Finding My Voice: From A Chance Encounter Years Ago To A New Year's Goal

Most broadcasters get their start in small markets- places like Glendive, Montana; or Alpena, Michigan, but my first gig was international.

It was 1994, I had recently graduated from college, and I was stranded in the Australian capital of Canberra. How I got there is a long story that involves first love, first heartbreak, and an overnight bus ride, but I'll save that for another time. Suffice it to say I found myself with several hours to kill in an unfamiliar place.

The sun was barely peeking out of the early morning sky, and in my teary, weary, travel-ragged state, I was hardly in the mood to tour the sights. Still, part of me knew this was quite possibly the only time in my life I'd have the chance to see Canberra, so I'd better pull myself together and take advantage of it. Surely there were national treasures, museums, and galleries that I should visit so that I could broaden my worldview and deepen my understanding of that great nation on the other side of the world.

Just one problem: it was 7am on a Sunday morning and all the bastions of Australian culture were closed. I had about 5 hours to kill before my next bus, so I stashed my backpack in a locker, grabbed a cup of coffee from a corner deli and wandered the streets.

About an hour into my aimless jaunt, I stumbled across a large building that looked interesting, and by that I mean it appeared to actually be open. It was the Australian Institute of Sport.

I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and found myself face-to-face with a dark-haired, red-nosed man sitting behind a desk, surrounded by a pile of Kleenex, a manual of some sort, and a telephone.

"(Sniff) Well, good morning (cough cough cough)," he sputtered, and then continued in an extremely hoarse voice. "We're not quite open (sniff sniff) but now that you're here, I'm going to need to you do something..."

"Umm...what??" I replied nervously, as headlines of international kidnappings and trafficking rings flashed before my eyes, and I wondered why I couldn't have just wandered right past this place. It's not like I even understood cricket. Or rugby. Or Australian men. (oops, I digress again...)

"We just got a new phone system (GIANT COUGH) and I need to record (SNIFF) the outgoing message on it, but as you can see...or well, hear...(SNEEZE), I'm a bit under the weather. Could you do it for me?"

Relief flooded through me. "I guess I could, but in case you can't tell, I'm from the United States. Shouldn't the official message for the Australian Institute of Sport sound a little more....Australian?" I asked.

He looked right at me said, "You have a voice- that's what matters."

So right there and then, I scored my first paid job in the industry: I recorded the outgoing answering machine message, giving the days and hours the Institute was open in exchange for free admission and a refill of my coffee.

Shortly after my splashy debut on the international broadcasting scene, I caught a bus back to Sydney, and eventually a very long flight back to my regularly scheduled life in the US. I think it's safe to assume that my message has long since been erased from the phone system of the Australian Institute of Sport, but that random stranger's message to me was permanently archived on my brain: You have a voice- that's what matters.

I thought about it in those emotional, jet-lagged days upon my return to the States, where I felt lost and silent.

I thought about it in the years that followed, as I tried different career paths and countries; all those years when I said too much, struggling to fit in.

I think about it now, as I grow deeper into motherhood, when it often feels simultaneously like no one and everyone is listening.

It's no coincidence that "voice" and "vocation" come from the same root: the Latin "vocare," which means "to call." When I think of what it means to have a "voice," I think of the bridge that connects our inner and outer worlds. It's the sweet spot where body, heart, mind, and spirit overlap. It's not just the sound that comes from our mouths, but the one we make in the world.

As this new year begins, those words speak to me once again: "You have a voice- that's all that matters." Will I be strong enough to be a voice for justice and a voice for love? A voice of truth and compassion? A voice that says what it means, and isn't afraid to say no? A voice that is unafraid to speak alone? Because that's what matters.

About a month ago, my daughter gave her first book report of the school year. Despite being a voracious reader, and the daughter of a broadcast journalist, she's a shy flower who breaks out in a sweat at the mere thought of speaking in front of her class.

"Mommy- I don't want to do it," she cried that morning, her voice shaking with fear. "Why can't I let someone else read my book report for me?"

I took her on my lap, held her hands in mine, and looked right in her eyes.

"Because there's only one YOU," I told her firmly. "You don't have to be the loudest, you won't always have all the answers, and not everyone will always like what you have to say. But nobody, NOBODY can speak for you, sweet girl."

"You have a voice- that's what matters."

No, I Don't Love Summer Vacation And You Don't Have To, Either

"Aren't you just SO ready for summer?"

If I had a nickel for every time I've smiled and nodded politely while completely evading the answer to that question, I could treat ever summer lovin' parent in our slice of suburban paradise to a stevia-sweetened popsicle, a bottle of certified organic SPF 480 sunscreen, and an up-cycled pool noodle (gluten-free, of course).

This is a conversation that typically begins around Memorial Day and runs right through the last day of school, and while I listen to my fellow parents wax poetic about the seemingly endless stretch of freedom that lies ahead, I secretly die a little inside.

With every mention of summer's lack of structure (is it getting hot in here?), I feel my blood pressure rise. When I hear them praise the long, lazy days unstructured days (seriously- could someone turn on the AC?) I feel like I might pass out.

So at the risk of forever being known as the Grinch Who Stole Summer Vacation (and before I develop a rash of some sort), I'm just going to say it:

I don't love summer.

Correction, I DO love summer, in that I love warm weather, extended daylight, sunshine on my shoulders, and the smell of afternoon rain. What I don't love, to be clear, is summer vacation. And even there- I actually DO love summer vacation...for about 3 weeks. But three MONTHS? That part makes me want to hurt someone.

Because here's the truth: I love structure. I mean, I really LOVE structure. As in, I'd like to hug and kiss and marry structure and have its very structured babies, whom I would name Routine, Order, and  Structure, Jr. and send to year-round school.

Now before you accuse me of not being a loving parent, or not wanting to spend time with my kids, let me assure you, I adore my offspring. I want nothing more than to travel with them, swim with them, and picnic in the park with them. For about 3 weeks.

Let me also say that I am a working mom, by choice, and while I love my career and my intention is not to throw down the gauntlet in yet another pointless battle in the Mommy Wars, let's be honest about the fact that summer vacation poses a particular challenge for working parents. Add in the fact that I work from home...(Do those look like hives to you?)

To make matters worse, I've never been a loosey-goosey, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, kick-back-and-relax kind of girl. I'm a Type-A, information junkie, workaholic journalist, which means I live or die by deadlines every single day. I'm accustomed to getting an enormous amount done in a very small amount of time, and the rhythm and schedule of school is a big piece of how I do it. A typical day for me is all about getting everyone up, in the car, to school, then I frantically work until preschool pickup. When my youngest goes down for his nap, I go back to work until the big kids come home, at which point I'm back on, taking care of everyone's needs and activities until we reach bedtime and I can sneak in a few more hours of work late at night. My job certainly does not afford me the ability to take three months off, and my personality wouldn't let me even if it did.

But whether you work outside of the home or you're a stay-at-home parent, can we all just PLEASE admit that it IS possible to get too much of a good thing, say, for example, 104 consecutive days of vacation every year for 12+ years of your life, at which point, if you're lucky enough to find one, your first job might offer a generous 2 weeks? And while many of us try to provide educational opportunities for our kids during the summer months, it's not like this massive break from formal education is making us any smarter. Have you read the comments section of any online publication lately?

I honestly believe that structure is good for kids, and I think that deep down most parents agree. Research has shown just how much learning kids lose over the summer, and that they tend to sleep better, eat better, and generally behave better when there is a concrete framework governing their daily lives. Sure, some parents go overboard when it comes to scheduling every last second of their kids' time, particularly during the school year...but THREE MONTHS?

No matter how old your kids are, summer vacation means becoming a full-time cruise director for the S.S. Family Fun. Which is exhausting. And expensive. And involves a lot of splash parks, bounce houses, sports teams, camps and "enrichment" programs. By mid-August, I will enroll my kids in pretty much anything, including classes that sound like they were designed by randomly arranging magnetic words on a refrigerator: Underwater Fencing For Creative Problem Solving? Great! Solar Basket Racers With Collaborative Feng Shui Techniques For Boys? And it's from 9am-3pm? I'm all over it.

At some point as a society, don't we need to ask ourselves WHY we're doing this?

My kids have been out of school for roughly 32 hours, and at this point have eaten everything in our house (including many non-food items- has anyone seen my phone charger? Or the cat?), we have at least a dozen plastic baggies which now contain either an insect, a bunch of rocks, or some other random collection of junk, and we're down 3 bottles of sunscreen and 1 can of bug repellent (which clearly didn't work on the poor chap in the baggie). The playroom is a minefield of still wet finger paint, melty beads (OUCH!), and a bunch of other arts and crap...I mean, crafts. Ahh, summer.

For those of you out there who might be freaking out a little at the thought of the next three months, I just want you to know that it's OK not to love every minute. I sure don't.

So if you ever want to join me in drowning your sorrows in a glass of wine one night, you know where to find me- hunched over my computer working like a fiend.

For the rest of you unabashed summer vacation lovers (who I'm also guessing love things like half-day kindergarten), I will drink a toast (or 12) to you. Enjoy your three (SHUDDER) unstructured months, and I'll be sure to check back with you in about 3 weeks.

In any case, cheers to summer.

On Traveling And Finding My Way Back Home

I think it's safe to say I'm a seasoned traveler.

I took my first overseas voyage at age 3 months, and my first solo plane trip at age 8. In addition to frequent trips back to the motherland, my immigrant parents were determined to explore this great new country of theirs, so we spent weeks of my childhood summers piled in the Mercury Grand Marquis, armed with a bright yellow highlighted path on our AAA TripTik, a cooler full of Capri-Suns, and a Polaroid camera. Niagara Falls, colonial Williamsburg, the Smoky Mountains, California redwood trees, even the 1980 World's Fair in Nashville, Tennessee- we were road warriors and cultural observers.  

I spent my junior year in college living and traveling through Europe, and then came back to graduate so I could travel through Australia, before landing a job in the (wait for it) travel industry. I married a fellow lover of travel and consider it to be a sign of love, and not one that he's trying to get rid of me, when my he buys me luggage for my birthday. And while many find the mere idea of traveling with children daunting enough to just stay home, our kids have already discovered the great art of collecting (passport) stamps. 

Is there anything funnier than toddler passport photos? 

All that travel has taught me many lessons. I learned to make creme brûlée from a Parisian taxi driver when I mistakenly asked for a "recipe" and not a "receipt." I learned that the water, and everything else, really does go down the toilet the other way in the southern hemisphere, particularly after a rowdy New Year's celebration in Sydney. And I learned that all the planning and organizing and packing in the world won't help if you don't remember a certain toddler's stuffed ladybug on the kitchen table when you leave for a week at the beach. 

Yes, over the years I've gotten very good at leaving; it's the return trip that has always been the challenge. Sure, everyone gets the end-of-vacation, return-to-reality blues, but in my case, they've been... slightly exaggerated. What would begin with sniffles toward the end of the trip would often escalate to hysterical sobbing on the appointed day, which would continue, much to the dismay of my seat mates, all through the flight. My emotional baggage was far too big for the overhead bin and certainly wouldn't fit under the seat in front of me; it exploded under pressure (much like the dozens of baby food jars my parents once tried to bring to Egypt) and left behind a soggy, blubbering mess.

Because here's the problem: instead of just traveling, taking a trip from the ordinary, or a bit of an escape from my routine, for many years I think I was actually trying to take vacations from myself. So deeply dissatisfied with ME, I used travel as my personal ticket out of my own life. In mid-air, or in a different state, a different country, I could even make myself believe I was someone else. Someone better, someone more exciting, more accomplished. Someone with fewer relationship issues, job issues, health issues, money issues.

And then, once the trip was over, reality would come crashing back faster than a speeding 747. We're not talking about a little turbulence- every trip ended with a sudden and dramatic crash landing. There was no use bracing for impact or putting on an oxygen mask; it was all over.

My parents somehow put up with it. I'm sure my college and grad school roommates found it odd, but they helped keep the kleenex coming. And my husband tried to cushion the blow by always trying to plan another trip immediately upon coming back.

But at some point, I'm not even sure exactly when or how, I got tired of my own behavior. Tired of the tears, the drama, the heartache. That's when I decided to change my flight path, and I came home for good.

I didn't stop traveling- not by any means. And it's not like all my problems magically went away: I still have those same feelings of not being good enough, not being exciting enough, not being accomplished enough. There are still relationship issues, job issues, health issues, money issues.

The difference is, I'm not trying to run, or even fly away from them anymore.

I can escape the cold, I can escape from work, but I'm done trying to escape from myself. 

Because all that baggage- it's mine.

This life I've been given- I cherish it.

This path I've chosen- I own it.

And this place called "home"- I now choose to carry it with me everywhere I go. 

It's the best trip I've ever taken.

Our most recent trip: November 2014

A Travel Adventure

My first mistake was thinking it would be easy.

A long weekend in Chicago- how tough could that be? Yes, we'd be traveling with 2 kids under age 3, but this is Chicago we're talking about! We've taken them across international waters. Surely we can take them round the corner of Lake Michigan. Chicago is familiar territory- home (well, Evanston anyway) to my alma mater Northwestern University, not to mention home to my brother and his family. Chicago is close! Chicago is fun! Chicago is my kind of town.

And we'd be taking the train! A dream come true for my sweet little boy, who counts Thomas (and Percy and Edward and Henry and James et al.) among his nearest and dearest friends. His first train ride! We talked about it for weeks; how he'd hear the engine's whistle, feel the rattle of the rails. How not only would he be riding on a bona fide, actual train, he'd be riding it with his grandparents! My mom and dad would be joining us for the trip, as my little boy frequently told anyone who would listen. He had it all planned out: he'd sit on Gido's (translation: Grandpa's) lap and Teta (my mom) would read him stories. What fun!

Except that my parents missed the train.

Never mind, time to regroup, dry one disappointed little boy's eyes and move on. My parents promised they'd find a way to make it to Chicago, and we were still on a train- a TRAIN! What fun! My little Choo Choo was hot with excitement. A little too hot. Like feverish. And maybe just a tiny bit stuffy...

Time for travel triage. From the depths of the diaper bag we dug out the Children's Tylenol and the digital thermometer (yes, I travel with one) and prayed for the best.

By Kalamazoo his temperature hit triple digits.

The Indiana state line brought us to 104. It's a nice number if Willard Scott is wishing you happy birthday, but a very ugly one when it comes off your child's forehead. I held him tight and prayed for cool.

And so the child who never sits still and is obsessed with trains spent his very first train ride dozing in and out of a fitful sleep, fever raging inside.

We arrived in Chicago, did not pass go, and went directly to Urgent Care. 4 hours later ("Urgent" is apparently a relative term) we had a not surprising but comforting diagnosis: a bad cold. And thanks to the miraculous healing power of the waiting room (and a dose of Motrin) he was already feeling a bit better. Back to our regularly scheduled family visit! Time to introduce Noah and his sister to their cousin! Family bonding time! What fun!

Except that it turns out my son is terrified of dogs. Namely my brother's sweet, docile, slightly dopey French bulldog. To Noah she was Terror Wrapped In Fur. He shrieked like a madman the minute she approached and didn't stop until.... well, he just didn't stop.

Surely he'd feel better in the morning. A nice warm bath, comfy jammies and bed would do the trick. I'd tuck him in with his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine blanket and his stuffed bunnies and pray for morning.

Except that I forgot to pack his bunnies.

And when he raised his hot little head off the mattress to ask for them, he wasn't the only one with tears in his eyes.

We were both exhausted and I had failed. Failed to expect the unexpected, failed to prepare for the worst, failed to provide the security and comfort he needed.

I made up a story about the bunnies watching over our house, offered a stuffed penguin as a surrogate, skulked out of the room and prayed for forgiveness.

The weekend definitely improved after that; the fever broke, we all enjoyed our together, Noah and the dog negotiated a temporary truce.

Traveling with little ones will never be easy, but it is almost always worth the effort. Even a quick trip reminds us and teaches our kids that the world is bigger than the small circle we tend to travel in, that our way of life isn't the only one. My kids got their first glimpse at a big city, played with cousins they'd never met, brought smiles to grandparents, uncles and aunts.

We got back on the train, weary from the experience and glad to be homeward bound. Just an easy ride and we'd be there. I kissed my little boy as he gazed wide-eyed out the window, calling "Toot Toot" each time the engine whistled, finally feeling the rattle of the rails. For the first time in 3 days I felt myself relax, and dared to exhale as I held my baby girl in my lap.

A baby who felt a little warm, and maybe just a tiny bit stuffy....

Northern Exposure

"We're heading up north for the weekend." If I had a dime for every time I've heard a Michigander say that I'd probably have enough money to buy myself a place up north. But growing up in this fair state I often felt like I was the only one who didn't head for that geographically vague location as soon as the sand dunes or ski slopes started calling. The trend was especially prevalent in the summer. My friends and I would play together all week and then suddenly around 3pm on Friday they would vanish into this northerly void, only to reappear (usually a few shades darker) on Monday. They tossed around names that sounded so unfamiliar, so exotic. Charlevoix. Leelenau. Benzonia. What was this "up north" place, and why couldn't I go there, too?

In no way do I mean to imply that I was deprived of fabulous summer experiences. My parents came to this country from Egypt in the 1960's, and that meant our summers typically fell into three categories: church camp with other Egyptians, long road trips to explore the USA with other Egyptians, or going back to Egypt to be with, you guessed it, other Egyptians. At the time I didn't appreciate it, but looking back I know what a privilege it was to have seen so many wonders of both the ancient and modern worlds (that big ball of twine in rural Ohio really did make me wonder) before I even hit puberty. So while I had sailed down the Suez Canal I had never so much as dipped my toes in Lake Michigan. But Egyptians are not exactly "lake people" (not surprising, considering they grew up in the middle of the world's largest desert) and I don't believe the thought of vacationing right in our own state ever crossed their minds. So that quintessential Michigan experience: packing up the family car and jumping on I-75, leaving for the cottage or the lake or the campground is one we never had.

So now that I have my own family, we own a Michigan home, we pay Michigan taxes, I figured it was high time we partake in this most Michigan of family endeavors. With a toddler and a newborn in tow we knew there probably wouldn't be much "vacation" for us, but there was one place we could go. That's right kids: jump in your car seats, fasten those 5-point harnesses, and pack up the Pack and Play, because the Shands are going "Up North!"

We rented a condo between Petoskey and Harbor Springs for one week at the end of August. With visions of cascading waterfalls and shimmering sand dunes running through my head I frantically packed for our Pure Michigan vacation. And then I packed some more. Then just a few more things. We might as well have been heading for Cairo (or for a nuclear fallout shelter) given the amount of gear I felt compelled to take. There's something about traveling with kids that brings out my inner pack rat. Even though I was really certain the great unknown Up North land did in fact have stores, everything in the house suddenly seemed essential. How could Noah survive the week without his favorite book? Or these other 12 books? If Cecilia goes through an average of 3 onesies/day, then for 1 week I should probably pack.... 247. Math was never my strong suit. Still, we managed to cram it all in the car and point ourselves in a northerly direction.

Whoever said life is a journey not a destination clearly did not travel with kids. My vision of a luxurious travel nap was rudely interrupted by reality: active 2-year-olds do NOT enjoy being strapped into car seat purgatory for hundreds of miles at a time. After 4 hours of appeasing him with games, snacks, toys, and songs, Noah finally fell asleep. Of course this was about 5 miles from our final destination. But no matter, we had arrived Up North! And it was.... raining.

Aside from one, beautiful sunny day, it rained the vast majority of our week Up North. Not a nice gentle rain but a cold, angry downpour. 60 degrees in August cold. We did our best to get out during the breaks in the deluge, strolling the streets of Charlevoix, gazing at the boats in Harbor Springs, savoring Polish goodies at the odd but charming Legs Inn. And Mark and I even had one "grown-up" date alone together at Chandler's in Petoskey, thanks to a visit from Grandma and Grandpa Shand (wouldn't you know it, I married into a family that regularly goes "Up North"). Perhaps the most memorable moment was the first time Noah set eyes on the beach at Petoskey State Park. While he traveled to Florida and South Carolina beaches as an infant, this was the first time he really understood what he was seeing. I knew the trip was worthwhile when he grabbed my hand, those blue eyes big as saucers and said "Look, Mama! A sandbox!"

Mostly though, we spent the week in our condo. With a newborn who still only sleeps a few hours at a time, dinner to cook and laundry to do (turns out we probably needed 485 onesies) I can't say it truly felt like a vacation, at least not the kind I was used to. I won't hold it against Up North, given the unseasonable weather and the fact that it was our first major foray with both kids. We had a lovely time and made plenty of memories, but most of them were within the walls of the condo. From building Lego towers on the floor with Noah (of course I packed them!) and hearing him giggle every time he knocked them down, to seeing Cecilia's first tentative smiles (maybe that was just gas?) turn into all out gleeful, gummy grins, those are the moments I'll cherish.

Watching my kids grow and seeing the world through their eyes is by far the best trip I've ever taken. Despite the baggage (emotional and physical) I may drag along, it continues to take my breath away. The road certainly isn't easy, but whether it leads "Up North" or any other direction, I feel blessed to be along for the ride.