#mightyifitkillsme, food, insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

It’s really interesting to me how many people say “you should be easier on yourself” or “take it slow” to postpartum women, and genuinely mean it as a kindness. I mean, I totally get it when it’s in reference to “I can’t figure out what do do with this creature that wants to eat and then cries anyway and then wants to eat again and oh god its butt is wet again and why do baby clothes have so many snaps and did I eat yet today I can’t remember oh crap it’s hungry again but wait it apparently hates my nipples so maybe it’s not hungry but if it’s not hungry how do I know what’s wrong and I think I snapped its clothes wrong anyway so let’s start there but oh god now it’s peeing on me.” Going easy on ourselves on that stuff? That part makes perfect sense. Cut yourself some slack. Infants are bugfuck crazymaking.

But when it’s about me, and how I choose to navigate my adult existence, about the choices I make about shaping my life and lifestyle, about things for which I have clear agency and an active locus of control, I wonder. My health. My fitness. My diet. My housekeeping. My time management skills. My daily planning. I am actively in charge of those things in my own world, or partnering with Justin on them, making choices together. And about those things, I wonder why we say “Oh, go slow, honey!” or “Take it easy on yourself. You don’t have to be [insert thing here].” I hear those responses every time I talk about anything vaguely self-improvement related, and I just wonder at it. Of course I don’t HAVE to be [insert thing here]. But I do get to make choices about how I live, about what I desire, about my goals for myself and my lifestyle. And I’m choosing to be [insert thing here]. And why is it not the default to assume that I’m actively content with those choices? Why not assume that I want to live as I’m setting forth as a goal? Why not assume that I actually desire to live to the standards I’m openly choosing to hold myself to?

Instead, it seems like people are assuming I’m responding to some external impetus — some social force, some unwritten expectation — that says that I must do these things. And so people say “oh, you don’t have to [do that thing]” in a way that seems to assume I probably don’t want to do the thing, and am only doing so because I don’t have permission not to. To which I often think in response, “Have you MET me?” I am a deeply action-based person, driven by the intrinsic rewards of successfully completing tasks I’ve set for myself. Having reached age 38, a second marriage, fulfilling hobbies, and a healthy career, all of which have contributed to making me the happiest I’ve ever been, I rarely do shit I don’t want to do. And I certainly don’t set myself goals that don’t have value for me. So when I say I’m going to get fit, eat better, get to work on time, write my thank you notes, take the dog for a walk, stop eating oreos and staring at the ceiling, or whatever today’s goal is, you can pretty much trust I’m saying it because I want to do it. Because I have agency over those choices and actions. And because I value the outcomes of making those choices and doing those things.

Knowing that’s my headspace, I can’t see why people want to tell me to stop. So I pretty much assume they aren’t thinking of my likely headspace, or they aren’t familiar enough with me to understand it. And I know that most everyone means well, is trying to be supportive and encouraging, and speaking from a place of compassion.

But it lands wrong, with me. If you want to encourage me, what I want to hear is “GO GO GO! You can do it!” Continuing to live in a totally indulgent postpartum headspace where I’m late for everything, the dishes are always dirty, household paperwork is piling up on my desk, I don’t exercise, and I’m mainlining Oreos really truly isn’t going to make my next 6 months of climbing slowly back to work and fitness and health any easier. Is it fun to live a life of laziness and cookies? You bet your ass it is. Does it promote goals I value, and outcomes that make my life better? No way. Not at all.

So I’m defaulting back to where I started my pregnancy, when I said “I’m just pregnant, I’m not broken” a lot.

I’m just postpartum, I’m not broken. And I don’t want permission to stay that way.

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Someday I’ll write one of these and it’ll be titled 15, or 20, and I’m certain it will feel equally surreal.

My dad died 10 years ago today. I don’t even know how it’s possible that it’s been 10 years, and yet it was a lifetime ago. I got married, I got divorced, I got married again. I went to New Zealand alone and Australia with Justin. I got promoted to a kick-ass hard-as-hell job. I got a dog. I had a baby.

He didn’t get to see any of it. He would have loved all of it.

Even the divorce. The divorce was me learning, and reclaiming things that mattered to me, and choosing consciously to keep changing and growing and being happy. He would have loved that just as much as the acts of choosing joy inherent in choosing marriage in the first place. He would have loved talking travel with me, and probably would have had interesting advice about my Southern Hemisphere trips. He would have had to eat his words, and would have gladly, about me being a librarian “because I couldn’t think of anything else”.

And he would adore Gwyneth (and Malcolm, though in different ways). He loved kids, and dogs. Kids and dogs understood him, and he understood them. I never remember a dog who didn’t love Henry, or a kid who wasn’t interested in checking him out and being his friend. He spoke the right language for both kinds of creatures, and they spoke right back. I was lucky he was my father.

Ten years.

Of course, odds are good that my life would have taken a radically different path if he’d lived. If he’d lived, I wouldn’t have been shocky and withdrawn and in need in those early years of my first marriage. I would have been a different person during that time, and that version of me might not have married him. Might have seen sooner. Might have self-presented better, more accurately. And if I hadn’t had that relationship, good or bad, I wouldn’t have had this one. Justin and I were born out of the ashes of that, and without those ashes, I don’t think the phoenix could have emerged. Which would mean no Gwyneth to share with him.

I always say that you can’t wish away your past if you like your present, because your choices make you who you are, and bring you to where you stand. If you like where you stand, you cannot undo any single thing in your past. And I love my life. So I embrace my past.

Even the part where my father died too soon.

Henry at (presumably) the American Birkebeiner in the late 70s or early 80s.

And so, after this winter from hell and with a new baby asleep in the other room, I make this pledge: When I write #15, I’ll be able to say I taught my daughter to ski, and that I told her stories of her grandfather. I have my old copy of the Cross-Country Cat, and I bought a copy of The Race of the Birkebeiners while I was pregnant.

Some traditions are worth saving, and renewing. So I guess I also need to buy some skis.

I love you, Hank.

insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

Birth story

Everyone has one of these things, and I find them fascinating when others are willing to share. So.

Gwyn arrived on February 21, 2014: precisely her due date. That wasn’t luck so much as intervention; she was induced on the 20th. My doctor and I had several weeks of conversations about that, and settled on inducing on the 40 week mark, which was the soonest I would agree to. She initially proposed 39 weeks; she told me later that the actual standard of care she was working from recommended 37 weeks. She didn’t even bother bringing that suggestion to me, since she already knew how much research I’d done and how my opinions were likely to fall. So we agreed on 40 weeks, setting the eviction date for the 21st, as she was very clear that she didn’t think it was in my or the baby’s best interests for me to go later. I moved my maternity leave up a week, and hoped and wished for the baby to start labor on her own — I really did not want to be induced.

Alas, 3 pm on the 20th rolled around, and I was not in labor. We’d had one false alarm of pretty strong Braxton-Hicks earlier that week, but no real labor at all. So. Induction o’clock had arrived. The car was packed, the dog was boarded, and off we went to the hospital.

My induction started with Cervadil, which is a drug suppository that is designed to soften the cervix, thus allowing later administration of pitocin to do its job. My OB noted, though, that the Cervadil alone can put many women into labor.

For me, Cervadil on its own worked. My water broke at 8 pm, while Justin and I were watching the Olympics. I spent the next few hours having nonproductive contractions, and around midnight asked for pain meds so I could get some sleep before the real show started. By the time I was due for another dose, at 2:30, the contractions were for real, and the drugs did nothing anymore. We alternated between the whirlpool tub and Justin holding me up, arms around his neck and head on his chest, while I tried to breathe through the experience of each contraction. And then, around 4 am, the pushing started.

That’s when my body got interesting. My hypermobility impacts me almost solely in muscle spasms, as my musculature tries to compensate for my loose connective tissues. Turns out that pushing during labor is something, given my hypermobility, that my body isn’t well-equipped for.

One in three pushes I would get right. I could isolate those muscles and bear down. The other two… I’d try to do it, would engage the muscles in my legs, hips, and core instead, and would, because of the intensity of effort, send those muscles into full-on spasm. Justin spent the full 2 hours I was pushing massaging and compressing my hips, thighs, and low back, trying to help me through. The pain of labor was nothing — NOTHING — compared to the pain of my low back spasming while my hips slid toward dislocation. I was in pain when the contractions hit, but I was screaming when the spasms took over. Justin was amazing; I had tiny fingertip-sized bruises on my low back from the sheer pressure required to release the muscles, and they lasted for a week after we came home. I looked like I’d been beaten repeatedly by a very tiny hammer. And Justin’s hands and arms (also not stable, due to injury) were and are still a wreck as a result.

But we did it. If he hadn’t been there to help me through, to manually massage and release the spasming muscles, and keep my hips in their sockets by brute force, I am certain I would have ended the morning begging for an epidural at best and requiring a c-section at worst. Instead, at 6:15 am, we were fully engaged in birthing, and I heard Dr. DiCoby say “you’ll feel a pinch”, and I knew an episiotomy was next. And, despite my desire to avoid that coming in, all I could think in that moment was “fine. Do it. Get her out safely.” Justin had some interesting thoughts on watching someone cut into his wife to ensure the safety of his child, a conflict he hadn’t experienced before. Me, I didn’t care. Just get her safely into the world.

And at 6:20, we did. Gwyneth Winter Capen was born 10 hours after we started, at which point we started a whole new thing, together in a whole new way.

They put her on my chest, Justin cut the umbilical cord, I delivered the placenta, and the doctor stitched me up. And through it all we sat and held her and I nursed and stared, for about two hours, before they did her newborn testing and treatments. The hormones in those two hours were astonishing, and the lens of distance that I remember it all through is a testament to how effective our evolution has been in ensuring that mothers are willing to give birth more than once. “It was hard, but it wasn’t so bad…” (HA!)

And I’ve written this over the course of a week, ending it at 7 am, watching the world brighten with sunrise, with Gwyn asleep on my chest, typing with thumbs on my phone… Because it’s a whole new world in here. And it’s amazing.

insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

I’ve reached a breaking point for single piece of advice that boils down to “rest more”. It has variants: “adjust your expectations of yourself”, “do less”, “take more naps”, “get more rest”, “take it easy.” They all boil down to one idea: Do less.

And it’s a great idea. I *am* very tired. I am pushing the limits of my own capacity. Pregnancy is hard work, and I’m not really enjoying it. I’d love to do less, take more naps, get more rest, and take it easy. I would love to spend today lying on the new couch doing nothing but staring at the ceiling. I really would.

I also understand that the people who are telling me that this is what I should do are telling me from a place of love, concern, and caring. I DO understand that.

My problem is that it’s misplaced energy.

As I said to Justin when I got pushed too far this morning, I have cut back. I am doing less. I’m working 40 hours instead of 60. I’m not bringing work home. I have a to-do list the size of Montana that isn’t even being touched (hope you weren’t expecting wedding thank you notes anytime soon and/or not in conjunction with baby thanks), and I’m prioritizing very carefully about what matters, and what doesn’t. Today’s list of tasks — about which I felt, and feel, very good, is:

sanitize all the linens, assemble crib, hang nursery curtains, do the dishes, feed the Swarteomans cats, nap on the new sofa.

And my response to the suggestion that I do less today was essentially this: This is what it takes for us to get done all the things that need doing in our home and life, because that matters to me and I have to work tomorrow. I mean, we need to eat, so clean dishes after having the pipes frozen and dishes pile up matter. I would like to sleep in my bed instead of on the pullout, so sanitizing the sickbed sheets matters. Justin and I are excited about setting up our nursery, and we want to do that together. And I should go do my catsitting, because allowing my best friends’ cats to starve while they’re in France seems unkind…

What should I skip? The nap?

Part of what’s rubbing me raw is delivery. I spend an inordinate amount of time considering my delivery and word choice when talking to other people. Part of that is because of what I do (carelessly delivered commentary can hurt when it’s meant to help, in the workplace), and part of that is who I am (I know how aggressive and abrasive I can be if I let myself, and I also don’t want to be that person, so I work not to). And so I hear word choice and delivery even when it comes from people who don’t think about it the way I do. I hear things that are unintentional, slights and aggression where none was intended — it simply wasn’t something the speaker considered. Most of the time I can listen charitably and hear the intent rather than the delivery, but sometimes — like today — my bucket of charity is empty, and I got nothin’ other than reaction.

So, for example, when I’m simply told “do less” or “take a break” or “take more naps”, I, on days like today want to say, pointedly and without any inflection, “Fuck off.” Because it’s not helpful. It doesn’t acknowledge my life. It doesn’t acknowledge the pressures I’m operating under. It doesn’t offer me any practical help or advice. It doesn’t feel like caring. It feels like impossible expectations.

On the other hand, when my friend Mary, who was on medical leave for most of her pregnancy, commiserates that she too had a hard time sleeping and took a lot of naps, I can take it in the spirit in which it was meant. Being able to take a lot of naps is great, and it helped her. I bet it would help me, if I too weren’t in my office 8 hours each day, specifically the ones when naps would be awesome. I can’t really nap at work. What I can do is take breaks, build some quiet time into my day, and take care of myself as best as possible in the framework of that job which I simply must do. Which I’m doing. And she’s not telling me, flat out, “Take a nap.”

On days like today, when I have a list of about 20 things I’d like to get done before I go back to work tomorrow, please know: I’ve already prioritized thoughtfully. I’m not going to do any library work today. I’m not going to try to tackle the wedding thank you’s or the wedding album or investigate writing a will or repot the plants or make bags of old clothes to take to the thrift store or finish knitting the baby blanket or finish felting Justin’s slippers or put away all the Christmas presents or scrub the microwave or brush the dog or print pictures for all the Slades or cook anything at all. I chose the most necessary tasks and I’m doing them.

And I’m happy about it.

Please don’t add to the list of people whose advice feels like thinly veiled accusations that I’m doing it wrong.

insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

So, Malcolm knows SIT, he knows DOWN, he knows GO LIE DOWN, he knows SHAKE, and he’s learning UP for getting into the car and onto the bed, and ROLL OVER about 20% of the time. And he knows NO.

He does not know COME.

Justin’s sick today, lying in bed feeling miserable, feverish, nauseated. Poor guy. I keep bringing him soup and water and crackers, but there’s not much I can do for him. It’s a bug, he’ll kick it off eventually, life goes on, be kind to him and wait it out.

One thing I can do, though, even 32 weeks pregnant, is walk the dog so Mr. Sick doesn’t have to. It’s not awesome, as putting on my boots is becoming a trial with this belly in the way, and I can’t walk fast or far right now. But I can do it. That is, until said dog hears or sees something in the woods and takes off at a full-out run and doesn’t listen when I call him to come back. When he gets that distraction of something truly dog-interesting — a deer, coyotes, another dog, strange people who haven’t petted him yet — it’s as though I don’t exist.

The same dog who, earlier in the afternoon, was belly-up for petting and tail-waggingly leaning on me with love in his eyes. That dog. And my calls and clapping and wheedling meant nothing. In the blink of an eye he was out of sight in the woods and silence reigned.

I pulled out my phone. Texted Justin in his sickbed. “He just bolted into the woods.”

The return text from the sickbed? “Stay where you are. Call and clap. I’m coming.”

And out he came, boots and wool pants and a sweatshirt, looking like death warmed over. I’ve never regretted being immobilized by the awkwardness of pregnancy more than in that moment. I gave him the Carhartt I was wearing, and headed to the house to get a coat for myself, and gloves and a hat for him, as he walked into the woods to track our dog.

In any other year, I could have done it. I was dressed for it, I’m capable of it. But not today. Not off-balance, with one hip that won’t sit in its socket right and a shoulder that doesn’t seem to know it even has a socket, and every other joint stretching to the point of near-dislocation from the relaxin. Not weighing an extra 25 pounds carried in the most awkward place possible for activity. Not with three inches of fluffy snow on top of an inch of ice covering the ground. Not without my inhaler, in the last days of December. Not this time. Not today.

And so I did nothing useful while Justin spent 20 minutes tracking the dog. The dog who, upon being found, was thrilled to have a playmate in his forest romping. (Because FORESTS. ARE. AMAZING. YOU GUYS.) The dog who’s getting obedience training — focused on COME and STAY — as soon as we can manage it.

All I could say as I clipped Mal’s leash to his collar and looked at exhausted sick Justin was “you’re my hero.” All I could have done, without him, was stand there and cry and call my dog in vain and feel useless.

With him? As a team? Pretty sure we can do anything.

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As Justin and I were driving back from Burlington last night, he thanked me for doing the driving. I said “you’re welcome”, and that I didn’t mind. On the one hand, that’s just true on the face of it — he had a medical procedure that required he have a driver, and an appointment with a new doctor, and he’s my partner so I was glad to be there to help with both. But on another hand, it’s more than that, and I told him so. I’m deeply grateful that he’s willing to do the work to fix his health and his pain. It’s been a long, slow, frustrating year of tiny steps towards recovery from his neck and arm pain, and we’re not done yet. Conservative treatment approaches are slow, and annoying, and sometimes fruitless, and he’s tried failed therapies, disastrously bad drug treatments, and several things that are actually working very well. It’s just hard work, and tiring for both of us, and there are plenty of days when it’d be easier on both of us to just say “fine, sleep for a month and feel like shit and be sad, because dear god, I do not have the energy to keep doing this”. But he’s doing it anyway. He’s not fighting the need. He’s taking responsibility for his recovery from these injuries, and making our lives better in the process. I am grateful for that, and happy to support and facilitate however I can.

It’s a big part of how I try to live, right there: Focus on what can be controlled, what can be changed, and what can be impacted by my choices, actions, resources, and energy. Can’t control it or enact change on it? Don’t try. Don’t ram your face into that blender over and over again if you can’t stop it. CAN change or impact it? Please do!

I posted this quote on Facebook earlier this week, from the Huffington Post:

If you find yourself wanting something month after month, year after year, yet nothing happens and you never come any closer to it, then maybe what you actually want is a fantasy, an idealization, an image and a false promise. Maybe you don’t actually want it at all.

And all I could think was that this was part of the problem I identified in my first marriage. Lots of wanting, from both of us, and no actualization of that wanting. No movement toward it. Instead, too much fantasy and false promises. And I felt absolutely trapped, in a reality of my own making, which I wanted out of in the worst way. The moment I realized I could, in fact, control that, and take ownership of my lack of forward motion, and then move myself forward instead… Boom. New life. Start over.

This time around? Yeah. Forward motion. I’m not saying constant growth is the goal — I believe that constant growth is unsustainable. But we’ve both got our eyes fixed on our goals and our values, and together we’re moving our lives into ever-more-stable orbit around those things. Those things that really matter to us. Through hard work, difficult but important choices, and a belief that we have the ability to move ourselves toward the things we need and want. That we are powerful in our own spheres. And that the struggles we’re choosing are worth it.

It’s worth it.

insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

Bad things:

  • I dislike waking up at 4 am.
  • I dislike waking up at 4 am with the worst leg cramp of my entire life, which, I will note, was unprovoked, as I was ASLEEP when it happened.
  • I dislike waking up at 6 am.
  • On principle.
  • I dislike 8 am meetings.
  • On principle.
  • I dislike 8 am meetings on days when I feel like I got hit by a pregnancy truck, and that truck woke up the creature that’s kicking me in the bladder during said 8 am meeting.
  • I forgot I had a cup of coffee and it got cold before I could drink it. Because it was 8 am.
  • The part of the 8 am meeting I needed to contribute to started at 8:50 and I was supposed to be in another meeting in a different building at 9.
  • I was in meetings from 8-10:45 without a break.
  • I may have (through no fault of my own) double budgeted one of my fund lines.
  • My OB is unthrilled with my blood pressure.
  • A vendor was so crappy to me on the phone that I actually hung up on him.
  • I had to get short and aggressive with another vendor in order to get the information promised to me last week sent to me by the end of the day today, several days late.
  • My planning on that project is way off target as a result.
  • My friend’s dog died earlier this week and she just posted it on Facebook and it sucks.
  • All I ever write about anymore is complaints about vendors, because ohmygod they’ve taken over my life.
  • The dog has busted out of his cage a half dozen times and Justin has been forced to resort to zip-tying him in. This is not a long-term solution.

Good things:

  • We had just enough cream cheese left for me to have a very satisfying breakfast.
  • My dog is awesome.
  • My cat was not licking the soap this morning.
  • My choice to buy a strawberry croissant was awesome (if ultimately ineffective at combating pregnancy exhaustion).
  • All of my meetings with people who work in my library were pretty great in terms of their attitudes, work, and progress on interesting stuff.
  • My husband took me out to lunch because my stress levels weren’t really appropriate for anyone and maybe some Pad Thai will help?
  • It helped.
  • Malcolm could not thwart the zip ties.
  • I had the opportunity to stand up for one of my employees when a vendor was being a whiny shithead.
  • I actually got my response from the hotel vendor dude after I got in his face about the late thing.
  • The librarian at another SUNY upon whom I was counting to step up and take over some abandoned responsibilities so I don’t have to (because I can’t, because 6 months pregnant) has done so, graciously.
  • I can maybe see the light at the end of this tunnel.
  • I’ve decided to burn a few hours of sick time and go home and take a nap.

Bad and good. Good and bad. Life goes on.

insert emoticon here, The Tiniest Capen

Today on the airplane I tried to get my laptop from under the seat in front of me and actually couldn’t bend at an acute enough angle to put my fingers on the floor. As up to this point in my life I’ve always been Mistress Bendypants, this was … stunning. Baffling. Annoying.

At dinner all I wanted was a damned beer to go with my giant feast of fried seafood and southern sides.

Walking the half mile back from dinner, I got a cramp in my lower abs like I’ve never felt before — it stopped when I went into Williams-Sonoma to stand more still and look at cooking porn (all that Le Creuset in one place!), but as soon as I started walking, it came back. I just powered through to the hotel.

Lying on my hotel room bed, editing tomorrow’s talk, my laptop keeps bouncing. Seems the Tiniest Capen doesn’t like having my uterus compressed, and is fighting back. This is apparently an imposition… on both of us.

But none of that takes away from my joy. It’s just an adjustment.** It’s totally interesting. I’m enjoying the process, and what it demands of me, and how I’m adapting to meet those needs. It’s like a science experiment with my life.

It’s pretty damned cool.

**And, please, yes, I KNOW that the adjustments only keep coming from here. I intend to enjoy and learn from those as well. Continuing to comment on the fact that IT ONLY GETS WORSE FROM HERE makes me feel like I’m being lectured.

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I just picked Malcolm up from the kennel, where he boarded for the last 48 hours. They like him there; the guy behind the counter said “Shepherd/Akita mix?” And I corrected Akita to St. Bernard, and he nodded sagely. “I can see that. He’s a good boy.” He also got his nails clipped. Counter guy said, “He kept offering me his paws, right up until I did his nails. Then he stopped letting me touch them, just sat down instead.” Yep. That’s our Gandhi.

But when I picked him up, he was totally not interested in me. He was smelling everything, then trying to figure out how to sit in the front seat of the car, then looking out the window as we drove home…

And then we got home. And he exploded into dog joy. THIS IS MY DRIVEWAY. THAT IS MY YARD. I PEE RIGHT HERE. Nearly pulled me off my feet, frankly. So happy. Bouncy, let’s play with my leash I wanna run I’m HOME happy.

Good dog.

Except… Justin’s not home yet. And Mal can’t settle. He’s had water, he’s had food, he’s peed, he has his skunk, he’s annoyed both cats, but he’s pacing the house, whining periodically, looking and looking and looking… no Justin. How do you tell a dog “just wait an hour, he’s right behind me”? You don’t.  You just pat him and tell him reassuring things in a reassuring tone and look relaxed and hope the message gets through.

But he knows. This pack isn’t complete without Justin.

Smart dog.

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  • Woke up at 5 am for no good reason and couldn’t fall back asleep.
  • Walked on the treadmill because my weight gain is beginning to dismay me.
  • Packed a very nice lunch and then realized I had a lunch meeting, so stuck it in the fridge where I will probably forget it for tomorrow.
  • Lost all motivation when I got to work, which is precisely where I need it most.
  • Had a very nice lunch meeting.
  • Met with my boss and talked about a lot of exciting, hard, problematic things (not all the same things, but still, all those emotions), all whilst getting kicked by the Tiniest Capen, which is more than a little distracting.
  • Posted another Vendors Drive Me Batty screed over at Attempting Elegance.
  • Sent out a raft of emails to the library staff that, quite likely, made precisely no one happy.
  • Looked at my to-do list, considered my lack of answers or creative solutions to any of the problems outlined there, and thought about crying.
  • Looked at the strategic plan draft and felt the same lack of creative energy, and just… gave up.

So… I’m going home. I’m going to make popcorn, and I’m going to pet the dog, and I’m going to not think about this shit for 14 hours. I’ll try again tomorrow. Sometimes, trying again tomorrow is the most heroic thing you can do.