Three

In the past year you have:- swum in Lake Lure - learned to bomb down a hill on a balance bike - understood what it means to lose an animal much beloved - become a full-time big boy potty user. - become a complete Rock City junkie - overcome some serious separation anxiety - made good pals at the gym - visited Savannah, GA - made an imprint as the younger sibling who knocks big sister's things down on the regular - continued to be our giggle-prone guy - sustained a train obsession although you could do without the loud noises - "starred" in your first musical. Nevermind that it was a church production. You loved it. - rocked the Winnie the Pooh costume for the 2nd Halloween in a row. - evolved into a big boy bed. Even though you always end up eventually in our bed.

Can we remedy that last one by the time of your next birthday? Whatcha say?

We love you, Tater Tot x 3 x 3 x 3 x 3 x 3!!

" width="375" height="500" alt="three"/>

Singular Angelina

I don't think anyone would argue that Angelina Jolie is a singular woman. Her strikingly unique features, her seering expressions, her groundbreaking humanitarianism. Angelina Jolie--is there any other? photo credit: NYT

But in light of her revelation of her double mastectomy to prevent breast cancer given her rare genetic background, I want to echo this again: Angelina Jolie is a singular woman.

The procedure she elected to have took tremendous courage. It also took specialists and significant time and a loving companion, the support of family and friends. Angelina Jolie speaks of the procedure as "a scene out of a science-fiction film." She goes on to say, "But days after surgery you can be back to a normal life."

You can?

This was not the experience of my stepmother who underwent a mastectomy this past year after a battery of tests and lumpectomies found that the removal of a breast would be her best course of action in order to live cancer-free.

Days after surgery, Julie did not, could not return to normal life. Sleep came with great pains and difficulty. She could not pick up her beloved dogs. She could do little but try to lie or sit still so as not to agitate the wounds.

Julie had to take months off work. During that time, she was not living off film revenues or Lara Croft royalties. She did not have Brad Pitt or nurses at home. She had my dad, in his sixties, who still works full-time. Julie had lost both of her own parents to cancer years earlier.

Angelina Jolie writes, "Life comes with many challenges. The ones that should not scare us are the ones we can take on and take control of." Indeed. We should not fear what we can control. And how many of us can control our risks of any disease, particularly when health insurance premiums are rising and coverage seems to be increasingly more stringent. WFAA in Dallas reports that BRCA gene screening analysis costs about $3,000. Many insurance companies will cover the procedure, but only for patients who exhibit certain risk factors. I have to believe that the question of whether or not she would be covered was not even a trifling thought for Angelina Jolie, whereas it surely is for many women, both in this country and around the world.

The NYT Magazine cover story last week probed why we are not winning the battle against breast cancer, given the omnipresence of the "pink campaign." Almost 40,000 women and 400 men die every year of breast cancer in the U.S. An entire baseball stadium, wiped out.

The gravity of this disease pulls me down to a place that I don't like to dwell. Thinking about losing my stepmom, thinking about what would happen to my dad, thinking about all the other women I love who may fight this battle and be defeated.

And then, in that place, I think how Angelina Jolie is like any other woman, and especially like any other mother. We may not all have six children over whom we have gone to the ends of the earth or the ends of the laboring table to bring home. But we can understand the ache of not getting to spend as long as possible with our children. We can understand what it would be like to not be able to properly hug them for months, not to be able to bend and kiss their hurts or lift them up and place them on the top bunk.

Don't even talk to me about Brad Pitt's sacrifice in all this. Has anyone asked Angelina Jolie what it was like to experience the pains of having her attributes modified, removed, reconstructed to something less recognizable? As women our identities are irrevocably tied up with what makes us a singularly woman: the curves of our bodies, our outward beauty. Any modification thereof may make us feel less than, even if our self-knowledge reminds us that we are more than just this.

I am thankful for Angelina Jolie and Julie and for all the men and women, surgeons, chemo and radiation technicians, supporters and philanthropists who battle against breast cancer. Each story is singular in its truth, each one a part of a larger tapestry of courage.

Running my guts out

Every six months or so, I take up running again, which in this curvy petite body looks like this: For a month, I reappreciate running and all of its benefits, and for at least a couple of those weeks of running, I do not totally feel as though both my lungs are going to collapse and I am not going to have some kind of reverse-intestinal upchuck fiesta on the track. Running is a great outlet for stress but I do not live in a body that can endure running on the regular. My long history of pounding out Irish step dances has netted me ankles that are predictably unpredictable. Also, my lust for change does not a good endurance runner make.

Right now, I am back at track practice. Running my ever-loving guts out. I need running to work for me right now because the stress I am feeling is not the stuff of checklists and bills to pay. I am back on the identity carousel, trying to figure out which pony I want to be riding for this go-round before they start the ride and before the siss-boom-bah of the merry-go-round musicmaker starts playing. Is it this one? This one with the ruby reigns or this one with the long and flowing mane? Or is it that one over there that bobs higher and lower than all the rest? Or this one that just stays put for the entire ride.

I have an enviable career. I get to teach bright people in a resource-rich, spiritually-gifted community, close to where I live and where my children school. And I? Only have a master's degree.

I am oh so lucky and yet I question the stability of this when I feel so unstable. I know God's hand was in every detail of our move here. I just want to feel a touch of the divinity in what I am doing here now.

We all want to do work that matters, right? It's a universal cliche. Teaching has its rewards, but on a day-to-day basis, I see some long faces in the classroom. Teaching is a give, give, give business and the return on investment might not be known for many years henceforth. We prepare and prepare and we teach and jump around the classroom; we run our guts out. Unlike a chef or a hairstylist, our "product" is often not immediately recognizable. The reaction to learning or developing a nascent skill? Is not the same as reacting to a California sushi roll or a new body wave perm. So we teachers wait in hopeful expectation of a reaction, a response to this gift of active learning and oftentimes we get blank stares, a deep and abiding disinterest in favor of a cellphone screen, or an evaluation that says, Errrmmm, yeah, maybe you should get out of this business altogether.

I will not worship at the crumbling altar of the evaluation, but I will look inward and upward and continue to run my guts out and hope that as I make another lap around the track, this now my fourth full year of teaching college writing, that I can know that I am in the right lane, running in a fair heat, that with more training, I'll only improve my time and my stride.

Rather than grow weary, I want to grow more fit for this race and I want to know and see and experience the outcomes of this work that I believe matters.

At the end of track practice, though, I know I'm still okay. If my career dries up tomorrow, I'll still have the love of this little family. Their hugs and affirmations and little teeth to brush and deliveries of coffee when I left my mug at home are pretty amazing. I feel equal parts unworthy and totally whole as their mama/wife person. They are the ones for whom I am running this race. They keep me running strong.