The Box: A Story About The Stories We Tell Ourselves

This is a story about a box. A small box, roughly six inches high and six inches wide. It's a story about the power objects have over us, and their ability to make us feel boxed in.

This is also a story about the stories we tell ourselves. The boxes we put ourselves into. 

But let me back up a bit...all the way to my 30th birthday, which requires throwing the car into reverse for quite a few miles.

My husband and I got married 3 days before I turned 30, so I passed that major mile marker on the road to adulthood in a bit of a blur. In fact, it didn't really hit me until the dust had settled on the wedding festivities. All of a sudden I had a new name, a new title, a new home, and a new number in front of my age. I was someone's wife. I was Mrs. Shand. I was a homeowner. And I was 30.

To give you an idea of how the transition went, shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, I sat in a doctor's waiting room reading my magazine as the nurse repeatedly called "Mrs. Shand? Mrs. Shand? Shand!" I just sat there, thinking to myself what a coincidence it was that someone there had the same exact name as my my husband's mom.

And the new house? Though it was just a few miles from where I had been living, and I had moved many, many times before, across the country and even around the world, something about this move was different. The neighborhood was lovely, but the neat rows of bungalow houses all looked exactly the same to me, with nearly identical streets forming a nondescript grid. The first time I went out for a run, intending to go about 3 miles, I got so lost I ended up running 9.

This was a house my husband had been living in for years. He had remodeled it from top to bottom with his own two hands. He knew every inch of that house from the inside out, every creaky floorboard, what every switch on the wall did. I didn't even know where to put my socks.

But even more disorienting was the idea that I was supposed to be an adult. I had a job, a roof over my head, and cupboards stacked with linens, cups, and dishes. But let's face it: I didn't have a clue. I felt like I was playing house. Pretending to be a grownup.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

A few weeks later I came back from a run- just 3 miles this time- and found a package on the porch, marked "fragile" and covered in postmarks and stamps. Since this was back in the Stone Age of online shopping, a dark period in our history I refer to as Before Amazon Prime, this was still a bit of a rarity.

I took it inside, unwrapped it and pulled out the most beautiful, intricately decorated ceramic box. It was off-white, but painted in brilliant hues of green, orange, burgundy, and teal, with a tribal, almost aboriginal pattern of swirls and dots. I had never seen anything like it. I traced the ins and outs of pattern with my fingers, feeling the bumps and grooves of the artist's work. It was stunning, but it was just the beginning. The box had a hinged lid, and I lifted it and reached inside to reveal a gorgeous pair of dangly, beautifully beaded earrings. I held them up to my face in the mirror, their delicate sparkle ridiculously incongruous against the backdrop of my sweat-stained face and, messy, post-run ponytail.

I dug around in the package and pulled out a small, handwritten note. "Dear Mona," it read. "I was in Bangkok last week, saw these, and thought of you. Happy belated 30th birthday, sweet friend. Hugs and kisses, X" Of course, her name really isn't X, but we'll call her that to protect the innocent. X was a British woman I had met at a youth hostel in Australia years prior. At the time, I was a recent college grad with not much of a plan beyond that trip. She was successful documentary filmmaker "on holiday" as the Brits say. Together, we backpacked through the land down under- at one point we even took a temporary job picking grapes at a vineyard, and probably drank more wine than we helped produce. Then, we went our separate ways- me, back to the United States, on to grad school, and eventually to my married life. She relocated to San Francisco, where she continued her documentary work with a human rights organization, and never married. We kept in only sporadic  touch, but she always remembered my birthday- even before Facebook notifications.

As this gift perfectly illustrated, she was in so many ways the kind of person I wanted to be. The kind with a rewarding career that was making a difference in the world. The kind who picked up exotic souvenirs just because she was thinking of her friends...and then proceeded to actually send them!

I carried the box and the earrings up to my bedroom, wondering all the way what my friend's home looked like. I imagined it was a funky city loft full of tribal artwork and exotic pieces she'd collected in her travels, each one telling the story of some oppressed group and their struggle for basic freedoms. I wondered about the box. Did it, too come from Bangkok? Or perhaps another faraway land? Maybe the African savanna. Or a jungle in Central America. Who were the artisans who toiled over it? What story did that beautiful pattern tell? What secrets did it hold?

I put the earrings away and wondered where I could find a dress to match them. And a life to match the dress. I hoped they would do OK in metro Detroit, in my life, where I was in the midst of a career change and quite possibly the oldest unpaid intern to ever make coffee in a television newsroom.

The box I carefully carried to my bedside, and over to my nightstand. It looked like hopelessly out of place next to the Pottery Barn catalogue, but I figured we'd adapt. Or maybe what I really hoped was that it would rub off on me. That somehow if I kept the box and kept it close, I would have magically have all it seemed to represent- the international career, the beautifully decorated home, the global stories.

You can imagine how well that worked out.

Years went by, and the box stayed in that same spot next to my bed. When my good friend insomnia came for its nightly visit, I'd lie in bed and trace the patterns with my finger. I was pregnant with our first child and wondering how in the world I was supposed to take care of another human being when I still hadn't figured out this whole grownup thing for myself. I wondered what we had thrown ourselves into. I wondered if I should get throw pillows to match that box. I wondered if we had any matches so I could light some candles. I wondered what my future kids would think of a parent that didn't even have their act together enough to light candles or have throw pillows. I looked to the box for answers- it had none.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

Along with the new baby, the next few years brought a new house in a new city. Another new baby. And then another one. The box, of course, came with us and still sat in its mismatched place of honor next to my bed. Of course, there were many, many more sleepless nights. More staring at that box at 3am, wondering why my life's twists and turns weren't as beautiful as its swirls. Why my life didn't seem as vibrant as its rich hues. Why my relationships weren't as harmonious as its patterns. I'd trace the path of each curlycue, praying that I had taken the right one in my own life. While nursing my babies in the middle of the night, I would reach over and slowly open and shut its lid, over and over- trying to find my own rhythm in its gentle snap. It was a habit I'd developed as a child, with another box- a pale blue Holly Hobbie lunchbox, as I sat, more often than not, alone in the school cafeteria. I'd focus on opening and closing its metal clasp, hearing that satisfying snap so I wouldn't have to hear the silence all around me.

Back then as a child, and once again a grownup, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

A few years later I remembered hearing that if you couldn't sleep, you should try writing down all the things that are bothering you in an attempt to clear your head before bed. Between the kids, my work, my parents' failing health, my own health challenges, and my guilt and personal neuroses about pretty much everything, I had enough to fill a novel, but instead, I decided to fill that box. Armed with a pack of post-its and a pen, every night I tried to take the weight of the world off my shoulders and quite literally box it up.

I started with the easy stuff- the things that danced around the edges of my mind during the busy daytime hours, but really came out to party at 3am like: Research summer camps. Dig out bins of summer clothes. Organize bins of clothes. Be more organized. Try not to yell so much. Teach her to stand up to mean girls. Figure out why girls are so mean. Figure out why grown women are so mean.  Did I hug my kids enough today? Did I hug my husband at all? Do they all know how much I love them? I shoved all of that in the box...but still found myself wide awake, staring at it every night. Sometimes it even seemed to taunt me, its curves and twists making me think of the ones I had taken...and the ones I had left behind.

So I dug deeper. I'd write down things in my life that I really hated and stuff them in the box. Parkinson's Disease. Septic shock. Aphasia. Femoral acetabular impingement syndrome. Religious persecution. Sectarian violence. The children of Syria. Oh, magic box, why can't you take these struggles away? Take them to your far away home on a remote tropical island, or a desolate hillside, or the rainforest, or wherever it is you came from. Just take them away from me. The box betrayed me yet again.

A few months later my own health issues came to a head and I found myself more lost, confused, out of sorts, and unsure of who I was than ever. I was a writer with nothing to say. A runner who could no longer run. A mother who could barely take care of her kids. One night I hobbled up to my bedroom on crutches, trying so hard to hold it all together. As I eased myself down onto the bed my crutch went flying, I reached out to grab it, only to be hit with a dagger of pain to the surgical site. In the process, the box was knocked to the floor where it spilled open, scattering all the pieces of paper around the room. Tears poured out as I looked down at the mess.

I HATE THIS STUPID, STUPID BOX! I yelled, slinking painfully to the floor. Seeing it there, it all became clear- on the outside, that box was everything I wanted to be but wasn't. And on the inside, everything I was, but didn't want to be. I wanted to smash it to bits, but that would just be one more mess in my life I couldn't clean up. So I glared at it, and for the first time noticed something on the bottom. I used a crutch to reel it in, hoping it was the artists' name or initials so I could at least curse him or her more personally. But what I saw when I pulled it closer was strangely familiar. A little too familiar.

It said, Kirkland Signature.

That's right. My box...the one that had tortured me for years...my artsy fartsy, indiginous, free range, free trade, artisanal box...was from COSTCO.

It didn't come from a tribe deep in the Amazon, or a war-torn East African jungle. It wasn't carved with the tears of ten thousand weeping widows or coated with the ground up dust of unicorn hooves.

No, it came from Costco, somewhere between five dollar rotisserie chicken and the 50 pound bag of cat litter, with the melodic sound of the seafood roadshow in the background.

Let's be clear- this has nothing to do with my lovely friend X who sent me the box. She did nothing but offer a gesture of kindness. I was the one who covered it in magical, mystical, powers and measured myself against it for years. And as it turned out, it was just an ordinary box. A box that probably came in a 6-pack of other boxes. I cleaned up the papers the best I could, picked up the box, and stuffed it in the bottom of my closet.

Not long after, my daughter was wrapping up work on a big 2nd grade project. Together, the class builds a community, with each child completing a building for the town inside...you guessed it, a box. She had worked diligently on it for weeks, and brought it over to show me when she was done.

"You did a beautiful job," I congratulated her. "It's perfect."

"Mom, it's not perfect," she corrected me with me, her tiny hands on her hips. "But it's my box, and I love it."

That night I once again found myself awake, my heart racing as I stared at the ceiling since the box was no longer by my bedside. I got up, pausing to watch my loving husband snore...I mean sleep. I went from room to room, peeking in on each of our slumbering children, watching their chests move slowly up and down until my own breathing slowed to matched theirs. I ran my hand over the spots on the walls where the paint was peeling, the moldings we've never gotten around to finishing, the jumble of family photos in mismatched frames on the table, the crucifix on the wall.

"It's not perfect." I told myself. "But it's my box, and I love it."

The next morning when I woke up, I dug the ceramic box out of my closet, took it to the garbage can, and threw it away.

Don't get me wrong- more often than not, I still feel lost, confused, out of sorts. And I probably won't get this grownup thing down until it's much too late. But I guess little by little I'm figuring out who I am and this much I know:

I'm someone who is learning to think outside the box.

A Letter Of Thanks To My Youngest Son's Blanket

Dear Blankie,

I'm sorry to wake you- I know you've had a rough few nights, between the whole "Monsters In The Closet" thing and that emergency 3am wash cycle (I blame both the monsters in the closet and the extra glass of lemonade at dinner), but given that it is the season for giving thanks, I just wanted to take a few minutes to let you know how very thankful I am for you.

I know, some may find it strange that I'm expressing my gratitude for an inanimate, ragged bundle of cotton and thread, but it's really no exaggeration to say you are part of the family. After all, for the past several years, anywhere we go, you go, kind of like a fourth child. A very quiet, well-behaved, fourth child with a blessedly small appetite.

And like most children at the bottom of the totem pole, the trickle-down parenting effect has not always been kind to you. I'm embarrassed to admit I don't even know where you came from. And I have no idea how or when you became so important to our youngest son (aka, Little Linus). But alas, here we are, the two of you intertwined in his bed in a tangle of limbs and cotton, and me watching with awe (and maybe just the tiniest bit of jealousy) at the bond you share.

I just want you to know that while I might be a little sketchy on some of the details of your life, and you may feel like you're invisible at times, rest assured that I see you and I am fully aware of the role you play in all of our lives.

After all, you're the first thing he looks for in the morning and the last thing he asks for before bed. You join us for meals (occasionally transforming into a napkin), accompany us on vacations (the ultimate travel pillow), and wiggle your way into family pictures across the globe (can you say photobomb?).

I'll never forget your first day of preschool (nice work hiding in little man's backpack), and how encouraging you were when a certain someone needed one last nuzzle to get him through the door.

Remember that time our guy woke up and declared it to be your 684th birthday? I hope you enjoyed the party, and I have to say, we should all look so good at your age.

And who could forget the Week of the Flu? You experienced such unspeakable horror during that stretch, yet you never failed to show up for duty, working day and night under brutal conditions, pausing only for trips to the wash. And trust me- as a mom, there are few chores more odious than the load of laundry which separates boy from blanket. It's up there with separating toilet from pee stains.

As long as we are speaking of the unspeakable, you've been such a source of comfort at the doctor's office over the years that I really think you might want to consider a career in medicine.

So from every fiber of my being, to every fiber of your...fibers, I offer you my thanks. Because while I'd like to think that there's a little bit of me sewn into you, when you get right down to it, you are everything I strive to be.

You stay soft and pliable even when I am hard.

You offer comfort when I cannot.

You take the night shift- no questions asked, and still wake up ready for the day.

You are best friend and trusted confidante, never judgmental or sharp-tongued.

You dry tears and calm fears.

One minute a cape, the next a parachute, you are endlessly entertaining and literally his soft place to land.

With the threadbare spots where you've been rubbed raw, your holes, and your many bumps and lumps, you remind me that love is never perfect, often messy, and rarely in the package we expect.

Now with kindergarten right around the corner, I know you might be worried about the future and what's to come. I wish I could say that your fears aren't valid, but you and I both know what eventually happens to even the most cherished toys, stuffed animals, and lovies as the kids grow older. Remember Toy Story 3? (How could you forget? I'm pretty sure we've sobbed through it together on the couch...about a dozen times).

But Blankie, you have my word: I am not going to let that happen- there will be no box in the attic or bag at the cub for you. After all you've done for us, after all you've been for us, it's my turn to offer YOU protection and comfort. Consider this my...well, my blanket statement: when that day comes that little man no longer clings to you, I promise to pick up where he leaves off.

I will keep you safe and cherish you, and on tough days (translation: the teenage years), when harsh words begin to fly I will rest my head on you and hear the faint echo of toddler belly laughs.

When attitudes harden I will rub your fluffy fleece and remember that there is a soft spot inside all of us.

And in those stinkiest of times, I will hold you close and inhale that magical, mystical, sweet-smelling scent that is the very essence of childhood.

For all the years you've warmed my child from the outside in and given him the strength and security to grow, I just want you to know that no matter what happens, this time I've got YOU covered.

xoxo
A grateful mom

A Thank You Letter To Santa For What He Didn't Bring Us

Dear Santa,

I hope this finds you well and resting up following your 15 million mph Christmas Eve journey. I assume you are now either on a beach in Bora Bora sunning that Belly Belly, or en route to  your annual detox at the Betty Crocker Clinic for Frosting Rehabilitation. And I know you've had more than your fair share of mail in the past month or so, so I won't take much of your time.

I just wanted to say thank you. Of course, thank you for the obvious- all the gifts you brought, the memories we made, the great times we had. Cheers to you, big guy. How you manage to get it done each year, spreading laughter and loot to an average of 822.6 houses per second, is truly amazing. I can barely manage to deck my own halls and here you are bringing joy to the entire globe in a night. Wow, just wow.

But more importantly, I want to thank you for what you didn't bring. As I'm sure you will recall from your NSA-worthy pre-holiday surveillance program, my little boy (who is not so little anymore) lost both his front teeth in December. And of course, every adult he encountered (including me) serenaded him with one of the worst Christmas songs of all time (second perhaps only to the one with the donkey): "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth…" and he'd happily sing along, adding Legos, a remote-controlled helicopter, and a pair of ski gloves to the chorus.

And many of those things appeared under the tree: the Legos, the chopper, the gloves… but no teeth. Not in a package, not in a stocking, not even in one of the "Happy Birthday" gift bags I ended up having to use when I ran short on tape (and the will to live) after hitting the wall during the annual all night wrapathon. No teeth. And for that, I thank you.

Because somehow I have the feeling those teeth will mark the beginning of the end of something so simple and sweet. It won't be long before that innocent little gaping grin will be replaced by a sullen scowl, a snide remark, or worse yet- silence. With those adult teeth will eventually come adult worries, adult responsibilities, adult fears, and at times, the weight of the whole adult world.

Santa, the move from "little boy" to "big boy" has already been heartbreaking enough. Have you seen the other side of the clothing store- the one where sizes don't have a "T" after the number and instead of footy pajamas that say "I Stole Mommy's Heart" they have ripped up jeans and t-shirts with skulls and crossbones and snowboarders? Not that there's anything wrong with snowboarders, I just didn't get the memo that at age 6 my son automatically switched from Team Mom to Team Shaun White.

There are other sure signs he's growing up, and I'm not just talking about the shoes he's rapidly outgrowing, or the inevitable obsession with bodily functions. I can already see him looking at the world in a different way, realizing that not every story has a happy ending, and not all boo boos can be made better with a bandaid. I know that he's becoming more and more aware of loss, of hardship, and his mom's inability to actually kiss away all the pain.

And he also now has really stinky feet.

So thank you, Santa for not delivering on the front teeth for Christmas. I feel like you've bought us some extra time, and I promise to use it wisely. I promise I will laugh at his nonsensical "Knock Knock" jokes, I will  cuddle and tickle him until my arms ache, I will hold his hand in public, I will keep the magic alive, and keep him young as long as I can.

Adult teeth can wait.

For now, I still have a sweet little boy with a big gaping grin.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

From Caterpillars to Butterflies With a Stop in Paris: The Many Transformations of Motherhood

When I was in college, I was fortunate enough to spend my junior year living in Paris, France. Ooh la la! As I packed for the adventure, I just knew it would be transformative. Like the title character in one of my favorite movies of all time, Sabrina, I would leave a slightly (ok, totally) gawky, awkward, frizzy-haired, caterpillar, and return a sleek and chic butterfly- or as they say in Paris, un papillon.

Audrey Hepburn plays a young girl in Paris, circa  1954

That's not quite the way it happened.

In my defense, it's not like Audrey Hepburn was EVER, even for a fraction of a second, gawky or awkward, and I'm sure it took a village of Hollywood hairdressers to transform her lovely locks into something even vaguely approximating frizzy for the "before" shots.

But back to me. So off I went to Par-EE where I did my best to absorb the language, the culture, the je ne sais quoi that all French women possess. Along the way I also absorbed a lot of croissants, baguettes, and brie. Oh, I was a caterpillar all right- The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I gained about 25 pounds during my stay in the City of Lights, which did not exactly help with Operation Papillon. And the whole frizzy hair thing didn't get any better on the other side of the world.

Monet's Gardens at Giverny, 1993

But I did learn a lot about myself, including the fact that I was born without the scarf-tying gene that all French women possess. Try as I might (and I did try) I always ended up just looking like I was being choked by a yard of fabric. Try as I might (and I did try) I never looked anything like a French woman. And that's OK. Because what I did learn in that year away from my family, my friends, and the language and culture I grew up with, is that I am still me without all that. Strip away the trappings that seemingly define you, and what you're often left with... is you.

A random train was calling my name, somewhere in Europe. 

Unfortunately, the lesson didn't quite stick. Upon returning from Paris I said au revoir to my evolved self and reacquainted myself with the American tradition of trying to be things I'm not. I spent years trying to change myself myself to fit in with various crowds, always coming up short, feeling somehow "less than" as a result. I played the roles and dressed the parts: the intellectual, party girl, the suburban mom, the corporate ladder climber, and yes, even at one point in my life, the Club Med showgirl.

Club Med Turkoise, Winter 1995 

But none of those were me, and none of them felt quite right. I always found myself feeling like an outsider wearing a costume (sometimes literally) that didn't quite fit. It wasn't just the jobs, but the whole package. As my "finding myself" years stretched into decades, I started to wonder- was it just me? Was being just me just not enough for me... or for anyone else?

Until one hot summer day in 2009, when God sent me a message. It was a 7 pound, 12 ounce message which arrived gently and with barely a cry.

Sweet Baby Girl

One minute a bundle was placed in my arms and the next two big, blue eyes blinked back at me with an intensity I'd never experienced. I could see instantly that this little girl knew who she was. She was laughter, she was love, she was chocolate frosted cupcakes and warm, sandy beaches all rolled into one. She was pure joy. In fact, I was so sure of it, I knew right then and there it was literally her middle name.

Joy arrives. 

And since that day, she has more than lived up to it. At age 4, she is still so blessedly and unabashedly bold, so completely absorbed in being herself that she doesn't have time to even consider an alternative. If there is a song playing in her head (and there usually is), she dances with abandon, not giving a moment's thought to whether the rest of us can hear the tune or know the moves.

Beachside ballerina. 

Not only does she march to her own beat, she leads the band with a plastic recorder while wearing a skunk suit.

Leader of the band.

She is a girl unafraid of making a bold fashion statement, the kind that involves mixing multiple prints with multiple muppets.

Style maven. 

And when it comes to accessories, she's got a plan of her own.

Work it, girl. 

And so for the past four years, that fearless girl, my sweet Cecilia Joy has reminded me that we are meant to live our own lives. Not the one down the road with the fancy catalogue furniture and the Pinterest-perfect porch decor, not the one that looks so impossibly put together each morning at preschool drop-off and only wears yoga pants to do actual yoga, and not the one in the office down the hall that seems so much more accomplished or at least seems to be able to accomplish work AND a full night's sleep. No- we are meant to live the life we are given and to live it with joy. Or in my case, with Joy. 

Joy squared.

I'd like to say I've religiously applied that mantra to my life and have effortlessly blossomed into my very own butterfly at last, but progress isn't always linear and I've had my share of slip-ups. Lately I've found myself back at the comparison game, which is one I always lose. I've been spending too much time looking at what others have, or what they've achieved, or where they've been and wondering once again why I don't ever seem to fit in. 

And at the same time I've seen the first traces of self awareness creep into my little girl's brain. I can see her watching other kids closely, studying their words and their movements and trying to imitate what they do. I see her hesitate ever so slightly before she moves a certain way or says a certain thing, the wheels turning in her brain as she seems to question if she's doing the "right" thing. I watch her holding caterpillars in her hand and wonder what she's thinking. 

She calls them callipiters. 

So for her, and for me, it's time to make some changes.

For her, and for me, I left a job I didn't love, one which was rapidly turning me into a person I didn't love, a job I was holding on to because it was easier than finding my own path. 

For her, and for me, I'm recommitting myself to celebrating the things that make me different, and the wonderful people in my life who embrace those differences because, really, who has time for anyone who doesn't? 

For her, and for me, it's time to be OK with who I am and where I am. 

No more waiting for some magical transformation to turn me into a butterfly. Maybe I'm already there. Any maybe I'm not. But either way, I don't want to wish away all the joy (and the Joy) that's already here.