussion of work/life balance is the proverbial elephant in the room for us. Talking about it feels too eerily close to complaining or not being grateful. It’s a daunting topic as well because I don’t want to come across as saying, “I give too much to my students. I’d like to start giving less, thank you very much.” The truth is, my goal is to reach and engage them but not at the expense of my entire brain and personal life.

In a recent Student Engagement meeting, a fellow adjunct instructor and I got to talking about work/life balance. I could feel my eyes widen as she expressed the same panicky consumption I’ve been feeling. I was finally shedding light on this dark truth! I thought this was my dirty little secret! So I’m not alone! The facilitator came by and we addressed the question to him: “How do you keep work from taking over your life?” His answer: “I’ll let you know when I figure that out!”

Oh. So the answer is there is no answer.

I understand that teaching is not just a job, it’s a life-consuming challenge, so is this tug-of-war between work and life inevitable and merely proof that I’m doing my job well with gumption? Does it prove I care? Is it the earning of my stripes? Maybe I should be concerned if I didn’t feel that tug. Maybe I’m just a newbie, and with time I’ll learn the art of gracefully billowing between work and life seamlessly like wind. I suspect not.

We devote a lot of time addressing the vital question of what we can do for students to keep them engaged, but I have to remind myself to also do things for me to take care of myself. I leave notes around my house reminding me to exercise, avoid yelling at my kids, and keep submitting my stories to publications. The truth is, however, the notes are just another façade behind the curtain. My definition of exercise is soon reduced to cracking my neck while reading essays. I inevitably lose patience with my kids, and submitting my stories to publications? It’s been a year since that’s happened.

But when I get to class I allow my students to pull, pull, pull. You have a late paper even though I said I cannot take late papers? Oh, you’re dad was sick, so yes, I’ll take it. I said no emailed papers….oh, but your printer is on the fritz? Well, okay, fine, email it to me. I find myself falling into the trap of sometimes giving them more than they’re giving me, but I rationalize it by telling myself I don’t want to be the one factor that stands in the way of their future. I am perhaps so concerned with what they need from me that I forget what I need from me.

We ask students what they want out of college and we work as hard as we can to get them there, but in the process should we allow it to deplete us? It’s a “put your oxygen mask on first before you can help others” scene. I crave oxygen sometimes. If we’re a faculty who is so committed to putting the oxygen on the students first without first putting the oxygen on ourselves, what does that say about us? We too don’t deserve and need it?

All the information at the Student Engagement conferences has been compelling and intriguing, and I’m always wondering what else I can do to make my classes come alive. There’s a teaching to-do list in my brain that feels like a hamster on a wheel: Create an example for the students; Do some more group activities, but be careful because so-and-so doesn’t like group work---think about what might reach him; Create a fresh writing exercise that gets them excited about the assignment…Then this teaching-based to-do list starts to stare down my personal to-do list: Check out summer camps for daughter—maybe they have financial aid?; I should really try incorporating more vegetables into our diet, son still cringes at broccoli but I will conquer; Find a babysitter—haven’t had a date night with the hubs in a year; Car’s still making that crazy sound—oil change?

A lot is expected from a teacher, and I take these responsibilities seriously. We need to reach the students, offer them hands-on learning experiences, engage them, excite them, light fires in their bellies, lead them, teach them to lead, challenge them with new thought, etc. I’m completely on board with this noble mission, but I need someone to teach me a thing or two about how to do this without losing myself.