One thing I love about Ohioans is how we have just as bad of winters as Boston –  tons of snow;  chill factors that would freeze your bum off and grey skies that have folks making their own sun lamps for maintaining sanity levels – and yet, every year, Ohioans talk about how they can’t believe snow is on its way.  Like a barista surprised at the idea of a regular ordering her morning latte.

The only thing that surprises me about Ohio is how Ohioans are surprised by the first snowfall.  Other things I am not surprised at but surprised that other people are surprised by:

1) How OSU lost one game that it should have won.  “There’s always one,” Nick reminds me every pre-season.

2) How Kasich beat Strickland in a tight governor race. “There’s a reason why we’re called a swing state.”

3) How it was near 80 degrees a week and a half ago and tomorrow it will be snowing.  “It’s Ohio.  It snows in April.”

4) How the local news features animal pet stories as headliners. “Is this our NEWS?!” Nick always complains.

In other surprising news, Isaiah has jumped leaps and bounds in his development.  I should call him Curious George because DON’T YOU KNOW? EVERYTHING IS FASCINATING WHEN YOU SEE IT FOR THE FIRST TIME!  He can’t talk yet, but his eyes tell me everything.  “LOOK!   FLASHLIGHT!  OVER THERE – A PLANT!  MOM, DID YOU SEE THIS? A COUPON!”

He looks so genuinely surprised at every new detail life introduces him, too.  It kinda makes me feel like an old fart.  As if 31 years is too many times around the block already.  I try to be excited with him, but there isn’t much energy left in my bank when he holds up the 17th gold leaf of the day and marvels at the seemingly endless supply of acorns to try and stuff in his mouth when we’re outside raking leaves.

But Isaiah himself surprises me everyday with his big bigger biggest smile that keeps growing wider and wider.  You’d think I would have learned by now that he’s just a great, well-behaved kid, but everytime we’re in a new situation and he sits perfectly quiet on my lap, never interrupting, I am surprised by his respectful demeanor.  How can a 10 month old know to be so quiet during mass?  To not reach out and tug on trick-or-treaters?  To stop 1 ft before the fireplace?  To not touch the radiators or pull down the drapes?  How does he know to keep himself amused when I am on the phone instead of screaming into the mouthpiece?

I am surprised by Isaiah.  Infinitely and deeply surprised.

On a day road trip to and from Cincinnati in one day, I found myself alone in the car for a total of 7.5 hours.  Normally, I would dread the drive, particularly because I’m usually the snorer in the passenger seat, not behind the wheel.

But this road trip was different for some reason.  It was the first time in several months I’d been alone for a large chunk of the day, no baby, no spouse, not even a co-worker next to me. This incredibly odd cascade of aloneness swept over me.  AND I LOVED IT.

I’m not a coffee drinker but I was a bit weary of the possibility of dozing off on 71N, so I drank a cup of coffee, relishing the sweetness and rarity of the occasion.  I returned phone calls, some that have been back logged to July and I left chirpy voicemails and affectionate messages.  Another odd feeling washed over me: I was only thinking of what I needed to do for non-related people in my life.  I LOVED IT.

Calling Denver, I talked to old roommates from a decade ago who were reuniting for the weekend and were on their way to a concert, but stopped to squeal with laughter for 45 minutes rehashing memories of our time together in Washington state.  I left a voicemail mesasage for a former coworker from Boston who wanted advice about his love life.  My brother in Los Angeles and I swapped stories about favorite restaurants and recipes the other needed to try.  In New York, one of my friends was in love but overwhelmed with the new PhD program she had just begun.  My best friend in Hawaii is getting married and needed advice on venues for the reception.

And then, the last epiphany settled: Other people in my life with whom I have built sturdy and lasting relationships with need me.  They actually miss me.  They wonder where I am and what I am doing now that I have disappeared into the abyss of motherhood.  To reconnect, to feel needed for sound advice about things outside practicality, schedule, work, and childrearing felt, to use an overused word, amazing.

I remembered memories long before Nick and Isaiah, when I spent hours gabbing with friends, bonding with co-workers with no sense or fear of time or commitment.  When life was boundless and undemanding, you can do those kinds of things; spend all the time in the world with whomever and have no guilty.  You can go away for a weekend and not have a planner to tell you what you need to do when you return to get back on track.

I thought about all the places I’d been that led me to this day.  I felt grateful to have so many people to call back.

We all need to be needed.  And sometimes we need to be needed by more than just the same people in our daily lives to remind ourselves of how largely we are connected to others, how large our circle of impact is to our friends and peers.

To know you have been missed is a wonderful gift on a Saturday night road trip.

Dear Isaiah,

You wave.  You are now waving hello and good-bye to anyone and everyone.  This thrilling little move popped out of nowhere.  Two weeks ago you were opening and closing your hand, but your fist was opening and closing in your own direction, like you were waving goodbye to yourself.

Then, one day last week, I walked into your room to greet you Good Morning and squeal over another day with you, and you nonchalantly  lifted up one plumpy arm and gave it a slow and measured up’n down motion in the air.  I laughed out loud.

And now you wave to everyone.  I’m quite sure you still have no idea what it means, and you probably expect strangers to laugh and get all giddy like your Dad and I do, but they just smile and goo-goo over you instead.  It’s pretty amazing, hilarious, and wild to watch you begin to communicate with the world around you.

Ten months, my sweet pea, and they couldn’t have gone any faster.  Just like that, in a few blinks of the proverbial eye, ten months have passed and November is stalking our front steps.  I went through your pictures the other day and already felt that sense of panic – trying to hold onto something that cannot be held – when I realized how quickly you are growing and how unstoppable that growth is and how it will continue.

You crawl faster and more confidently each day.  You are fascinated by the strings and laces of things – shoes, hoodies, pants, even the straps of your car seat and changing pad – and have a smile to light up New York City on a dreary day.  You love when your father puts you on his shoulders and you ride him like a bumpy horse.  When I snuggle with you, you squirm around to give me baby zerberts on my skin and even pinch my neck until I tell you to stop while you just laugh in my face.  Even your strength is out of this world.  When you grab your spoon while you are eating, I seriously have to muster more fight in me to get it from you.

To call you the light of my life, the love of my life, the best thing in my life would be failing to adequately capture how completely transformative your presence has been.  My life, from the moment I knew I was pregnant with you, to this very moment – writing this in the hour before I know you will wake to a new day – has been lit up from within.  The light in you illuminates the lives in this house and we, your dad and I, can only marvel at how you manage to hold so much love in your little body.

The ten months of your life have been the most graced of ours.

Love,

Mom

Writing is as mysterious as health care providers who smoke, as ambiguous as Theology 101, as misunderstood as the role of the Vice President of the United States.

I took me years to identify as a Writer, mostly because the misleading definitions we have of Writers is so deeply in our brains at a young age that we can hardly fathom identifying as one when we come of age and choose our vocation.

The engendered stereotypes of writers and artists contribute to this. How many classic novels by women were reviewed in English Lit? How many women poets were as extensively researched as Shakespeare? How many historic figures were held up as icons in American History classes? Whose writings were preserved? Whose viewpoint of history is celebrated? Clue: not women. And certainly not women of color. If the education your receive discounts or completely ignores your ancestry, why would you think you have a place in history?

And so, along with engendered stereotypes that men’s writings are the REAL classics, there are a whole slew of cultural factors as well. Filipinos highly prioritize education. I went to a medical camp when I was 14 for goodness sakes, believing I was destined to become the next top surgeon. I even received a certificate at MedCamp: Lisa Factora, B.D. (Beginning Doctor).

And then I fell in love with law. Then psychology. Then theology. All the while telling myself that I need to become specialized before I write. I need credentials before I write. I need xyz before I write. I need to travel before I write. No one will read or listen to me without ________. Writers often have the worst cases of self-doubt. And it’s not (always) a bad thing. Sometimes that doubt serves us well. It makes me research more thoroughly to provide evidence to my points and it reminds me that all the greats of ANY genre or field or discipline experience trial. Doubt can push us to excel.

Sometimes that doubt can be crippling, though. Self doubt can drive us in circles, where we sit in the passenger seat, observing the same fear over and over again in different perspectives. Doubt can lead to pen paralysis and writer’s block. Without proper self- confrontation, a budding writer may freeze and and stunt their growth.

Writers come in all different shapes, sizes, colors, languages, and interest. Not too long ago, I met someone at a restaurant and he was completely thrown by the idea that I was editing an anthology about sexual trauma. He thought, like most people assume, that writers aim to be in Oprah’s Book Club, or on the Publisher’s Top 10 List, or see the New York Times review section glow with fascination of our project.

Sure that would be nice, but if the goal of writing is to turn a profit, it’s not Writing. It’s writing, small w. Writing with capital W is writing because you cannot imagine life without this avenue of expression and understanding that the gift of writing must be developed and nurtured according to your life circumstance. Writing (big W) is understanding that publishing is a business, quite similar to Hollywood. Books are marketed to consumers and the consumers are the ones with money. Publishers want to lay out the most pleasing and alluring topics for your entertainment. They must strike a perfect balance of humor, intrigue, thrill, wit, and smarts. In the end, the formula spells money for publisher and nice cut for the writer. So you can imagine whose queries and proposals are accepted. Usually not ones for the poor, lonely, or incarcerated. If you have a $20 in your wallet, press houses are thinking of your spending patterns, not your social morality.

The image of a white starving man, hunched in a corner, bereaved over his struggling novel fits only a small percentage of writers. The Writers I know are people with families, responsibilities, and financial demands that cut into our dreams of Writing full-time. But we manage. With children, other jobs, spouses, stress, and obligations, we manage.

Writers write because they cannot imagine a world otherwise without the sacred act of documenting their ideas and perceptions of the world around them. And leaving that sacred act to someone else is simply unthinkable.

When I was a kid, my mom told me that I would be able to sleep in when I was an adult. Childhood, then, became this drudgery where I could not wait for it to pass. Specifically, I’m talking about waking up in the morning. The rest was awesome.

Mornings became this breadcrumb game in which small pieces of yumminess were laid out for me and I followed, believing that when I reached my destination (adulthood), I’d finally get what I deserved: late mornings.

LIARS. Everyone.

Adulthood is even worse when it comes to waking up in the morning. When you’re a child and you dig deeper in your mattress, trying to hide from the world, at least you have an excuse. I’M A CHILD. But, as an adult, what are you supposed to do with a spouse who delightfully jumps in the shower to embrace a cool morning and an adorable 9 mo old who is trying to rip his crib open because he wants to be sung to? You can’t exactly dig yourself deeper in the mattress in those circumstances. Disheveled and disoriented, I wake up, with the same thought, “Why did my mother lie to me?”

Hear me now: Life is not a slumber party. It’s an alarm clock.

Other pieces of advice I bequeath to young whippersnappers after I have unfurled more lies…

throw out your college textbooks…really, you’ll never use them again.
throw out your grad school text books…no, REALLY, trust me, you will never use them again.
brand DOES matter when it comes to vacuums
polenta, pomegranate, merlot are all overrated
pruning, walking, stretching are underrated

Dear Sister Anthology Writing Prompt from Lisa Factora-Borchers on Vimeo.