2025: Year in Review

My reading was down from 2024, but I hiked 730 miles, watched 78 movies, and definitely have more houseplants. :)

I read 33 books, including my first two young adult novels in quite awhile (courtesy of my daughter's insistence). It was fun to revisit the world of Hunger Games. Of the rest, I liked You Dreamed of Empires, even though the names were frustratingly impossible, and Enter Ghost, which provided much-needed insight into what's happening in the West Bank. The God of the Woods was fun, and I appreciated learning about historic alpinism with Thirty Below.

Books read:

1. The Book of Love by Kelly Link
2. The Topeka School by Ben Lerner
3. The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner
4. You Dreamed of Empires by Alvaro Enrigue
5. Intermezzo by Sally Rooney
6. The God of the Woods by Liz Moore
7. Mina's Matchbox by Yoko Ogawa
8. If You Can't Take the Heat: Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury by Geraldine DeRuiter
9. A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore
10. Both Ways is the Only Way I Want It by Maile Meloy
11. The Ministry of Time by Kailane Bradley
12. Audition by Katie Kitamura
13. A Walk in the Park: The True Story of a Spectacular Misadventure in the Grand Canyon by Kevin Fedarko
14. The Unicorn Woman by Gayl Jones
15. In Ascension by Martin MacInnes
16. Outline by Rachel Cusk
17. Enter Ghost by Isabella Hammad
18. The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt
19. Heartwood by Amity Gaige
20. Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata
21. The Sequel by Jean Hanff Korelitz
22. Eve Bites Back: An Alternative History of English Literature by Anna Beer
23. The Door by Magda Szabo
24. Lapvona by Ottesssa Moshfegh
25. Headshot by Rita Bullwinkel
26. Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee
27. Turn to Stone: A Memoir by Emily Meg Weinstein
28. A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki
29. Isola by Allegra Goodman
30. The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins
31. Thirty Below: The Harrowing and Heroic Story of the First All-Women's Ascent of Denali by Cassidy Randall
32. So Far Gone by Jess Walter
33. Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins

Goodreads stats:

• Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes was the most popular book I read; Turn to Stone the least popular.
• I read 10,865 pages (though Goodreads only has 32 books listed).
• Average book length was 339 pages.

2024: Year in Review

I'm feeling in that middle ground a lot when I'm reading books now. Yet another book slump. There are plenty that are fine, but they also feel forgettable. Where's the literature enrapture? Given the general malaise, I suppose it's even more remarkable when a book does break through.

In 2024, that book was probably Miranda July's All Fours, which I hated and loved at the same time. It's insane, she's insane, it's a bonkers plot with no connection to reality--and yet it's the realest thing I've read in awhile. There's that famous quote by Graham Greene where he says, "For writers it is always said that the first twenty years of life contain the whole of experience—the rest is observation." I typically bought that line, believing that meaning was mostly constructed in youth and adulthood was sort of trudging along. So I loved July's book for suggesting middle age was something amazing and unpredictable all on its own, even if I'm not going to spend $10,000 to renovate a crappy motel room for an erotic affair.

After reviewing my list, I realize there were a few others that stood out. Justice marked my entry into a new career, and it's a readable and thoughtful intro to ethics. North Woods is a compelling ghost story of sorts. Eve made biological history fascinating. Trust was good old-fashioned fun.

I read 40 books, just one short of what I read in 2023. 

Books Read:

1. The Moon is Down by John Steinbeck
2. Eastbound by Maylis de Kerangal
3. A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders (reread)
4. The Bee Sting by Paul Murray
5. So Late in the Day by Claire Keegan
6. Foster by Claire Keegan
7. Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck
8. Land of Milk and Honey by Pam Zhang
9. Y/N by Esther Yi
10. Justice: What's the Right Thing To Do? by Michael Sandel
11. How to Be Perfect: The Correct Answer to Every Moral Question by Michael Schur
12. North Woods by Daniel Mason
13. Chain-Gang All Stars by Kwame Nana Adjei-Brenyah
14. Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Evolution by Cat Bohannon
15. James by Percival Everett
16. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott
17. The Fraud by Zadie Smith
18. Valley of Giants: Stories from the Women at the Heart of Yosemite Climbing by Lauren Delaunay Miller
19. Blackouts by Justin Torres
20. Martyr! by Kaven Akbar
21. Beautyland by Marie-Helene Bertino
22. A Light Through the Cracks: A Climber's Story by Beth Rodden
23. The Money Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey
24. The Best Minds: A Story of Friendship, Madness, and the Tragedy of Good Intentions by Jonathan Rosen
25. Contested Terrain: A New History of Nature and People in the Adirondacks by Philip Terrie
26. A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly
27. All Fours by Miranda July
28. Pastoralia by George Saunders
29. A Night Boat to Tangiers by Kevin Barry
30. Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli
31. Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday
32. The Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan
33. Don't Let My Baby Do Rodeo by Boris Fishman
34. Checkout 19 by Claire-Louise Bennett
35. Trust by Hernan Diaz
36. Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell
37. War and Turpentine by Stefan Hertmans
38. Come and Get It by Kiley Reid
39. Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill
40. Good Material by Dolly Alderton

Goodreads gave me some stats that I thought were fun:

• Total pages read: 12,835 (though it's actually more than this because Goodreads thinks I only read 39 books)
• The Bee Sting was my longest book (656 pages)
• So Late in the Day was my shortest book (128 pages)
• Average book length: 329 pages

In other stats news: I hiked 500 miles (for a total of 190 hours--destroying last year's numbers) and watched 94 movies (a little down from 2023). I own 38 houseplants--31 at home and seven at work, also slightly down from last year.

Here's to 2025.

Essay #32: Stats

Jeremy recently said a line that he'd heard somewhere about how middle age is just the process of setting arbitrary goals for yourself. All the real achieving is done, so why not complete a marathon!

To be fair, our world gives us a lot of things in which to track arbitrary goals. It's one of the reasons I know I don't need a Smart Watch. I'm pretty confident I get 10,000 steps a day anyway. But there are some stats I sort of like, regardless of how meaningful they are. So here goes:

Books read: 41

That's actually my highest total since having kids, a fact I realized just now. I've long kept track on an Excel spreadsheet, but I've started using Goodreads. I don't love the app, but it's relatively convenient.

Movies watched: 113

That seems like a crazy number, though considering I've replaced nearly all TV series watching (with the exception of The Great Pottery Throw Down) with movies (usually divided over one to two nights), it doesn't seem quite so bad. Letterboxd tracks this stat.

Miles hiked: 336

I realized how close I was to achieving 365 miles just a week ago--not enough time to make up the missing miles by today. Alas. Hiking 365 miles in a year is an arbitrary goal I hope to achieve next year. I use AllTrails to track my hikes.

Houseplants owned: 43

Thirty-four live at home, and another nine live at school. I walked around and literally counted my plants.

2023: Year in Review

A successful year with forty-one books read! A number of ones that I enjoyed. In my mini-foray into nonfiction environmental books, there were the excellent Desert Solitaire and On Trails. I finished Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan quartet. I liked experimental books, from Woolf's classic Orlando to the faux-biography Biography of X. Some strong showings in both fiction (Either/Or, Erasure, Small Things Like These) and nonfiction (How Elites Ate the Social Justice Movement, Monsters).

I received a Kindle for Christmas, so we'll see if that has any effect on my reading habits.

1. If I Survive You by Jonathan Escoffery
2. The Two Doctors Gorski by Issac Fellman
3. The World We Make by N.K. Jemisin
4. Verity by Colleen Hoover
5. Either/Or by Elif Batuman
6. Sourdough by Robin Sloan
7. The Heart's Invisible Furies by John Boyne
8. Orlando by Virginia Woolf
9. Brutes by Dizz Tate
10. Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey
11. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin
12. Wild Thoughts from Wild Places by David Quammen
13. Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut
14. Ishmael by Daniel Quinn
15. Men Without Women by Haruki Murakami
16. On Trails by Robert Moor
17. The Constant Rabbit by Jasper Fforde
18. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
19. Rodham by Curtis Sittenfeld
20. The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch
21. The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami
22. Half-Life of a Stolen Sister by Rachel Cantor
23. Queen of Scots: The True Life of Mary Stuart by John Guy
24. The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert
25. The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante
26. Stolen Focus: Why You Can't Pay Attention--and How to Think Deeply Again by Johann Hari
27. I Am Homeless If This Is Not My Home by Lorrie Moore
28. Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay by Elena Ferrante
29. Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
30. The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante
31. My Sister, the Serial Killer by Ovinkan Braithwaite
32. Freakonomics by Steven Levitt
33. The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett
34. Pet by Catherine Chidgey
35. How Elites Ate the Social Justice Movement by Fredrik deBoer
36. Erasure by Percival Everett
37. Birnam Wood by Eleanor Catton
38. The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBride
39. The Book of Ayn by Lexi Freiman
40. Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma by Claire Dederer
41. Biography of X by Catherine Lacey

A few stats: twenty-three books by female authors; eighteen by male. Thirty-two fiction and nine nonfiction. Eight books published before 2000; nine books published in 2023.

Essay #31: Butterfly Clips

To those who have asked, Amelia has said that her favorite Christmas gift is her butterfly clips: four large, plastic clips that cost thirteen dollars at Target (I’m not bitter). I remember such clips from my own childhood, but they’ve made a huge comeback—the Target accessory section must have had several dozen different versions. The clips come in two parts, each with a series of narrow “teeth,” and are connected with a spring. A wearer can twist her hair into a ponytail, pull the ponytail up alongside the back of her head, and then close the clip over the pulled-up hair. It’s a cute and easy look.

On Christmas day, Amelia had me re-attach her clip several times, both loving the “teen” look and worrying that it wouldn’t look just right. She wore one of the clips as we drove to my parents’ house yesterday and was eager to show it off to the family. Last night, after some ooh-ing and aah-ing, Aunt Kathleen brought out a butterfly clip of her own, and we took turns trying the clips out on everyone. Amelia put up Kathleen’s hair; I put up Clara’s hair; Clara put up Emily’s hair; and so on. We even tried on Caitlin’s far-too-short hair. Everyone was giggling on the basement couch.

Amelia wore one of the clips again today, and she also wore the cheapest gift that I got her for Christmas, as it came from my local Buy Nothing Group. It’s a grey sweatshirt that reads “S’mores, Campfires, & Lattes.” I thought it was absurd—why make a sweatshirt about lattes in a kid’s size? I wasn’t sure what Amelia would think, but I think it’s grown to be one of her other favorite gifts. Like her butterfly clips, it’s a piece to show off, to start a conversation. 

I never did “girl” culture. I didn’t wear makeup or think about fashion or put any thought into my shoes. In fact, I prided myself on what I perceived as my lack of vanity. Yet during my sister’s bachelorette party, when all her friends gathered in the bathroom for several hours to “get ready,” I realized for the first time that I’d missed out on something meaningful. I wonder if that’s why I find Amelia’s interest in fashion more endearing than eye-rolling. Before we left for my parents’, we sat down together and watched several TikToks looking for new uses for the butterfly clip. I love complimenting her when she’s thought carefully about how to put together an outfit. It’s something simple and fun that we can share.

Essay #30: Christmas

For the first time in my entire life, I celebrated Christmas not at my parents’ home or at the home of Jeremy’s parents, but at my home. It was a far quieter day with just the four of us, but not too quiet. Clara woke us up at 6:11—and then again at 6:30, when she was allowed to wake us up. She roused Amelia, and we went downstairs where the girls explored their gifts from Santa and emptied their stockings. We delayed present opening as long as possible, so we were finished by 8:00am, when Jeremy got the french toast casserole going in the oven. The girls explored their gifts: unpackaging the Chelsea Barbie festival, complete with ferris wheel; trying out the new butterfly clips in Amelia’s hair; eating half the candy in a couple-hour period.

I feared a long day of restlessness, but the girls were content and occupied, and though I felt some anxiety about the mess (okay, a lot of anxiety by the end of the day), everything was nice. It helped that I escaped for a quick four-mile hike midday, and that I got some texts from friends far away. It also helped that we saw the movie Wonka at four. I didn’t mind Timothee Chalamet singing about candy even though my kids had consumed several pounds of it that day.

It's hard to know how to feel about Christmas now that I’m an adult. I enjoy seeing the magic of it through my kids’ eyes, but I’m personally ambivalent. I find it easy to feel stressed and anxious and hard to appreciate the present. Still, by any account, it was a successful day. I went to bed with a full belly, a clean house, and happy kids. 

Plus I got a soil moisture-level reader for my plants!

Essay #29: Bad Movies

"So-bad-they're-good" movies are having a heyday, what with long-running podcasts like How Did This Get Made and The Flophouse. I'll enjoy the podcasts occasionally myself, but I rarely watch movies of this ilk (Cliffhanger was a worthy exception).

Last night we had the neighbors over and celebrated Christmas Eve by watching Family Switch, a potential contender for "so-bad-it's-good." The movie is a blatant rip-off of Freaky Friday--this time the dad and son switch too!--with a shoehorned Christmas theme that appears to have been added at the last minute. Freaky Friday has plenty of charm, and its own narrative logic once you accept the basic premise. Family Switch has relatively little charm, unless you find Jennifer Garner's existence charming, and no internal logic. Bizarre choices are made solely for narrative convenience, and a superfluous CGI-baby is only creepy. The resolution is so pat and perfect that by the time there's full snow in L.A. on Christmas Day you just shrug.

So is it "so-bad-it's-good"? If we'd been watching just the four of us, maybe not. But with eight of us and the Christmas spirit, I loved every stupid minute. We talked at the movie the entire time, and got overly excited at its cliché turns. We might have screamed when we saw that the fortune teller's (?) license plate read "SLAY." Clara and Katie danced during the "spontaneous" choreographed number at the teen party. Amelia and Clara took turns flopping into my lap and then racing into the living room to eat popcorn. Even Joe, a proper teenager, stayed for the entire time. 

There's been numerous movies (and books, restaurants, places, etc.) in my life that weren't objectively good but were perfect for the moment, and I'll declare that this was one of them. 

Essay #28: Piano

Clara's been asking for weeks to learn piano. I've been hesitant, mostly because it went so poorly when I tried to teach Amelia a few years ago. We carried along for several months, but she became frustrated once the pieces got slightly challenging, and soon our lessons turned into her screaming and refusing to play. Now she remembers only one song, the plodding "Cowboy Joe," which she plays at far-too-regular intervals.

I've taught seven of the neighborhood kids, so I'm reasonably confident in my ability to teach (even if none of my former students still play). I played for most of my childhood and also taught younger students when I was a senior in high school. Still, my own relationship with the piano has been uneven. I started playing young, but I hated the teacher I had through elementary school, and I became lazy, refusing to improve with the excuse of disliking him. I quit for a few years and then picked it up in high school, but my new teacher had reasonably high expectations that I wasn't prepared to meet. My former teacher hadn't held me to account on accurately playing the beat, and so I'd mostly ignore it. I eventually quit on my new teacher too, but I restarted with my boyfriend's teacher during my senior year of high school. She was honestly a good fit--not too exacting, but not too lenient, and I eventually taught some of her youngest students--but my graduation was the end of my piano career.

Soon it became embarrassing to tell other people that I had played piano for most of my childhood. I wasn't any good, particularly given the number of years I had devoted. I couldn't name any great composers or pianists. I could sight-read basic music, but I didn't even know how to count out the beat for more complex pieces.

Once we moved to Cincinnati, my parents had my childhood piano sent down, and it resides in my office. I still have vague memories of choosing the piano at the store alongside one of my first piano teachers. I've thought about trying to learn again as an adult, and I find some pleasure in picking out a song, but I don't think I'll ever really return.

Nonetheless, I hope both girls will play. So, today, I reluctantly agreed to give Clara her first lesson. She was eager and attentive, listening carefully to my instructions. By the end of the thirty minutes, she could play "In the Jungle," an easy three-finger piece. 

I don't know if her enthusiasm will last. Maybe she'll end up in the same place as Amelia within a few weeks. But it was a good thirty minutes. I got to appreciate my thirty-year-old piano again. I got to appreciate Clara, who can wear me down with her "Mommy, will you...", again. 

Essay #27: Grocery Store

We got back from my mother-in-law's mid-afternoon today. We'll be leaving again on the 26th to visit my parents, but we have the next two and a half days at home and no food. So what does that mean? Family grocery trip.

During the pandemic, we switched to doing pick-up grocery orders, and a little over a year ago we switched to Kroger delivery. We never seemed able to make time to grocery shop anyway, and I hated the crowds. Now, I stop by only occasionally to grab a missing item.

Jeremy or I could have gone alone without the kids, but since we'll be doing Christmas Eve and Christmas here at our home for the first time, it seemed appropriate to let them get involved. I braced myself for chaos, but Kroger wasn't nearly as bad as I might have feared for a Saturday two days before Christmas. They were completely out of non-green bell peppers, but Amelia managed to find two orange ones hidden atop the bin. They were out of cream cheese too, but I pulled out a shipping box and ripped out a block. No green beans, so we subbed broccoli. We will have to settle for grating our own mozzarella--no more shredded to be found. We ran into Clara's Girl Scout troop leader. We doubled back for hamburger buns and chopped pecans. We decided my dad definitely needed a local brewery's IPA with fir tips added. We bought expensive nuts and fancy cheeses for a Christmas day charcuterie board.

All the hunting and discovery made it feel a little like an adventure. The girls were in great moods. Amelia pushed the cart with Clara hanging off the side and didn't even run into anyone. Now, our pantry and refrigerator are full, and Jeremy's cooking dinner in the kitchen with our haul. It might just feel more satisfying than a delivery person knocking on the door. 

Essay #26: Nap Trap

There's a cartoon that resonated with me completely when I was a new mom. It's of a mother nursing her baby, but her cell phone is just out of reach on the bed. The mom looks at the phone desperately, but it's impossible. She's trapped, and she doesn't even have the dull escape of endless scrolling to console her. 

I was never one of those mothers who swooned about the baby stage. I didn't understand women who cooed over "baby snuggles" and "baby smell." Sure, I agreed that babies were cute, but they were so boring. The first months with each of my girls felt like a continuum of nothingness. I knew it was necessary nothingness to ensure they reached the real person stage, but I wasn't keen to stretch it out. I was thrilled when the girls started crawling, then walking, and then talking. I shed no tears over the end of breastfeeding. We potty-trained early. We shifted out of cribs early. 

Some women told me that I'd miss the sweet baby days once they had passed, but I honestly don't. I'm glad my daughters can go to the bathroom alone, and buckle their own seatbelts, and sleep through the night.

Of course, children at all ages have their own challenges, and I feel every one of those challenges today, as we celebrate Christmas (three days early) at Jeremy's mom's house. There are twelve people--six adults and six children. For me, six children in one house feels like a lot, and high emotions over presents and who got the best toys meant plenty of drama. I felt myself growing tense and grouchy as the morning dragged on and presents, boxes, and ribbons extended their reach over the entirety of the first floor. An afternoon walk and park visit helped reinvigorate me a bit, but soon we were back inside the crowded house for dinner.

Jeremy's mom had been holding Benjamin, who, at nine months old, is the youngest of the cousins. I claimed my nephew so that Marian could eat, and his pathetic cries made it clear he was sleepy. I bounced him back and forth in my arms, shifting my weight from one leg to another. I shushed him quietly, mimicking the sound of a hair dryer. Soon, he was asleep in my arms. I walked over to a kitchen chair and sat down. I knew I'd be sitting there until he awoke. I was nap trapped.

Part of me said to embrace the moment. Benjamin was warm and heavy against my chest. His face was at total peace. It was a sweet moment. But my arm ached, my lower back hurt, and that all-consuming nature of new motherhood passed over me. 

Even years removed from the newborn days of my own children, I felt the ambivalence over the sacrifice required for new mothers. After all, I had made all the sacrifices of a "good mom," but I hadn't feel warm and satisfied at the time.

Benjamin didn't nap all that long--maybe twenty or thirty minutes. Once he was awake, he got passed back to his mom for feeding. I was freed again, to snuggle my own, much larger children as we watched Elf on the couch. They, too, are warm and heavy against my chest. But I don't feel nearly so trapped.

[This essay also finished a day later than the published date, but only because my laptop ran out of battery, and I'd forgotten to bring my charger to Jeremy's mom's house.]

Essay #25: Directed Drawing

In an attempt to be more environmentally friendly, I've avoided using wrapping paper for the last several years. I save all the gift bags from birthdays, Christmas, and other special events to reuse, which serves us adequately. However, I know that there is something satisfying about unwrapping a present, a feeling that pulling tissue paper out of a bag can't quite match. For that reason, I've taken to wrapping some of the girls' Christmas presents with reused material: saved brown paper grocery bags, leftover wallpaper samples, brown packing paper from Amazon packages.

I still want this "upcycled" wrapping to look festive, so I draw cute Christmas pictures on them. Since I have no natural (or learned) artistic skill, I use YouTube directed drawings, primarily from the Art for Kids Hub, where an enthusiastic dad guides the drawing alongside one of his children. In the videos, the dad walks the audience through the drawing, step by step--draw a long, straight line here; add a curve there. At the end, he encourages the audience to color it in however they want, though he shows his fully-colored image too. The final drawings are cartoons, with thick black Sharpie lines and exaggerated features.

Last night I used the channel's videos to decorate Amelia's and Clara's packages with the following: a penguin in winter clothes; hugging snowmen in a snow globe; a smiling cup of hot chocolate with smiling marshmallows; and a svelte arctic fox. I'm particularly proud of the fox, which has some light-blue shading and looks like a Pokémon. 

Directed drawings are incredibly popular now--both of my girls regularly do them in school--but they obviously didn't exist in the pre-YouTube era of my elementary school days. There were some "how to" books, but for the most part, you could either draw, or you couldn't. Today, anyone can complete a "skiing squirrel" or "jellybean Santa." No doubt directed drawing has its critics. It's not real art--the wide-eyed, cutesy characters look a lot alike--or reflective of real talent. It puts its users into a connect-the-dots box, rather than encouraging creativity and discovery. Still, discovering that I can complete something worthy with five minutes guidance on the computer perhaps works to challenge the binary of artist/not-artist I've had most of my life. It makes me a little more confident that I'm capable of learning.

Essay #24: Solo Movies

The first time I saw a movie alone in a theater, it was the summer of 2004, and I was interning at the Feminist Majority Foundation in Washington, D.C. Though I enjoyed the graphic design work and research into Title IX, my roommate and I had taken an instant dislike of one another, and I struggled to make friends with the other FMF interns. One week, depressed by the thought of a Friday evening in my rented room, I decided to buy myself Quiznos and see a movie: M Night Shyamalan's The Village. 

This was in the days before smartphones, so when I arrived at the theater a little early, I could only sit and stare ahead, feeling intensely awkward. I tried to look expectant, like my cool boyfriend would be showing up any moment. I visited the restroom--maybe more than once. I imagined what the other patrons would be thinking. "Look at that twenty-year-old woman. What's so wrong with her that she has to go alone to a movie?" 

Still, once the movie started, I relaxed. I liked Bryce Howard, though now I wonder how well she really played a blind woman. The film wasn't as good as The Sixth Sense, but I still fell for the "twist" ending.

It would be a long time before I'd visit the theater alone again, but it's become something of a habit recently. I've become more interested in film, and post-pandemic it feels important to see movies in the theater, not just on my TV. However, I hate spending money on a babysitter just so Jeremy and I can see movie, and if I'm going out with a friend, I want to chat, not sit silently. That means solo trips, usually when Jeremy and the girls are gone or I have an unexpected day off work.

In the last year or so, I've seen Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris, The Banshees of Inisherin, The Fabelmans, Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon, and last night, Godzilla Minus One. 

Godzilla wouldn't have been my first choice, but the prestige movies of the season haven't opened in Ohio yet, and the film had such an unusually high score on the Letterboxd app (4.2!) that I was curious. The movie was fun, with an enormous pot-bellied Godzilla that made me chuckle appreciatively every time it appeared. It had a sweet message about family and the value of human life that, I'll confess, made me tear up a few times. An evening well-spent. 

Jeremy has a phrase he sometimes says to Amelia when she worries about others' perception: "Literally, no one cares." It sounds mean, but it's said humorously, an acknowledgement that it's reassuring to know we're only a quick blip on most people's radars. I find it reassuring too. Twenty years after I first saw The Village, I'm far less self-conscious about how I spend my time. I can spend my Wednesday night reading subtitles of Japanese in a suburban AMC alone. No one cares. 

[I've broken my essay streak! It wasn't intentional. I had planned to write this essay yesterday after seeing the movie, even musing over the topic in the car, and then, by the time I got home, I'd forgotten. But I'm writing it the next morning and pre-dating it for yesterday because I can do what I want.]

Essay #23: Deer

The white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) is ubiquitous in Ohio. Over 200,000 were "harvested" during the last hunting season, and yet our state still has a population of approximately 750,000 deer. When Jeremy and I were backpacking in Yellowstone, our guide stopped to excitedly point out a group of white-tailed deer in the distance. Dude, we did not come to Wyoming to see deer.

Because our home backs up to woods, we regularly spot deer in our front and backyard or walking down our neighbors' driveway. Once, the girls were playing outside and discovered a fawn nestled just next to our deck, left there while its mother foraged. Another time, I startled a family of deer in our neighbors' yard. The adults jumped the fence, but the baby was left inside, unable to find the exit. My neighbor eventually had to chase it out.

Not surprisingly, I also encounter deer a lot when I hike, particularly on days when the parks are mostly empty. I startled a group of four hiking in East Fork on Sunday, and I came upon two while at California Woods Nature Preserve today.

Even though I see deer regularly, I stop each time we meet. Partially it's because they're Ohio's largest mammal, and I have to respect something that weighs as much as I do. Partially it's because even though deer are firmly ensconced in the suburbs, sighting them still makes parks feel a little more wild.

Plus, the only other wild mammal I spot with any frequency is squirrels. Squirrels don't evoke much because they run away as soon as they see me. Deer, on the other hand, bolt--and then stop. Every time.

Take the deer today, which bounded across the trail as I headed uphill. It continued several more yards, down a hill, and then turned to consider me. Stock still, it faced me pensively, its black eyes locking with mine. There's no way I could just keep walking; it would be like ignoring the cardigan-wrapped old lady waving as I walked down the street. Instead, I also stopped, then finally called out "hi." (I'd called "Merry Christmas!" to one at East Fork.)

I'm not usually given to talking to animals or talking to myself when I hike. It's really just the deer. After a few seconds of eye-contact, the deer leaped off again.

I know deer are nuisances, resulting in car accidents and destroying home landscapes (a pesky deer ate the sunflower Clara had nurtured all last summer), but even worse, they eat important native plants like baby oaks. Even though I'm vegetarian, I don't have issue with deer hunting, which I know is necessary to control the population.

Still, encountering a deer, like unseasonably warm days, feels like a "gift." Yes, I'm anthropomorphizing, but I choose to believe that the deer takes notice of me, that I exist, that I'm someone. It regards me with something that feels like understanding.

Essay #22: Snow

There's plenty of Ohio jokes in the fact that yesterday I wrote about "unseasonably warm days," and today I'm writing about snow. The first snow of the season! It began mid-morning and continued, off and on, throughout the day, heavy enough during the beginning of 7th period that everything looked blurry, and I suggested the students hold off on driving home if it continued. 

In general, I don't like snow. It makes hiking difficult, and it's warm enough in Cincinnati that most snow quickly turns to dirty slush. I greeted the snowfall out my classroom window with a resigned sigh.

The girls are already off school for Winter Break, and they each had a playdate scheduled. While I sighed at the snow, I received a text from the father of one of Clara's friends. He'd sent a video of Clara and her friend on their driveway, dancing and giggling as the snow fell in thick flakes around them. He included a photo of Clara too, a smear of ketchup from lunch still on her cheek. Her eyes are closed, her mouth is wide open, and her tongue is all the way out, just waiting for the snowflake to land.

I still don't love snow. But I love that Clara loved it. 

It's in the 30's today, but the ground is still warm, so little of the snow stuck. By now, as I write from home, all that remains is a dusting on our deck furniture. 

Essay #21: Unseasonably Warm Days

I've already noted that we've had unseasonably warm weather the past couple months. We're fully into colloquial winter and will soon enter official winter, yet we've had a surprising share of days over 50 degrees, including this weekend. 

Yesterday was beautiful and sunny, but it was a busy day, so I only managed to squeeze in a 45-minute walk around the neighborhood. Today I knew I'd have a little more time, so I planned to hike in the morning, even though the forecast called for rain (not an issue, of course). Like often happens, it rained all night but was clear by this morning, and I was all too happy to settle for a grey, wet hike. Even in this I got lucky: by the time I was finishing my five-mile hike at East Fork, blue skies and fluffy white clouds were pushing away the gloom.

Both today and yesterday I got the benefit of crisp but but not cold air, the silence of the woods, and some bright sun. I couldn't be happier.

It's probably one of my cheesier beliefs, but each time I get pleasant hiking weather, it feels like a special gift to me from the world. This feeling is especially true in the winter, where I can easily succumb to frustration and ennui. Perhaps because of that, winter is one of my favorite times to hike. The bare trees mean you can see farther into the distance, and I don't have to worry about crowds or overheating.

On the other hand, I can't help thinking that my "gift" from the world might actually be global warming, and that the unseasonably warm weather is a harbinger of worse to come. At this point, it's hard to avoid the fact that so many of my joys--delicious foods, comfy clothing, vacations--come at the expense of the Earth. In my AP classes, we've spent the last few months reading essays from Wendell Berry's The World-Ending Fire, and many of his pieces criticize the global economy and our materialist culture. He would have nothing but disdain for dinner at a fancy restaurant, luxury joggers, and trips to Europe. After all, my choice to purchase any of these contributes to the depletion of our earth's resources, harms our ability to foster a local economy, and empowers multi-national corporations. 

But even if unseasonably warm days are caused by climate change, my enjoyment of them does no further harm. And I think Berry would argue that the earth is a gift worth savoring. Unlike the foods, clothing, and vacations, a beautiful day to hike is a gift humans can't make. 

Essay #20: Monsters

I've been reading Claire Dederer's Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma for a couple of weeks. Dederer, a professional film and book critic as well as a memoirist, writes about one of the big questions facing fans right now: can I enjoy art created by a person who has done terrible things?

Her book is an engaging and nuanced approach to the complicated question, and she addresses many of the expected figures in this discussion (e.g. Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, Michael Jackson, Pablo Picasso). Of course, as Dederer repeatedly points out, these figures are almost exclusively men.

The chapter I read last night, however, is about female monsters. Dederer argues that, from a societal perspective, male monsters are defined as such because they prey on women and children. Female monsters are defined as such because they abandon children, abdicating their duties as mothers.

Dederer argues that being an artist is orthogonal to being a mother, for both practical reasons (artistry requires free time that motherhood consumes) and psychological (artistry requires selfishness that motherhood precludes). Historically, male artists have prioritized their art over fatherhood in a way that is approved, or at least accepted, by the broader culture. Women who do the same, however, are despised for abandoning their caretaking role.

It's a point I've thought of a lot since watching Lost Daughter, an adaptation of an Elena Ferrante novel, and then reading the novel itself. In the Ferrante story, the reader learns the protagonist, Leda, abandoned her young daughters, leaving them with her husband, for several years to pursue her academic career (and, to be fair, to have an affair with an admiring peer). As an older woman, Leda struggles to come to terms with her actions and with her relationship to her children, feeling she is an "unnatural mother."

Of all the stories I've seen about motherhood, Lost Daughter hit me especially hard. I identified so strongly with the suffocating experience of motherhood, particularly in the years when my girls were very young. If I'm being honest, I also identified with the desire to disappear, to leave it all behind and feel untethered. I remember wryly telling a friend that I was lucky I'm not in a career where my intelligence or ambition are rewarded, or where I have the potential to "rise to the top"--I have no justification for an action like Leda's. 

My friend looked at me in surprise, and I felt a little embarrassed. I don't think he could understand just how paradoxical motherhood can be. Of course I love my children; I'm grateful to be their mother. I believe I'm a better person today because of them. I would never abandon them. But that doesn't mean the desire to cut it all loose doesn't exist sometimes.

Fittingly enough, I was pulled away from this essay after the paragraph before--to move the laundry into the dryer and to start a new load; to console Clara, who was angry Amelia had thrown her Shopkin; to make both girls grilled cheese for lunch. They're now eating quietly in the kitchen, while I steal back into my office to finish this essay. An essay that no one will read, that has no real exigence or purpose, that I care about anyway. 

For that reason, I appreciate Dederer taking on Ferrante's themes from a critical perspective, and from the perspective of an artist and a mother who's grappled with similar issues. It gave me a sense that maybe I'm not a "monster," or an "unnatural mother," as Leda feared. I can love my children and want to be more than a mother.

Essay #19: Reflection

Three years ago, I switched to a "gradeless" classroom. Instead of grading individual assignments, I provide narrative feedback on students' work, and at the end of each quarter, they write me a letter arguing what grade they've earned in the course, in line with how well they've worked towards our classroom goals.

As part of that letter, students have to reflect on their work over the last nine weeks: what's gone well and where they still need to improve. Pedagogically speaking, I think it's an important that students be able to articulate what they know and what they don't. Equally importantly, they need to have some sense of what needs to change to achieve mastery.

Today my AP students had to turn in their quarter letters. As with every year, not all students are as sincere in the process as others. Occasionally I find myself rolling my eyes as a student gushes about how much his writing has improved--while ignoring obvious weaknesses. Others describe real progress, but in generic terms that don't reflect much understanding of the skills they're using. Some admit they're struggling but don't really know why.  However, a lot of the letters impress me. They reflect a level of metacognition about the work the students are doing that gives me hope. Not just hope for their work in my class or their chance on the AP exam, but hope that their ability to self-reflect can create meaningful change in themselves and in their worlds.

In the letters, the students also often say some nice things about my class. Again, I know it's not all sincere--who's going to bad-mouth a class and then say he deserves an A?--but even when I'm feeling most cynical, I don't think it's all empty flattery. Plus, hearing what's worked helps me reflect too. And hope that I'm creating some kind of meaningful change, even if it's just in my little classroom. 

Essay #18: Subtitles and Glasses

Jeremy and I have spent the last two nights watching Scrapper, a recent British movie about a rebellious twelve-year-old who must forge a relationship with her absent father after her mother's death. Even though it's in English, we're watching it with subtitles, as we do most movies these days. There's a lot of reasons we need the subtitles: the challenges of the British accents and British slang; the construction of modern flat-screen TVs, which produces poorer-quality sound; the ambient noise in my house from heaters and other appliances. 

I'm also watching the movie wearing my glasses. I got a prescription for them this year, and though they're sort of cute, I never wear them out and about--only to watch movies in my home. Wearing them is like suddenly having an extra-high-definition TV. The images are clear and crisp. Plus I can read the subtitles.

At times, resorting to subtitles and glasses seems a little extreme. I'm only forty! But I have to admit that a better film experiences trumps my vanity. I know I'm lucky, too: streaming and easy availability of DVDs means that I can have subtitles for anything I want; low-cost eyeglasses shops like Zenni make frames a cheap purchase. Ten or fifteen years ago I would have resorted to turning up the sound and squinting. I try not to be too appreciative of tech, especially for things like entertainment, but this is one for which I'm grateful.

Essay #17: Kitchen Table

I have a distinct memory of when Jeremy and I purchased our current kitchen table. We'd been using an Ikea table that I acquired right out of college for twelve years, and it was clear we needed to upgrade. Not only was its wood veneer cracking badly, but it was far too small, even when extended, to fit all the people we had for our regular Dungeons & Dragons gatherings. Jeremy and I went with the girls to a local, real wood furniture store to find a piece that would look good, fit a crowd, and last. Amelia was three at the time, and Clara was a baby, maybe a few months old. By some stroke of bad luck, we'd forgotten to bring the diaper bag. By a double stroke of bad luck, Clara pooped.

Our precarious situation put us at a crossroads. Should we abandon the table purchase, return home, and then trek two small children out, yet again, to pick the perfect table? Or should we make a decisive judgment? We chose to be decisive. (It didn't help much--then came chair choice and stain choice and leg style choice. Fortunately Clara didn't seem to care too much.)

Still, I was pleased with our table purchase. It was the first piece of "real" furniture Jeremy and I purchased together. It was a rich, dark brown wood. In its smaller form, it was the perfect size for a family of four; fully extended, it easily fit our D&D group.

Our family loved that table, but in the suffocating-the-cat-by-laying-on-it way, not the loving care kind of way. From the beginning, our girls ate the same food as us, not baby food, and they ate it from the table, not a high chair. We tried to keep the table somewhat protected, but we unwisely used thick plastic placemats and rubber meal mats, which trapped moisture underneath. Within a short period of time, the finish at the girls' two ends of the table had rubbed away. As the years passed, the table became sticky-feeling, its finish gone.

A year ago I tried to repair some of the damage, but only succeeded in giving the table a weirdly-shiny sheen that did nothing to cover the worn and sticky areas. So, a couple months ago, I made another decisive decision: I'd get it refinished. A local craftsman agreed to take on the job. He picked the table up in early December and returned it a week later, this past Monday evening.

It's beautiful. It looks brand new! The top is smooth and gleams mildly. It makes me happy looking at it.

A few people asked me why we didn't just buy a new table. We spent $700 on the refinishing, which was cheaper than the original table but certainly not a small amount of money. But I'd never considered getting rid of it. It's our table. I'm proud of it. It was with us through the throes of toddlerdom. It's hosted D&D, game nights, gingerbread-house parties, Thanksgiving during Covid, and dinners with family friends. It survived a 250-pound man falling through the ceiling and landing on it! (that's another story) And, now, it even looks good too.

Essay #16: Christmas Lights

My dad has put up Christmas lights for as long as I can remember: fat, multi-colored bulbs strung along the roof of our house. Even though white lights, icicle lights, and others have come into fashion since my childhood, he's continued to use the same style for decades.

When I was younger, it was an annual tradition for my parents to drive my siblings and me around the neighborhoods admiring other families' Christmas displays. In college, I had a friend, John, who was a Christmas fanatic. For years, we'd get together after the Christmas Eve church service to traverse the neighborhoods, offering live commentary and deciding which house had the best showing. I became attached to houses with oversized colored bulbs. One year, John got $5 gift cards to City BBQ, and we left them in the mailboxes of the houses we judged the winners. 

This past Sunday night we visited family friends to partake in their neighborhood's annual tradition. Houses in the neighborhood light luminaries, and the neighbors gather for a December walk. There was even a food truck that served donuts and hot chocolate. It was a cold evening after so much warm weather, so it wasn't too surprising that we saw a lot of people at the food truck--and almost no one enjoying the lights.

Still, the eight of us walked a few blocks to the most impressive display in their neighborhood--one of those computer-choreographed shows set to music. We hung out on the sidewalk, admiring the pulsating lights. The kids danced (okay, I did too). The homeowner walked out to offer us candy canes. It was a gift-card deserving performance, for sure.

Despite my admiration for other people's lights, I've never put them up myself, even though my children have asked. I'm willing to put a lot of energy into traditions I care about, but electronics feel too much. A wreath on the front door is all I manage for external Christmas decorations. Maybe that's why I'll be all the more glad to see my dad's colorful lights when we drive home for Christmas in a few weeks.