Life As a Pearl

Here's what the do tell you: every story they can remember about it going wrong. Anyone who's ever adopted a child will tell you it's like everyone has an inner Miss Rachel Lynde who just can't wait to say: "Adopting a girl ? Well I know someone who did that and it was just a disaster. She'll burn you to a crisp in your bed. That's what!" I'm sure it's the same if you have the audacity to birth twins or if, god forbid, you consider having more than the requisite 2.5 children. People have thoughts. And people love to think out loud. The truth is, you learn how to respond to what they tell you pretty quick. Or, I did. Every now and again someone will throw me a curveball; but there's not much a You must be so embarrassed to have said that  won't cover. Transparent idiocy—what they do  tell you—is easy to address. But in this time when people are learning to be more open about their privilege, their inadequacies, I'll just...

Although she's mentioned so rarely and in such passing that I either never knew or cannot remember her name, there are stories of a seer in my lineage. The stories dissipate before I can grasp them, like an asp of smoke from a heretical cone of incense—more insinuations of a gift than evidentiary tales. So it's no wonder I don't think of her often. No wonder I don't imagine at the possibilities of my own intuitions, this heritage as remote to me as the origins of my abnormally short pinkies or my unruly hair. But I thought of her today. * I tend to fancy myself an intentional person—a person who does things with purpose. But don't we always flatter ourselves with thoughts of who we  wish  we were? Maybe that's not your problem. But it's certainly mine because the truth is I'm a leaper, not a looker. Being intentional is exhausting and I'm always already tired. So I make most decisions, even big ones, on a whim. And I do it with alarmi...

Years ago, exhausted by my mother's oyster and pearl analogy, I declared myself done with being an oyster and on to my well-deserved Life as a Pearl . It was a bold move. A claim I had no real authority to stake. But I was tired of being the oyster. Tired of that craw full of sand. Tired of being told that the only way I'd ever be a valuable gem was to suffer the endless slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or at the very least, to be deeply annoyed all the damn time. Now we all know the pearl life is just an illusion. It's your curated Insta pictures and your boastful  holiday cards. Your color-coordinated outfits and your whirlwind romances. We know those things aren't real, but it doesn't stop us from looking at our real  oysters and going: What's this garbage? Where's my pearl?! That's where I found myself this fall. Deeply annoyed and saying the word garbage a whole lot. OK. Maybe it was the F word. Or perhaps I was taking our Lord's n...

Open letters are a thing, right? People like these? Well I hope they do, because I'm doing it. You probably don't remember the first time we met, Terri. But I do. We were looking for the perfect school for our perfect daughter. And we'd been driving a half hour each way to her preschool for the last year, so we had a pretty big radius we were willing to explore within. What were we looking for? This may be the part where we should separate out the we . My husband was undoubtedly looking for the school Ayana could ride the bus to. He did the lion's share of the preschool driving, so we'll give him that. I, on the other hand, was looking for diversity. I had run into some roadblocks getting my kid that sibling that looks like her (which she still wishes for every time she blows out the candles), so it became a priority for me to find a school community that would make her feel like less of a novelty, a token. That's how Sanchez got on my radar. That and th...

When I was young, I couldn't have told you why my mom insisted on giving me perms on the reg. I could have told you the only thing more horrific than the process was the result. But that's only because I was super self aware and  articulate. And also because I was not wrong. Exhibit A And when she wasn't going all in on curls and frizz, she was seeing just how much of my hair could be bangs. So much. It's fine. After years of therapy, I've finally gotten myself past all the pain of a bad-haired childhood. And I've done so much better for myself. Oh wait... I did that one entirely on my own. And when people told me my hair was growing back nicely, assuming I'd lost it with chemo, I just...you know...said,  Thanks! Which, I assure you, is better than what I did with my previous bad haircut, the infamous "Lafayette." When I got the Lafayette, I just wept all day every day for months. I think I've made my point. I was set up from a you...

Confession : I'm not big on elaborate bedtime routines. Baths and snuggles and wind-down yoga and twenty-two books and special stuffies and I'm tired just writing this garbage. I love my daughter so much, but I legit do not want to pull an all-nighter with her. I want her to go the F to sleep. Without me reading her that book, though. Let me just channel Jim Gaffigan. [Insert awkward, breathy,  this guy is funny, but maybe so annoying that I don't care voice here]: "You don't read to your child? What kind of monster are  you? Did you know Mrs. Hitler didn't read to her  child, either?!"  Listen, jerks. I like to read to my girl during the daylight hours. When we're both better versions of ourselves and we can work together and have conversations and all that good stuff. And at night I can always be persuaded to read a  book. But just one. And don't think for a moment that I'm offering. Because I'm not. No matter what the Nazi resear...

If someone asked me to paint a picture of my life (why ever would someone do that?), I'd go straight to metaphor. I'd paint a roaring waterfall. But not one where the water rushes over a ledge and free falls into the abyss. One where stone shelves jut out from every angle—an endless cascade of rock bottoms. There would be no frame because it's obvious the edge of the canvas is only the beginning of the bumpy ride. Once, in an effort to talk me through the end of a marriage that was a disaster of impressive proportions, my dad told me I was in a good position. He said, Well you're at rock bottom, kid. You can't get lower than the bottom . And I took a lot of comfort in that at the time. I couldn't have imagined a life more difficult (or humiliating) than trying to finish grad school while living in my parents basement with my brand-new (to me) daughter's crib in the closet. It was a generous closet—my parents are the kind of rich that means even your guest ...