Hard Truths

I'm currently in an ice skating rink, surrounded by kids and parents having fun and blowing off steam after a half day of school. It's loud. It's chaotic. It's my idea of hell. And I am sitting on the tip top bleacher, half in the dark, typing on my laptop and hoping no one notices that I'm crying.

I few minutes ago, I said "Fuck you" to my daughter.

Yep. I did. You heard that right. And then I walked away. More accurately, I escaped to the bathroom and promptly burst into tears. And now I can't seem to get the tears to stop.

Is there anything worse than uncontrollable crying in public?

Well...yeah. I guess telling your kid "Fuck You" is worse.

My daughter is in 8th grade. I love her fiercely. She is strong and smart and fragile and beguiling, and...sometimes very, very difficult to be around.

But that is no excuse for what I said, no excuse for the mother I've become.

When the kids were little, I was stunned by the abundant amount of patience suddenly at my disposal. I've never been a particularly patient person. But having small children brought it out in me. I had to be patient; I had no choice. This simple, straightforward logic seemed to unlock something in me, and I became more patient than I had ever been in my life.

That lasted...well, for awhile. I guess I had a good run.

But the stress of parenting two very opinionated, very outspoken, very stubborn girls began to chip away at my seemingly unending well of patience. As they got older, my fuse got shorter.

And then...well, I had a bad year.

First, we lost the election. That may sound stupid to some, but the despair I felt that awful night was crushing, and it has not abated; if anything, it's grown worse. And then, my dad died. The ferociousness and intensity of my grief sort of caught me by surprise. I felt sucker-punched. Life got more intense - estate logistics and family squabbles on top of trying to give myself space to mourn - and my ability to deal with things radically declined. I lost some support systems at a time when I really, really, really couldn't afford to lose them. I felt like everybody wanted/needed/expected something from me, and the burden of it all started to take a toll. I could feel myself drowning in all my anger - all this weird anger that suddenly showed up and ATE all of my patience, just ate it right up like a small snack pack of chips and then looked at me like, "What you got next? Cause I'm still hungry."

And then my teenager-out-of-the-womb oldest daughter actually officially became a teenager, and the shit really started to hit the fan.

I felt overwhelmed and ill-equipped to deal with all the parenting challenges coming my way, plus just...life. Marriage, work, busy schedules...all of it. I knew I was lost - I felt it. I feel it still.

I started having small panic attacks. Sometimes I couldn't swallow around all the anxiety. I stopped sleeping at night. I cried at the most unpredictable of times - or, worse yet, I didn't feel anything at all.

But most of all...I was PISSED. All day, every day. I was, and am, angry.

My anger became so big, it couldn't be contained. I had to swallow it around colleagues, friends, fellow moms, extended family. But I couldn't hold it in all the time. So my immediate family bore the brunt of it. My husband. My kids.

And soon, I found myself dealing with an emotional, raging, unpredictable kid by being an emotional, raging, unpredictable parent.

I told myself I needed time. Time to grieve, to breathe, to regroup, to heal. In my mind, I gave myself the deadline of the end of the year. After the year was over, I'd really start working on turning a corner. That seemed fair. Doable. I gave myself a bit of a break.

A year (and more) has passed. Nothing has changed.

And now here I am, blogging and crying in a suburban ice rink, trying to understand how I went from a parent who spent all day every day with maniacal, tyrannical toddlers and (mostly) didn't lose it to a parent who tells her kid "Fuck you" because she spoke shitty to me.

She won't remember all the nights I got up with her, all the times I held her hand and breathed with her when her anxiety became too much, all the times I hugged her while she cried.

But she will remember what I just said to her. And she should. Because it was awful.

I know I need help. But right now, all my energy is going toward my kids, my marriage, and trying not to completely, utterly, inexorably lose my shit forever and ever more, amen. There isn't much energy or time or money left over for anything else.

And also...I am scared.

I tell myself that tomorrow is another opportunity...that even a minute from now is another chance. A chance to get it right. To be better. To do better.

I tell myself that.

But I have no idea what to tell my 13 year old daughter.

She doesn't care what I'm struggling with, how angry or overwhelmed I am. Because she is all those things too, and it's not her job to worry about me. It's MY job to worry about HER.

She just wants her old mom back.

Almost 13

It feels like the remarkable young lady standing beside me in this picture was a tiny, jaundiced, squalling infant just yesterday. How is it possible that she is now almost 13?!?

But...but...Barbie never complained!

This pic is one of my better spontaneous hair creations. 

I'm pretty proud of my braiding skills. I went to the School of Barbie (years and years of training, folks), and while I'm no expert, I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve. 

This morning, Sophie asked me to put her hair in a single braid. One braid? Pffff. Cake walk. 

Me: "Um...sure. I think I can handle that."

Sophie: "But...just...well...don't do it like you normally do it, okay, Mommy? Do it like a professional this time, please. I want it to look nice."

Snickerdoodles

My daughter seems happy lately.

It is such a rare and fragile thing. Like a delicate butterfly that suddenly lands on your hand. You just want to freeze time, stay still, and not risk a sudden, stupid movement that will cause the beautiful creature to fly away.

I just came home from grocery shopping and found my normally mercurial, moody tween beaming from ear to ear. She proudly declared that she had made snickerdoodles from scratch while I was gone. When I asked what had possessed her, she said, "Well, you told me once that a great way to show love is to bake. So..."

I'm hiding in the bathroom right now, crying a little, as I type this.

What a privilege it is, being her mother.

No Santa: Growing Up Sorta Sucks

My oldest daughter is almost 12 years old, and up until about 15 hours ago, she still kinda sorta maybe believed in Santa Claus. (Yeah, I know. We were astounded, too.)

But all good things must come to an end. Last night, we were talking about her desk, and I made the classic mistake of saying something like, "Well, when we bought this for you, we were thinking you could use it for...yada yada yada." Annnnd...yep. You guessed it. The desk was a gift from Santa.

I've been caught in similar slip ups before, and I've always managed to talk my way out of them. But this time, I decided to not even try. I mean, she's in middle school. The conversation felt almost ridiculously overdue, and I thought I would merely be confirming something that she already knew, not revealing some potentially devastating secret. So when she asked me the inevitable question, I did not dodge it. I answered honestly.

About 30 minutes of intense, angry, desolate sobbing ensued.

In many ways, Emma is a mature kid. She gets herself up early in the mornings for band and chorus practice, packs her own lunch, gets out the door and to the bus...many times before I've even woken up. She gets excellent grades in school, managing her own homework and deadlines with virtually no assistance from us. Her teachers rave about her focus and dedication and responsibility. And she is starting to become more sophisticated in her thinking, understanding the world around her more and asking insightful questions about society as a whole.

But in other ways, mostly emotionally, she is still sooooooooooo young.

The tween dichotomy between little girl and young woman is very real. Sometimes Emma seems so grown up to me, a casual look or throwaway comment from her can almost make me weep. Yet other times, I'm rendered speechless by her immaturity and naivete. She switches from flippant and superior to whiny and needy on a dime. It's hard to navigate between these polar opposites, and frankly, I often get lost. She desperately wants to be treated like a teenager...but she's not there yet. I am always struggling to know when to give her space, respect her boundaries, let her work things out on her own, and when to rock her in my arms like a baby...like my baby, which she still is. I often get it wrong - giving her one thing when she needs the other.  It's a dance - a delicate, complicated, constant dance. And sometimes we step on each others' toes. But we keep on dancing.

Regardless of her age and maturity, she has always been very sensitive. Hearing her sob and wail over Santa made me want to permanently wrap her heart in bubble wrap before sending her back out into the world. She's like an exposed nerve ending with legs. Her emotional vulnerability terrifies me. I want her to toughen up, and I want her to never change. Grow a protective layer of cynicism, and yet never lose touch with her feelings. Be both practical and open, hard and soft, fierce and tender. But how to be both? Why can't she be both? Yet how can I teach her to be both, when I'm still learning those things for myself?

After she had a good cry over the loss of Santa, she seemed much better. Fine, in fact. Before going to sleep, she told me, "Mommy, I already knew Santa wasn't real. In my head. But I still believed in my heart. Is it okay if I still believe in my heart?"

Always, Em. Always.   

Annual Mothers Day Post

Mother's Day is my favorite day of the year.

I take great pride in being a mother, and great joy in a day dedicated to celebrating that role - not only for myself, but for others as well. For a girl born on Christmas, it is still a rather new experience to have a day that's all about me. And yeah. I know that sounds selfish. It is selfish. And that's okay. It's okay to be selfish once in awhile, to crave and need a day/hour/moment where the focus is on you. Everyone deserves that, at least once a year, don't you think? I do...and when it's my turn, believe you me - I revel in it.

Not that Mother's Day is all about me. I not only am a mother, I have one too - a pretty brilliant one at that...a truly selfless woman that I love and appreciate more than I can ever show. I have a beautiful plethora of other mothers in my life as well - mother-in-law, sister, aunts, cousins, friends - that inspire me every day. And I see the joy in my daughters' eyes on Mother's Day, the excitement they feel at having an excuse to share their feelings and spoil me a little. Of course, we don't only share our feelings on Mother's Day. But the ritual of it all is nice, as it is for any other holiday - having that annual reminder to tell the mothers in your life that matter to you...well, that they matter to you.

For all of these reasons, Mother's Day is my favorite day of the year. But I recognize, probably now more than ever, that a day that means so much to me can mean something very different to other people.

People who have lost their mothers. People who have lost a child. People who grew up without a mother. People who have complex relationships with their mothers, and/or with their children. People who are not mothers, and desperately want to be. Even people who are not mothers, and choose not to be.

I see you all. I don't pretend to know what your experience feels like. But I see it, I respect it, and to all those that associate Mother's Day with pain or loss, my heart aches for you.

Please know that my joy in this day is not in any way meant to cause you pain, even though I realize that it still might. It is simply my truth. For those who feel alone or sad on this day, or any day, I truly wish you warmth and peace. That feels woefully inadequate, yet it is all I have to offer.

And now...my way to honor the tremendous effort my family puts into making Mother's Day so special for me. Some treasures from my favorite day, courtesy of my favorite people in the world.

The day actually started off the night before, when I came home late from my show to a completely clean house. They even mopped! They were three busy bees while mama was at the theater. Then I woke up to beautiful tulips, and a few surprises.

Emma made me a double layer red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, baked and decorated all by herself.

Sophie had several homemade gifts for me, but this was my favorite.

The biggest surprise was waking up to an egg hunt! Chris and the girls each wrote specific things that they loved about me on little pieces of paper, and then folded the notes into emoji eggs that they hid all around the house for me to find. Best. Gift. Ever.

I like nature. Who woulda thunk it?

We just got back from a glorious getaway with my mom, dad, sisters, niece, nephew and brother-in-law. Eleven of us total, bunking together for the week in a cozy cabin in the Smoky Mountains. (And we did not kill each other. Like, NOT EVEN A LITTLE. We totally got this family vacation thing down COLD.)

From the moment we arrived, Gatlinburg basically stole my heart.

I don't consider myself a nature girl. Camping has always struck me as a pretty miserable way to voluntarily spend your time. (Good gravy, we are not cavemen anymore - SLEEP IN A BED.) I enjoy sunshine on my face as much as the next person, but I've never been one for being outside every minute of the day. I tend to screech - loudly - at the first sign of insects or wildlife. But as soon as I spied those mountains, I fell in love. The views were truly (and literally) breathtaking, and all I wanted was more more more.

We checked out a lot of the touristy things that Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge had to offer. Each were fun in their own way, and the kids had a great time. But most of the excursions were super expensive, and some weren't really of particular interest to me. My favorite parts of the trip were hiking, climbing, exploring. Running my hands through the pure, clear water of the falls. Crouching on a rock and listening to the babbling brooks. Stopping at a lookout and taking in the vast green all around. Floating down the rapids and marveling at the river's beauty and power. Sitting on our cabin's porch and watching the sun set over the treetops. I couldn't get enough, and I'm already dreaming of the day we can return.

It was a special week in one of the most gorgeous places I've ever seen, surrounded by all the people who mean the most to me. What more can one ask for?

Tennessee, we already miss you.

White water rafting on the Pigeon River. My first time. Absolutely exhilarating.

Yeah, we did Dollywood. An exhausting and ridiculously (over)expensive day, in my opinion. But the kids had fun.

My babies.

Our attempt at a selfie. Let's just say I am definitely not a Kardashian!

Sophie and Chris at the NASCAR Speed Park, getting their go cart on.

With the Smoky Mountains in the background. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.

On our hike to Grotto Falls, the kids and I went ahead. I had such a blast with them, feeding off their energy. (1.6 miles uphill over rocks and tree roots and boulders is no joke. My thighs were like, "WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?")

We almost broke our necks getting in place for this shot. (Okay, maybe just me. Young people and their damn BALANCE and FEARLESSNESS. Those rocks were slippery, give me a break.)

Yep...that's Sophie and Cadin back there!

Family photo, with a little waterfall in the background. Gatlinburg's like, "No big whoop. I have hundreds where that came from."

My mom, god bless her. She made it almost halfway up the mountain through pretty tough terrain before calling it quits. She sat and waited for us, content to chat with other hikers and take in the peace around her while we soldiered on. Never once complained. What a trooper.

Me and my love.

These girls sure do love their Aunt Jayme.

Group photo after reaching Laurel Falls. About 3 minutes after this shot was taken, we were hit by a thunderstorm and buckets of cold, hard, unrelenting rain. The path down the mountain was narrow, with nothing on your right but a steep and dangerous drop. It was a slippery trek. I was a nervous wreck, my poor nephew was terrified, and we were all soaked through. However, not all of us were daunted. Emma's first words after reaching the bottom? "That was so much fun!"

Hanging at the aquarium with this guy. None of us could take our eyes off of him.

These sharks seemed just a little too interested in my baby.

Emma and Sophie, literally inside the penguin exhibit. The Gatlinburg Aquarium kinda rocks.

These awesome and gorgeous women just happen to be my sisters. I dig them.

The girls in the original Love Bug. 

Obligatory group photo!

 

Us, Right Now

2015 has been a tricky year so far for my family. My father-in-law has been battling cancer for almost two years, and his journey with this insidious, ridiculous, fucking-fuck-fuck (excuse my fucking language) disease is soon coming to an end. He decided six weeks ago to stop treatment and begin hospice at home, and Chris has been in St. Louis ever since. He's working remotely while also being primary caregiver to his dad. And the girls and I are here in Oak Lawn, plugging along and missing Chris more than any words can possibly express.

There is so much I want to say about how this experience has been for Chris. So much that has surprised, moved, angered me. Rendered me helpless, speechless. But ultimately, that isn't my story to tell. So I'll continue to do here what I've been doing, to the best of my ability, for the last six weeks - focusing on me and my girls.

For me, this experience has been a series of life lessons. 

I've learned that my girls are shaken, but resilient. They are sad about losing their Paw Paw, and they miss their Daddy a lot. But we've gotten into a routine, and things are going as well as can be expected. Which is to say that some days we really rock this on-our-own thing, and some days we are one step away from clawing each others' faces off. Such is life. I think they are a little sick of nothing but The Mom Show 24/7. Sophie raged at me during a recent fight, "I don't want your face. I want Daddy's face!" But they also cling to me more than usual, reaching out to touch me whenever they can, reassuring themselves that one of us is still here. Sophie burst into tears last week when I told her I have jury duty soon (great timing, Cook County!) because somehow she thought it meant that the judge might send me to jail. She wailed, "If you go to jail, who will take care of us?! YOU SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF THAT BEFORE YOU MADE THE POLICE MAD!" Emma asks me often to lay with her until she goes to sleep because she is scared. Even my dog is having frequent nightmares. The feelings manifest in different ways. But overall, they are okay.

I have learned that my husband, who I already thought did a lot around the house, actually does A LOT around the house. Having the burden rest suddenly on my lone shoulders is a huge eye-opener to just how much he contributes. My whole world is laundry and dishes and meals meals meals and changing light bulbs and yard work and taking out trash and school projects and grocery shopping and cleaning and refereeing and feeding the dog and drying tears and entertaining and picking up/dropping off children - all day every day, with no help/partner/buffer/break. I have always had enormous respect for single parents, but that respect is now through the roof. Don't get me wrong - I'm not deluded enough to think that my little experiment in single-parenting is anything close to the real deal. But it's given me the smallest taste into a single parent's world, and I'm left humbly astounded by it.  

I have learned that I took "me" time for granted. I relied on Chris to pick up the slack so I could enjoy various outlets for myself - acting, socializing, exercising, shopping, napping, etc. All the things I would normally do "when Chris gets home" are now either gone or modified. When the girls are at school, I am working. For everything else...where I go, they go.

I have learned that it is really hard to go through a difficult time and not have your best friend by your side. Because, of course, my best friend is 300 miles away. Chris can't be here for me through this, because he needs to be there for his dad instead. He's exactly where he needs to be, and I don't have a moment's doubt or resentment about it. But there are still several times a day when I think, "God, I can't wait to tell Chris about this." And I can't. Because I don't want him worrying about me, about us. He has enough to worry about. I don't want to bother him with my petty needs or questions when he is doing one of the single most important and difficult things he will ever do in his life.

I have learned that I can do more than I think I can. Many things that I just relied on Chris to do, I can do for myself. (Cleaning up dog poop is an admitted exception; my backyard is currently a shit-filled wasteland.) And while I am sometimes mind-numbingly lonely, I've discovered that I don't actually need all the socialization and outside distractions. I've simplified my life down to the very basics: work and home. And in some ways, it's a relief.

I have learned that I can do better. I have a couple of close friends/family who have been wonderful about checking in regularly and consistently. And by "wonderful" I mean "absolutely fucking brilliant." Others have reached out to say they care and are thinking of us. A handful check in periodically, asking for any new news about Chris or his dad. All of these gestures are deeply, deeply appreciated. But mostly, it's been pretty quiet. Beyond those core couple of people, there have been no real offers of help or time (eg, taking the girls for a few hours, coming to visit, lending an ear, whatever). It's been a little surprising, to be honest. I write this not to make anybody feel badly. (Please please please, that is not my intent.) Rather, I write this because I have a two-part theory as to why this is, and my theory says way more about me than anyone around me.

Partly, I think it's just human nature for a lot of people with the absolutely best intentions to keep their distance when the shit hits the fan, either because they are uncomfortable, they don't know what to do, or they have too much going on in their own lives. I've developed this theory from personal experience, because I've behaved exactly the same way in the past. I've sent a card or a note, maybe a supportive text or comment on Facebook, and then I've figured - they've got a lot on their plates, they know I'm thinking about them, they'll ask for help if they need it, I don't want to bother them - and I've gotten on with my life, worrying about them from afar. And it wasn't because I didn't care. Quite the opposite - I cared a lot, and I think most people who've been relatively absent in our lives the last few weeks care a lot too. It just is what it is. Everyone's dealing with something, and we are all trying to stay afloat. For me, I often don't know how to help, so instead I do nothing. Whatever the reason, I don't blame anyone; life is hard, and we are all doing the best we can. In fact, I'm mostly thankful for the situation. Because my eyes have been opened to how I've fallen short in this area, and I am determined to do better in the future.

The second part of my theory is easier to specify, but harder to swallow. Clearly, I have failed to build a strong community around myself. And that is all on me. We aren't a member of a church, we don't have a huge social circle, we aren't close to neighbors, we live in a town that - three years later - still feels new and foreign. And as I said before, I think I've been less than a stellar friend to others in the past. So. I'm not sure what to do about this particular lesson, but it's one I take to heart and plan to ruminate on moving forward.

I have learned that while my current situation is far from unique, it's still okay to acknowledge that it sucks. I know many people going through many difficult situations right now. Bitching about six weeks without my husband will probably strike some as the height of self-absorbed ridiculousness. Which is why I haven't been writing much lately, honestly. I didn't want to have a post full of nothing but whining and complaints, and I knew if I started typing, that's where it could potentially go. But it's my truth. It's where we are at right now. And that's okay.

I have learned that family is everything. The clarity this experience has given me is something for which I am truly grateful. I know what matters, truly matters, in a way I haven't fully felt or understood in quite awhile. The people I love and who love me in return are my family, whether blood or chosen. They are my people, my clan, my tribe. And that is everything to me. All the rest is just noise - still important, but not essential. That knowledge seems like it should be obvious, but it has proven too easy for me to forget over the years. NOTHING in my life works without my family.

Lastly, I have learned that love heals. My girls have been such a source of strength for me these weeks. I've lost count of how many times one of their hugs has restored me. And every time I feel their little arms around me, I think of my husband. It makes me desperately sad that Chris is facing such a difficult time without us by his side. Every day, I wonder...who is hugging him right now? Every night, I pray for our love to travel far and strong and squeeze him tight. So I urge you to take a look around at the person(s) standing beside you every day, the ones who are truly essential in your life...who are your life. Take a deep breath of thanks and give them a nice, long, hard embrace. I promise, the loving energy will renew you both.

Happy New Year

We spent our New Year's Eve with the Thompson family this year. I hope you were able to ring in the new year similarly, surrounded by dear friends and loved ones.

The midnight money shot. Gus peace'd out several hours earlier, completely unimpressed with the whole "ring in the New Year" thing.

Overall, 2014 was very kind to me and my family. There were a few bumps in the road, but we have our health and each other, and that's truly all I can ever ask for.

Looking into my crystal ball, I foresee the next year as one of change. I say bring it, 2015...we're ready for you. (I think.)

Happy New Year to you all! May 2015 treat you well.

Sophie's Letter to the Tooth Fairy

Sophie lost a tooth yesterday. Here's the note she put under her pillow for the Tooth Fairy to find. IF THIS ISN'T THE CUTEST THING YOU'VE EVER SEEN, THEN YOU HAVE NO SOUL. Pretty cute, huh? It's the picture of the tooth itself that kills me.

Translation: "Dear Tooth Fairy, I accidentally swallowed my tooth. So if you don't find my tooth I swallowed it on accident but you can still give me money or a toy. Love your friend Sophie Mathews.

Happy Halloween!

THIS is how you rock a photo booth, people.

Keep Dreamin'

My dream job came to an end today.

I was cast back in February as an understudy at Steppenwolf Theatre, for their world premiere production of The Qualms. (If you click the link, watch the Look Inside video to get an idea of what the play is about.) I started in June, and today was the 68th and final performance of the run.

It has been an amazing experience.

Steppenwolf has been my dream place to work for almost 20 years. I saw Steppenwolf's production of Buried Child while in college, and it literally changed the trajectory of my life. (Sam Shepard. Gary Sinise. Ethan Hawke. Lois Smith. AMAZING.) Up until that point, I'd planned to move to New York City after graduation. It never occurred to me to live anywhere else. I had always assumed that if you wanted to be a serious theater actor, then NYC was where you went. But after seeing Buried Child, I knew that I wanted to do that kind of theatre with those kinds of artists. Chicago - and, by extension, Steppenwolf - became my new dream.

I've lived in Chicago for 16 years now, and of course, I discovered long ago that there are so many outstanding theater companies here. And most of them aren't in the theater district. If you ever come to Chicago and are looking for a show to see, email me and I'll give you recommendations. There is much more to Chicago theater than the huge venues downtown. As Mr. Tracy Letts said in his Tony acceptance speech for Best Actor last year (CLICK AND WATCH THE BRILLIANCE OF THIS SPEECH that never fails to make me cry), there are storefront theaters all over Chicago filled with actors who "say it to their faces," and I am proud to be one of them. Tourists are often drawn to the big Broadway touring shows playing in the heart of the Loop, and don't get me wrong - I enjoy those shows as much as anyone. But they are not Chicago theater. Even a lot of Chicago residents miss out on the heart and grit and tremendous talent that forms the backbone of theater in this city, simply because they don't know where to look. (If interested in learning more about the vast array of theater choices in Chicago, the League of Chicago Theatres website is a great place to start. And yes, I'm aware that I sound like an infomercial.)

I am a fan of many theaters in Chicago, of all sizes, and have an ever-growing list of all the places at which I would love to work someday. But for me, Steppenwolf has always been my ultimate "if I could only work there" place. During our first years in Chicago, even when Chris and I struggled to make rent and couldn't afford health insurance and often survived solely on Campbell's chicken noodle soup (or rather, I did...Chris ate baby food from his Nonnie, which is a story for another day), we always splurged on season subscriptions to Steppenwolf. I've seen so many memorable productions there over the years...shows that I loved and a few that I loathed, but every one of them a visceral experience that made me feel something. Each year, my esteem for Steppenwolf - and my dream to work with them one day - only grew.

In case you were wondering why in the hell it took me 16 years to realize my dream...a bit of background. (Throw in my recurring hang ups and indecision and crippling battles with myself over whether or not to even be an actor, and you'll have filled in the blanks.) At a theater like Steppenwolf, you need to be invited to audition. They rarely, if ever, have open calls. (Actually, this is how quite a lot of theater companies in Chicago work.) You can submit your headshot and resume to them, but that does not mean that they will call you in. I was invited to their general auditions for the first and only time eight years ago. I don't do well at general auditions. I am much, much better at auditioning with sides. For some reason, I'm hit-or-miss when it comes to monologue auditions. I did not adequately prepare, and the audition was definitely one of my misses. I left feeling that I'd just blown a rare and important opportunity. Turns out, I had. I never heard from them again, and I carried that frustration with me for a very long time.

Then, a few months ago, a friend got an invite from Steppenwolf's casting director to audition for an understudy role in The Qualms. She accepted. But she also did an incredibly selfless thing - she forwarded the invite to me as well. She had read the play and thought I fit the role perfectly. She encouraged me to email them and ask if I could come in and audition too. I did. They said yes. This time, they wanted me to do a side from the play. (Yay!) I prepared, prepared, prepared, prepared. I auditioned. I got the job.

I would have never known about the audition had my friend not told me, and perhaps if I had not auditioned, she would have gotten the role instead. She had to have known that that was a possibility, yet she told me about the audition anyway. She championed me throughout the process, and sincerely congratulated me when I got the job. I am grateful to my friend for so many things - this is just one more act of generosity to add to a long, long list. But it's quite a whopper, wouldn't you agree?

After I accepted the job, I began to panic. I've never understudied before. In fact, I've avoided doing so for years. It always sounded like a pretty thankless job to me (sort of true) and a lot of hard work (definitely true). But I always told myself that if one of the big theater companies asked me - those companies in my head that comprise my Big 5 - I would do it in a heartbeat. And I did. But I didn't know what to expect, and lack of knowledge always makes me anxious. Hence, the panic.

Luckily, Steppenwolf just happens to know what the hell they are doing. The tremendously talented stage management team walked us through everything we needed to know and made sure we were thoroughly prepared. My emotions ran the gamut from complete terror to utter confidence at the mere thought of going on, depending on how far we were into the rehearsal process. But even when I was frightened as hell, I secretly desperately hoped I would get to go on. For a long time, I even felt this inexplicable certainty that at some point I would get to go on. And...I never did. It's my one disappointment. Some of my fellow understudies went on, and while I was genuinely thrilled for them, it was also kinda hard to watch. We all worked so hard, and were so ready, and I wish each of us could have had that experience, just once. In case you think I'm completely delusional...I KNOW that's the nature of the job when you are an understudy; you need to be prepared and ready at any time for a contingency that most likely will never happen. My brain knew that the theater had never guaranteed me a performance, and the odds that I'd actually get to perform were slim. My heart just refused to believe it. Also, I was pretty naive. In my ignorance, I figured that since the theater put so many resources into hiring talented understudies and making sure they were thoroughly prepared, the policy for cast members missing a show would be rather lax. In fact, I stupidly thought that understudies would step in if the actors were tired, or had a wedding, or travel plans, or just wanted a damn break for one night. I mean...we were there and we were ready. Wasn't that what we were there for? Boy, was I wrong. Stage management made it clear that understudies were there in case of an emergency only, and the fervent hope was that we were never needed. From my perspective, that was disappointing to learn. But seeing it through the eyes of the theater, I understood.

Despite not going on, I still had a great time and learned so much. I was in the room with a Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award winning playwright and a Tony Award winning director. I got to sit there, like a teeny tiny awestruck fly on the wall, and watch them work. I don't think either of them would recognize me if they passed me on the street, but their faces and voices are etched in my memory. The unique opportunity to watch a world premiere come to life in such talented hands was unquantifiable. I also got to watch some of the best actors in Chicago (and a few from New York) do their thing...over and over and over and over again. :) (Seriously though...it could have gotten boring very quickly, but the play was so funny and the cast so engaging that it rarely did.) I got to tread the boards of a Steppenwolf stage, even if only in rehearsals. I met a lot of talented and interesting people. And I got to scan my little security badge every day and go downstairs and hole up in my dressing room and tell myself, "I'm at work now. At Steppenwolf. I'M AT WORK AT STEPPENWOLF." 

To a lot of my peers, I don't think understudying at Steppenwolf is that big of a deal. I mean, it's a paid gig at one of the most critically acclaimed theaters in the country. No working actor just shrugs that off. But I suspect most actors wouldn't get as excited as me. Or maybe all the fantastic actors I know who've had similar jobs are just way better at acting nonchalant than I am. I guess it all depends on where you are in your life and career, and who your own personal faves are. But for me...this summer has been a gift, and I am deeply grateful for it.

I don't know what's next on the horizon for me. Such is the life of an actor; you never really know. And, admittedly, I'm not very good at living in that space of uncertainty. I like to have a plan, and I struggle with maintaining the self-motivation and confidence required to be a working actor. Sometimes it just feels too hard to keep moving through each disappointment and keep pushing toward the next opportunity. Over the years, I've gone through phases where I've taken a long break from acting or decided I'm done altogether. It is an electrifying, exhilarating, and bruising way to make a living, and my too-sensitive self often needs to take a step back. But I always return to the theater, and at this point in my life, I know that I always will. Being in this show, surrounded by such talented artists, has inspired me to keep going, keep working, keep striving. I feel a new drive to move forward, and my new plan - my new dream - is to simply ride that wave and see where it takes me.

The complete cast and crew of The Qualms. See me? (Photo by Michael Brosilow.)

Me with my fellow understudies/dressing-room-mates Jordan and Allie. This entire experience would have been very different if I hadn't had these two women to giggle with every day. (Photo by random person on the street.)

First Day of School!

They are growing up too damn fast.

First grader and fifth grader. Last year ever that they will be at the same school together!

Safety guard!

This first grader LOVED her new teacher.

(Not So) Spontaneous Tattoo!

I've toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo since college, and have actively wanted a tattoo for ten years. I've known the exact look and content of my tattoo, and where I wanted it on my body, for over three years. I decided to use turning 40 as an excuse to actually...you know...get the tattoo that I've thought about getting for two decades. And almost 8 months after my birthday...I actually did it! (I know. A bit impulsive, but what can I say?)

After finally pulling the trigger, I am happy to report that I LOVE MY TATTOO. Emma and Sophie love it too. Emma asked if she could get one of her own someday. "Sure!" I replied. After all, I'm no hypocrite. I explained that if she decides to get a tattoo when she turns 40, I will be fully supportive. Em seemed to find this logic fair and just. (Because IT IS.)

BIG, BIG thanks to my castmates Allie and Jordan, who gave me the push I needed to go and stayed by my side the whole time. Without them, it might have taken me another twenty years.That's not a joke.

Just before. So excited! 
And a little nauseous. Lightheaded.
Perhaps thisclose to a mini panic attack. 
But...EXCITED!

Here we go! And...yep. It hurts.

It gets a little better as we go along, but...yep. Still hurts.

My tattoo artist was really good. Thorough, quick, precise, and patient. Bless her.

My friend Allie held my hand the entire time, while also taking tons of one-handed photos, while also telling an elaborate story about a head-dancing mink just to take my mind off the pain. Allie is good people.

DONE! That's a smile of relief, folks. Tremendous relief.

The final product: "starve the emptiness and feed the hunger" - an Indigo Girls lyric that holds great meaning for me.

And...post-tattoo happiness!