Welcome to my Adulthood Calamity

Next year I’ll be turning fifty-years-old. Fifty-years-old.

Seems like just yesterday milestone birthdays were fun. Double digits, sweet-sixteen, adulthood — voting and buying cigarettes! Legal drinking at 21! Hell, even turning 25 and renting a car seemed exciting. Running for president at thirty-five, because you know, I totally ran for president back in 2012.

You get the picture, they’re all pretty positive and interesting milestones in this thing called life.

And now the big 5-0 — fifty. Is it nifty? Is it scary? Is it completely unrealistic to call it mid-life? Am I being overly optimistic?

As I enter into the last year of my 40’s and face the significance of the half-century mark, I’ve had plenty on my mind to keep me from falling asleep easily at night. First, where the hell has all this time gone? It seems like only yesterday I was graduating from high school and headed to college, ready to discover all the possibilities the world had to offer. I was lucky enough to do a pretty good job sowing my wild oats through my twenties and killing a fair number of brain cells in the process. My thirties followed with marriage, homeownership, baby number one and some success as a photographer.

I ushered in my 40’s with baby number two and enjoyed the no-fucks to give attitude that comes with maturing a bit and realizing what other people think of you isn’t super important. My 40’s seemed pretty great, until it seemed like everyone I knew was either getting cancer or a divorce. As I inch closer and closer to 50, these are just two of the more serious subjects on my mind.

I find myself deep in the sandwich period of life — experiencing the dual stresses of aging parents and parenting young children. Considering our proclivity to waterdown our language by using euphemisms to gloss over the seriousness and overall shittness of a situation, I am here to say it’s completely right and justified to fully embrace the term “midlife crisis.” Because it certainly feels like a crisis and not a mid-life contingency, although I’ll admit the term “adulthood calamity” is beginning to grow on me. But, upon some quick internet research - a.k.a. Googling - I found there are no common euphemisms for the midlife crisis. Searching for synonyms of midlife crisis, however, reveals a suitable number of relatable words — agony, apprehension, dread, misgiving, nervousness, angst, uneasiness, malaise. Maybe some are a bit overdramatic, but for sure they are real. So let’s call a spade a spade, a midlife crisis is just that, a crisis. This shit ain’t for the faint of heart and at times can feel plain overwhelming.

Grandpa Bob points out a bald eagle as it flies along the Lake Superior shore.

For the last couple of years, my dad has been struggling with dementia which has progressed fairly rapidly this past year. At the end of September he moved into a memory care facility after being on a long waitlist. In many ways it was a relief, as taking care of him at home had become difficult for my mom. There is such a wide variety of feelings that come with this disease and with the decline of a parent. In many ways I’m sheltered from many of these feelings because I am 350 miles away from my folks and I’m really good at denial and compartmentalization - my go-to coping mechanisms. But there are plenty of times when I just want to sit alone in a dark room and cry my eyes out. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s probably pretty healthy.

I do find emotions sneaking up on me when least expected, often triggered by what feels like the most random of moments. I was driving to a hair appointment in the burbs the other day and passed a Menards store and found myself tearing up, as I’d often purchase gift cards for my dad this time of year for Christmas. I thought about how it would never happen again and how he’d never again be working in his shop, where he created the beautiful custom hutch that graces a tight spot in our kitchen. While addressing holiday cards, I got to my parents on my list of addresses. It no longer made sense to address the card to both my mom and my dad, as dad will never live in his beloved lakeside home again. But, nevertheless, part of me felt like I should include him in the address, too, because I always have. And now do I send a separate card to him at the care facility, even though he won’t know who these people are in the photographs?

The lyrics from the R.E.M. song Sweetness Follows come to mind as I type these thoughts and dab my eyes with tissue.

It’s these little things, they can pull you under

Live your life filled with joy and thunder

Yeah, yeah we were altogether

Lost in our little lives

Oh, but sweetness follows

Oh, but sweetness follows

As I face the holiday season in this lovely time of my adulthood calamity, I’m trying to not let it all pull me under, to instead focus on the joy and thunder. Get through the hard stuff, await the sweetness. Okay, I’m not entirely sure what Michael Stipe was going for, but the words and melody are beautiful and worth reflection, and certainly fit my general mood.

Forgive me, this essay is a bit on the discombobulated side, too long and not particularly well organized. Forgive me, but it sort of matches my mind set these days. When I think about the situation with my dad and how to deal with it, I have so many thoughts coming at me from different directions. I’m just going to spew some more of them right here for contemplation.

You can run, but you can’t hide from your emotions. They’ll always catch-up to you. Turn around and face them. Know you don’t have to be strong all the time, lean on others for support in your darkest hours. You’ll return the favor soon enough. Be grateful for the good times you’ve had and embrace the memories, even if it’s painful to realize so many of those good times are in the past. Focus on quality time with those you love. Put down your phone and be present. Put down your phone and be present. I had to write that twice as a reminder because I’m so terrible with my phone. Try to embody all the best parts of the one you love, the one you’re losing. They’ll always be part of who you are. They made you. And pass on the memories and what you learned from them to the next generation.

My dad made the best chocolate malts. One of my favorite meals growing up and well into adulthood was cheeseburgers and chocolate malts. He relished the process of making the malts - vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and of course plenty of malt powder. He had a way of making a big production of this process, making it special. He did that with a lot of things. The whirl of the blender as he added just enough milk to create the perfect chocolate malt with a special flourish. The one time we flew too close to the sun and decided to have a second round of malts after the first only to regret it later with the onset of major tummy aches. Was it worth it? Yes, totally worth it, if only for the memory we would share every time we had malts thereafter.

I found myself sharing the story of Grandma Bob’s amazing chocolate malts with my boys the other day, and it made me smile as they insisted I take up this tradition in our home. I told them we’d need to get a blender and the boys are all behind it. Maybe it’s these little things that can fill our lives with joy when it feels like we might get pulled under by all the hard things. Maybe the sweetness that follows simply consists of vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup and of course the sweet memories of the ones you love. And sharing these memories with the next generation and passing on that sweetness.

Bitch, drink and be happy - thoughts on toxic positivity and self-care

Social media plays a big part in our everyday lives and for some time there’s been a prevalence of what's become known as “toxic positivity,”on social media platforms. The general gist of toxic positivity is you should quit your damn belly aching and be happy for all the wonderful things in your life, you ungrateful asshole. Basically, it’s the quit whining so much, pick-yourself up by the bootstraps, things could always be worse kind of attitude. Come on people, let’s focus on the positive here! Jeez!


I’m here to say fuck all that noise. It’s okay to feel shitty when you’re going through something difficult, or hell, just having one lousy day. You do not need permission to feel shitty. I’m tired of feeling the need to add the phrase, “well, it could always be worse,” whenever I talk about a difficulty I’m facing. First of all, OF COURSE it could always be worse you shithead. Your right leg could be caught in a bear trap, completely mangled and bleeding while you’re in the woods miles away from civilization. Yeah, that would be a hell of a lot worse than having a flat tire on your way to work. It may even be worse than dealing with your kid having behavioral problems in school. Or losing your job.


As it happens, social media serves as an incredibly convenient and effective way to share both the high points and the low points of our lives with our community. So go ahead and use it that way and don’t worry about what other people are going to think about your relatively insignificant problems. We’re all in this life thing together, muddling our way through, and if our social media community can provide us with some support - great! Even if it can simply provide us with space to vent and get our anger and frustrations out of our system, that’s not a bad thing. Really, it’s one of the more positive aspects of social media. Oftentimes, it’s just what we’re looking for - a friend who can relate and commiserate with us when we’re having a shit day.


I find it strange enough that the term, “self-care,” has become a thing in our modern day-to-day lives. Taking time for yourself, me-time . . . this should not be something we have to strive to achieve, it should be a given part of our lives. It’s startling to me that it’s something that needs to be identified to the extent that it has an actual name. Self-care. Well, fuck, yeah, of course we should take care of ourselves. It should just be natural, a given. As I write this I am indulging in self-care. I just finished off a glass of wine at a local wine bar after leaving my children alone for an hour with their screens. I am indulging in writing - this is also my self-care. Do I feel guilty about having some time to myself to do something I enjoy that is also good for my mental health? No, absolutely not. I think it’s more unhealthy to feel guilty about every little self-indulgence we dare to take. I know far too many caregivers who don’t take the time to care for themselves, and that’s a damn shame.


Maybe it’s just my inherent selfish nature, but I find I am quite good at self-care and do not struggle with finding the time to indulge in the things I love. Life is short afterall. Maybe I’m too good at self-care, but I’m not going to worry about that right now. Tonight I will fire up the sauna after the kids are in bed and indulge in some more self-care. I may even sneak some of their Halloween candy while they’re asleep, because damn it . . . self-care! Really, some of the best parts of life can be described as self-care. I’m willing to bet that people who indulge in a shit ton of self-care tend to live longer and happier lives than those who do not. I bet all those blue-zone areas of the world are chalk full of mother fuckers self-caring themselves all the damn time. And that’s why they die in their sleep at 101 with smiles on their faces. Self-care!

Happy Camper

I am a self-described hater of all things camping. But once a year I find myself taking one for the team - in this case the team consists of my family - and sleeping on the hard, damp ground of a campsite for multiple nights in a row. I fully realize many people consider tent camping at a state park to be far from roughing it, but for me, I can truly say it’s something I do not enjoy or seek out. I’m a daily showerer, flush toilet kind of girl and I enjoy my fresh, piping hot cup of coffee each morning with a strong dose of a good reliable internet connection. Over the past few years, the presence of good friends have made my camping experiences much more palatable, along with the reminder that feeling a little discomfort for a few days is a small price to pay for what I hope will be wonderful memories for my children.

My displeasure with camping has become a bit of a running joke among friends and family and I’ll admit I may like to play it up just a little bit. In part, it helps get me out of a lot of the planning and work involved with the experience, which frankly is just one more thing I don’t like about camping. I’m happy to stay out of the way as my husband organizes, shops, packs, loads the car and swears a lot. I’ll come along for the ride and help with the easy things, like sitting around the campfire, drinking a beer and eating all the snacks.

The two things I dislike most about camping are sleeping (or should I say not sleeping) and the god forsaken perpetual dampness. I finally broke down last year and invested in a quality camping air mattress, which was a game changer. However, it did little to save me from my husband’s snoring during our most recent four night excursion. Lucky for him, his life was spared by the small uncomfortable inflatable camping pillow I was stuck using, as it did not make for an effective smothering instrument. As for the dampness, it’s not like I’m expecting fresh, white, fluffy, lavender infused towels every morning, but it would be nice if items made of cloth would dry out before they need to be used for a second, third or fourth time. By the end of our fourth night of camping, I felt like everything I had brought on the trip was damp. Moist. Clammy. Soggy. Dank. You get the picture. I dreamed of having a giant industrial dryer magically appear in the middle of our campsite instead of the nylon clothesline strung up between two trees in perpetual shade, far from any actual direct sunlight.

Camping curmudgeon - I'm on a boat

 
As much as I like to embrace my camping curmudgeon image, at times I have to admit I’m having a good time. Our four night camping adventure was spent at Itasca State Park, site of the Mississippi River headwaters and it was cool to see where the mighty Mississippi begins and to wade up the skinny little river to her source, Lake Itasca. I made it to New Orleans eight years before I made it to the headwaters, which is a bit surprising considering they're just about in my backyard. A high point of our camping trip included renting a pontoon boat for a day of fishing and swimming on Lake Itasca. The boys got to pilot the boat, which they loved, though it is a bit crazy and slightly frightening to see your seven-year-old driving a boat. Luckily, there weren’t any icebergs floating around Lake Itasca in August. I’m not into fishing, but had fun swimming off the boat to cool off and accompanying William on a swim from the boat to the beach. It’s also just lovely being around great friends in such a relaxing and beautiful environment.

Cleansing ourselves in the waters of Lake Itasca.

In the evenings, the kids spent their time freely riding their bikes through the campground, playing on the playground, eating s’mores and telling ghost stories until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore and actually volunteered to go to bed. Their experiences brought back a flood of my own childhood memories spent camping with my family in our pop up camper. We generally did not venture too far from home, mostly hitting McLain State Park on Lake Superior, a mere 10 miles or so from our house. But I remember helping my parents set-up camp, as I was usually on water duty and had to fill jugs of water and bring them back to our campsite. Like most kids, I’d gripe about it, but once we were set-up, it was time to ride bikes, hit the playground and make new friends visiting from far away towns I had never heard of before. I loved riding my bike down to the little store by the breakwater to buy ice cream sandwiches. To this day I can’t eat an ice cream sandwich without remembering our days of camping at McLain State Park.

My big brother Dave and I.

They kept me in a cage! A cage!

 
A good friend recently shared a thought provoking parenting TikTok addressing the idea of not worrying about giving your kids a good future, since the future is so uncertain. Instead, he points out we should focus on giving them a good past, by providing them with good memories. The TikToker cites a book by Alison Gopnik called The Philosophical Baby, in which she says parents get to determine one aspect of their children’s adult lives — the childhood they bring into it. We can’t control the future, but we can do so much in the present by letting them have fun and giving them the gift of a happy childhood. Looking back on my own life, I think my parents did a stellar job providing me with that gift. I may not have had a college fund when I graduated from high school, but I will always be grateful for my happy and fairly carefree childhood and the impact it has had in my adult life.

The game Taco Cat Goat Cheese Pizza was a hit at the campsite!

 
I need to be more mindful of this every single day as a parent, and not just when I’m making my seasonal sacrifice of sleeping on the cold, hard, damp ground and playing my role as the camping curmudgeon mom. The importance of being fully present with my kids and giving them fun experiences can’t be understated. I have so much work to do in this area, but would really like to do my best to give them the same gift my parents gave me, a happy childhood. Thanks mom and dad!

William's new bestie. Rumor has it Cormac owns a video game William really wants to play!

 

The Act of Creation

On a recent trip home to the U.P. to visit my folks, I ran across an old photograph that belonged to my grandfather Joseph Jokinen. It was a large black and white print of a trainwreck. I had seen a smaller print of it before dated 1919 with an arrow pointing to a young man with the word “ME” written in ink. My grandfather had a brief stint in his youth working for a traveling carnival and this particular picture documents the derailment of the carnival’s train, a literal trainwreck. Considering my life of late has been feeling like the more common figurative trainwreck it felt rather apropos to come across this particular photograph at this particular time.

Life has been throwing a lot of challenges my way, the kind of challenges that aren’t very easy to resolve. Maybe you’re familiar with these kinds of challenges. They’re complicated, multifaceted and incredibly hard to control. In fact, the toughest part for me to grapple with is the total lack of control I have over resolving these challenges. The control freak in me has been totally freaking out and feeling overwhelmed. Feeling all the feelings has led me to think about what makes me feel good, those little things I can control, those little things that spark happiness. Spending time with friends and family is up there in providing happiness and I am lucky to have so many wonderful and supportive people in my life. But frankly, sometimes this extrovert really needs to be alone, and the one common thread for what makes me happiest when I am alone is the act of creation.

I find it incredibly cathartic to create something new, to put something out into the world that didn’t previously exist. The simple act of creation itself is beautiful. It doesn’t matter what it is. It doesn’t matter if it’s total crap. It doesn’t matter if it ultimately ends up at the bottom of a garbage bin. You made it, in all its glory. You took the time, did the work and you can choose to share it with the world or keep it all to yourself. It belongs to you.

Before Covid hit, I had just begun dabbling in cross stitching. Once the pandemic was in full swing, I became addicted, relying on the hobby to get me through worried days and nights, stabbing fabric with a needle over and over again. The number of cross stitch pieces I have in a drawer is a bit ridiculous, but the act itself proved to be therapeutic and was what I needed at the time to not lose my mind completely. It was a great alternative to doom scrolling and helped curb my anxiety. I even made some money off some of my pieces, further proving that people will spend money on just about anything. And thank you very much all ye patrons of Bad Bitch Cross Stitch.

Can't take credit for the design, but I did add the
 part with the dog doing an FU cross stitch :)

Photography, of course, plays a big part in my creative life. But, as an act of creation, it’s not quite the same. I see most of my photography as a service I do for somebody else, whether it be a wedding or family client, a publication or an employer. That’s not to say it doesn’t involve creativity, as I certainly tap into creative ways to compose my images, but it’s not a personal act of creation. Another factor that sets photography apart in my creative life is the sheer number of images that I take. The thousands of images I take each year certainly waters down the “act of creation” part of the equation. These images generally do not represent a part of who I am as a creator or a person.

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

The photos I make that I’m not paid for, my personal photography, are more aligned with this idea of cathartic creation. I haven’t embarked on many personal photography projects, but every now and then I will venture out with the intent to capture something just for me. Most recently, I photographed an old sauna back in the U.P. and some images around Calumet and I am hoping to find more time to work on personal projects, especially now that the kids are older. I’ll admit I’m lacking a bit in the inspiration department, but would like to find a documentary photo project that harkens back to my photojournalism days. While creating just for myself can be special, I’ll always be grateful that people find my photography services worthwhile enough to give me money to do it.

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

My favorite act of creation is the one I am doing right at this moment — writing. It’s one I do not do nearly enough, but hope to remedy that in the coming months. There are many things I love about writing, right down to the very basics of putting words together in a cohesive way that makes sense, or even better, makes some kind of point. That said, I’m not sure if I’m making much of a point with this particular essay, but it is helping me get some of the many, many thoughts in my head out into the world — which is another thing I really love about writing. Introducing your written thoughts to the world and finding there are people out there who can relate to what you wrote always feels like a rewarding accomplishment, even if it’s just a few friends who bothered to read your blog post. I also love the challenge of reconnecting the beginning of an essay to the end in some fun manner in which the subject matter comes full circle. So on that note . . .

While many areas in my life right now feel off the rails, out of my control and broken like a trainwreck, I have faith that with some work, persistence and a whole lot of sisu, most of these areas can be dealt with, repaired and mended. And life can get back on track.

Enchanted Sauna Under the Sea

Saunas are fairly common where I grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, home to many people of Finnish heritage, myself included. I’ll always be grateful our ancestors brought the sauna tradition with them when they immigrated from Finland, as I’ve been enjoying saunas for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest sauna experiences took place in my Great Aunt Ruth’s small basement sauna. Ruth, who just recently turned 100-years-old, lived across the alley from her sister-in-law, my Finnish grandmother, Norma, who would let me tag along when she’d walk over for a sauna. When I was a little older, I began regularly taking saunas at our neighbor’s house — the Wuebben family. They were an Apostolic Lutheran family with thirteen children, just about one kid in each grade at our small K-12 school. Andrea Wuebben and I were classmates and every Sunday night her family would fire up their large sauna, which was built off of their garage. The boys and the girls would take separate group saunas, with the main goal of getting squeaky clean for the week ahead. Everyone would have their own plastic dish pan filled with hot water and a washcloth. At this point in my life, the sauna was simply a means to an end, a ritual to get cleaned up and ready for a new week.

Our sauna themed wedding cake topper - 2009

While growing up, I was involved in competitive swimming and eventually used my skills to become a lifeguard. Saunas at various swimming facilities came into my life as a way to ease sore muscles and relax, and provide a warm place to dry off before changing and facing winter weather. I have a distinct memory of sauna abuses at one facility where I worked — the pool at the former Suomi College in Hancock, Mich., which is now known as Finlandia University, FU for short. And yes, I suspect they changed the name in order to make more money selling FU apparel. While working a lifeguard shift, a group of rowdy boys thought it’d be funny to piss on the sauna rocks. I’ve smelled plenty of unpleasant things through my years on this planet, but have to say sauna piss steam is up there as one of the worst. On the plus side, Sauna Piss Steam would be a great name for a band.


My close friend Kristin’s family had a camp on Lake Superior (camp = cottage in Yooper speak) and when I was in high school her parents’ built a great sauna. Through college, my group of friends spent many nights hanging out at the camp and took many memorable saunas, some of which may have involved just a little bit of drinking. Crazy college antics aside, the times we had in this sauna developed my deep appreciation of the hot/cold cycle, as the sauna was a fairly short run to the icy waters of Lake Superior, all thankfully on a sandy beach. Summer nights spent in the U.P. at the camp were simply spectacular. Sauna — lake — bonfire, sauna — lake — bonfire . . . repeat. Standing bare ass naked along the shore looking up at the Milky Way as a deep inner peace overcomes your body . . . honestly, nothing can compare to this feeling. Some nights we’d even get lucky and capture a glimpse of the Northern Lights. If I could instantly transport myself anywhere in space and time, it would be to one of these nights. I’m not religious, but these nights were way more spiritual than anything I’ve experienced in a church.

Kristin's sauna

Most of the time spent at Kristin’s sauna was in the summer, but one day we ventured out there in the dead of winter to do a little cross country skiing and fire up the sauna. There aren’t any groomed trails in this area, but we worked up a good sweat skiing along the lake. Having been raised in a sauna culture, we weren’t all too shy about nudity, but we would usually only run around in our birthday suits under the cover of darkness. In the winter, most of the cottages in the area were vacant and there were few permanent homes nearby. So we figured it’d be a great idea to try our hand at skinny skiing after a hot cycle in the sauna. I was blown away by how long we were able to ski naked before needing to get back into the sauna. It was the middle of the day, nobody was around and we were simply surrounded by a beautiful frozen landscape. So we thought . . .


Come to find out later one of Kristin’s neighbors who had a place a few lots north of her’s had been home, noticed some skiers and just couldn’t figure out what they were wearing. Curious, they grabbed their binoculars to get a better look. I imagine they got quite a surprise when they realized we were wearing the most aerodynamic of outfits. To my chagrin, the neighbor in question was a doctor at the same hospital where my mom worked as a nurse. My mother, having a pretty solid sense of humor, later incorporated the story into a lovely quilt she made for my wedding. The quilt features a sauna, complete with smoke coming out of a little chimney, and a pair of skis leaning against the structure. I adore this quilt and the memories it invokes.

Sauna quilt - by Betty Jokinen

Although my dad is 100% Finn and a woodworker who lives on the shores of Lake Superior, he has never been a fan of saunas and he never felt compelled to build a sauna. He’s also an unusual Finn in the fact that he doesn’t like coffee. Maybe it skips a generation, because not much makes me happier than a good hot sauna and a good hot cup of coffee, though not at the same time. After settling down in Minneapolis nearly 15 years ago, opportunities to take a sauna became few and far between and generally only happened when I visited the homeland and got lucky enough to get invited to a friend’s sauna. In the past few years, I’ve had a few Twin Cities friends invest in backyard barrel saunas and I’ve been lucky enough to take advantage of their hospitality. I’m happy to say I’m now able to pay them back, as this past fall we took the plunge and purchased a sauna kit and are now the proud owners of a pod sauna, which is a bit roomier than the popular barrel saunas. I’m thankful that Adam was able to get the kit together so well with a little help from friends and the boys.

A work in progress.

I love that the sauna has a changing room area and seats six adults comfortably. I love that the sauna has a wood burning stove with a little window, so the burning logs cast a lovely red glow to the hot room. I love that the sauna can heat up to 180 degrees in about an hour. I love that the sauna’s doors are all glass and it has two skinny windows in the hot room, so it doesn’t feel at all claustrophobic. I love that when I’m having a bad day I can decide to fire up the sauna and it makes everything better. I love that I can enjoy the sauna by myself if I need to recharge and be alone, or I can invite friends over to share the experience, conversation, drinks and relaxation. I love that I’m finally living the Finnish-American dream!

The flux capacitor of the sauna - that which makes sauna possible.

Holy waah, if you happen to be in the Twin Cities on any given Sunday night please stop by and get your sweat on. Just make sure to not get too drunk and fall on the sauna stove.

The author and her boys in her happy place.

 

The Great Awakening

After spending more than ten years as a stay-at-home parent, I recently started working full-time as a photographer for Minnesota Senate Media Services. Yup, that’s a thing! Despite applying for a countless number of jobs over the years with less than stellar results, when I read this particular job posting I knew I had to apply. The job is a nonpartisan temp position covering the legislative session, from January through the end of May. I should be able to return for future sessions, assuming I don’t mess things up. In many ways it’s a unicorn job, as really any job these days that pays a photographer a decent wage is a unicorn job. But also, working January through May is perfect for me, as family and wedding photography is fairly quiet this time of year, and I’ll be free in time for my kids being out of school for the summer. I’ll have June through December to work on the business and in the meantime I get to cover politics and work in one of the most beautiful buildings in the state of Minnesota during the dreariest of months.

It’s only been a month since I started the job and it’s been pretty amazing. I feel really lucky to have gotten it, but like any big transition, it has had its challenges. When I first told seven-year-old William I was going to be working full-time, he told me he hopes I get fired on my first day. Not exactly the vote of confidence I was looking for. I am happy to report that I did not get fired on the first day and William has since been adjusting fairly well. In fact he really likes going to before-school care and everything has been going smoothly with big brother Oskar getting him home from the bus stop after school. They’re home alone for about two hours before I get home and so far they haven’t burned down the house or killed each other, so that’s a positive. I’m able to check-in with Oskar over messenger after he gets home everyday and make sure things are okay. He’s getting a good dose of responsibility and learning to be more self-reliant, and I’m getting a big lesson in letting go a bit and trying not to worry about every little thing.


The job itself involves photographing all things senate and events at the Capitol that may involve senators — floor sessions, committee meetings, press conferences, rallies, school tours, etc. It’s kind of like we’re paparazzi for the senators, all 67 of them. It’s PR meets journalism, with senators receiving a ton of photographs that they’re able to use to promote themselves and to let their constituents know they’re here in St. Paul working hard for them and representing their best interests. Myself and my boss A.J. are the only photographers allowed on the floor during the session, so we have a front row seat to see how the sausage gets made. So far, in my very limited experience, I find it all to be both incredibly interesting and, not surprisingly, incredibly boring at times. Sometimes it’s both.


When I quit my job as a staff photographer for the Rochester Post-Bulletin ten years ago, after commuting 80 miles one-way from south Minneapolis for three years, I never intended to be a stay-at-home parent. Oskar was only two-years-old and I suddenly found myself home alone with a toddler. One of my favorite things about journalism was working with such an interesting array of people and covering a wide variety of subject matter. I thrived being around adults with varied interests and viewpoints to share. And here I was home alone with a two-year-old who was obsessed with Iron Man. No offense to Iron Man, but I couldn’t help feeling I was missing out on something.


So here I am out in the great big world again interacting with adults in an incredibly interesting environment, my fingers on the pulse of Minnesota politics. Until I started the job, I didn’t quite realize how hungry I was for intellectual stimulation. My brain actually feels good. And it’s not to say I’m sitting around having deep discussions everyday about important issues facing our society, as I’m mostly spending my time observing everything as a fly on the wall and taking a shit ton of pictures. But I do have actual adult co-workers, and the chances of those kinds of discussions happening at work are much greater than they are at home, where I’m mostly dealing with kid stuff and running a household.


Going from life as a stay-at-home parent to working in an environment as formal as the Minnesota Senate has been a bit intimidating. My wardrobe for the past ten years can best be described as frumpy hot mess mom chic — mostly jeans and a sweatshirt. I’ve never been much of a sweatpants or yoga pants mom, but I love jeans. Suddenly I was faced with needing to create an appropriate professional appearance and give up the frump. And thus, my professional persona was born — Professional Michele. After a long search for pants with pockets, no easy feat in women’s fashion, I’m feeling pretty good about the contents of my closet. Also coming to the realization that people aren’t really inspecting you too closely helps. I mean, does anyone really care what the photographer is wearing? As a good friend recently pointed out, as 48-year-old women, we’re virtually invisible anyway.

Professional Michele blow dries her hair straight in the morning, wears makeup and glasses. The glasses are new progressives that are really only effective when I’m looking straight down at the back of my camera. So I do like to wear them while shooting and I like how they contribute to my new professional persona. I liken it to a reverse Clark Kent situation. With my glasses, hair and wardrobe, I’m a photo super hero. When I get home I ditch my disguise and go back to frumpy mom mode — take off my glasses, change into comfortable clothing and start up my mom workshift. Dinner, laundry, cleaning, breaking up fights, making lunches, more laundry . . . and looking forward to getting ready for work the next morning. Several working mom friends of mine confess by Sunday night of their weekends they’re desperately looking forward to getting back to work Monday morning. I realize now I’ve been feeling their Sunday nights pretty consistently everyday for the past ten years.

Because there's really nothing at all intimidating about this place.

I won’t lie, it’s refreshing to feel appreciated for what I do and to be working in an organized and non-chaotic environment. It’s pretty much the opposite of my life as a stay-at-home parent. Although the formal setting and decorum can often be intimidating, I’m getting used to it. My biggest fears are the two F’s — farting and falling. Every floor session opens with a prayer and the pledge of allegiance, both prime opportunities to have my worst fears realized. Who knows, I could be an overachiever and have them happen simultaneously. Add to it all that we’re often on camera , as committee meetings and floor sessions are televised, and I find myself at a whole new level of self-consciousness, one much more intense than folding laundry on the couch.

That said, a month in, I’m feeling a lot more confident with the position and comfortable with Professional Michele. It no longer feels like I’m playing dress-up when I get ready for work and more like I’m simply preparing to go out there and do a job that I really enjoy. Frankly, I’m happier than I’ve been for a long time and feel like I’m rediscovering myself, my brain, my passion, the outside world. Maybe I’m being a bit overdramatic, but stay-at-home parenting has felt like a significant drain on my intellect and a very easy way to lose one's identity and sense of self.

Seriously, I work here.

 
I realize having the option to be a stay-at-home parent is a significant privilege and one that many people would love to have. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the time I’ve had with my kids, time so many other parents miss out on. But, I do believe some people are more suited for the stay-at-home lifestyle and as I’m getting reacquainted with Professional Michele, I know without a doubt I’ve never been one of those people. It’s not that I don’t like kids, I just like adults more. Who knows, maybe that will change in the next few months. Either way, I think finding the right balance between work life and home life is important and hopefully where I’m heading, with my eyes wide open and a smile on my face. For now, I'm proud of myself for transitioning to the work place without using the word potty or calling a co-worker bud. “Hey bud, do you need to go potty?” is something I have not uttered once while at work. Way to go Professional Michele, way to go!