From the Outside In

When I was about 7, I was the girl who’d sit for hours scrawling out lists of potential names for each of her dolls. Or compiling my birthday party guest list. Or listing titles for the books I wanted to write. Places I wanted to visit. My favorite book characters. And so on.

These days, the lists are a bit more tangible. Like most adults, I write out to-do lists (both for work and home), and grocery lists, maybe the occasional “wish list” for apartment décor or whatever.

The other day, I took a nice break from these boring and responsible lists and went back to the day-dreaming lists of my youth.

I found myself listing each of the things that make me happy as they came to mind, from the obvious to the unexpected. The ocean’s waves and soft roar, bright fingernail polish, Webster, texts from my siblings, wine with my girlfriends. I didn’t list them in order of priority, but the first thing I wrote down was “Being known by my foster kids.”

Some of my favorite girls. Photo by Socorro Reynoso.

To be clear, I don’t actually have my own foster kids. But if you know me at all, you know that most Saturdays over the past few years I have“volunteered” at a program for kids affected by the foster care system. (And please, this isn’t the place for any praise about how great it is I do this. That’s not the point.)

When I first showed up for the program in early 2010, I was so intimated. I didn’t know a single person, but it was clear the others had formed a sort of family among themselves. They were friendly but unfamiliar to me. Most of the kids viewed me as an outsider. Not in a rude way, but it was clear I was not one of them.

Not only was I new without anyone to vouch for me, but it was also one of the few times in my entire life I had been around so many people who were black. Yeah, I went there. It’s not that I have a problem with being around people who are mostly of different ethnicities, but it is disconcerting, something to which I’m not generally accustomed.

Regardless, I knew I was committed. One of the main issues with foster care is that it doesn’t provide a sense of stability. I wasn’t going to be another adult to slip in and out of the lives of these kids. So I kept going, and I got to know everyone.

But even though I quickly learned the names of so many kids and most of the adults, it took some kids a while to even recognize me as a returning volunteer, much less to remember my name.

This year, we’ve turned a corner. Kids of all ages call my name as soon as I see them. They tease me, they hug me, they ask about my life.They know me, and I know them. I have grown with these kids. I’ve watched as some of the little kids become not so little (and not so wily). I’ve seen some of the older ones go through struggles they have worked to overcome.

And they’ve watched me go from being a little uncomfortable in my own skin to feeling like I’m completely myself around them. They’ve watched me go from being there just to be there, to consciously trying to learn and listen and contribute and be my best self for them.

It’s an interesting thing to be known by them. To be seen, and heard and mostly understood by these kids. In some cases, I had to work for it. And it was worth it.

So when I list things that make me the happiest, they are at the top because, when I’m with them, they feel like my home.

A Small Waste

Most of you have probably seen Disney's new full animated short film, Paperman. It's a really adorable and whimsical short about a missed connection (sans Craigslist). Two people meet at a bus stop in mid-century New York City and exchange a flirtatious glance. The woman hops aboard the bus before anything else happens. And the man spends the rest of his day trying to get in touch with her, mostly through paper airplanes. Really, you'll have to just watch.

While it's adorable, one thing that bothers me is that the man is kind of dorky and the woman has an unrealistically small waist and the biggest doll eyes you've ever seen. Isn't anyone else tired of this stereotype? This isn't a dig at the dorky guys. This is a dig at artists who continue to further the idea that a woman needs to be beautiful in order to be the leading lady.

Why can't the girl be kinda dorky and imperfect, too? Just curious.

Mmmm, chips

Only one chip was harmed in the making of this photograph.

Check out my guest blog about The Gunnar Challenge over at my friend Alyssa's blog, The Double Chin Diary. I'm doing it, guys!

Weighing In on Negativity

 It’s been a while since a weigh-in has bothered me significantly. I am not one of those people who cares to weigh herself regularly. But a weigh-in takes on a whole new meaning when it’s my favorite little dog, and when his weight is an indicator of something as scary as cancer.

After Diabetes Scare 2012, the vet guessed Webster’s inexplicable weight loss was due to his food. But, she said, if after a diet change he hadn’t gained weight in a month, they would test for cancer. I heard those words and closed my eyes and said a little prayer. But I had to think he would be OK, because spending a month in terror during the month of December seemed unfathomable and pointless. The outcome would be what it would be.

And for a month, I cherished all my special moments with him just in case. But we weighed in today, and he is OK. Thank God.

I am not one to say I had a feeling he would be OK or that I believed he would be OK and so he was. I think that is all or mostly bullshit. You won’t find me reading The Secret, that’s for sure. But, I am proud of my mindset this past month, especially because the 20-year-old me would’ve taken a different approach.

It’s freeing to know that I spent the last month enjoying my time with my little guy regardless and that I didn’t let worry or fear impact my holidays or my life. I could’ve fretted and panicked all month long, but I made a decision not to do so. That would've been to grieve a loss I hadn't experienced yet, and why would anyone want to do that?

The results of today’s weigh-in would’ve been the same had I been a hot mess for the last 30 days. He would have either been sick or not. Had he been sick, I would’ve had to grieve then anyway.

I’m so incredibly grateful he’s not sick. But he will be someday. And it’s so important to make a decision to enjoy the moments now without worrying about later. There’s no need to grieve my loss more than once, when it’s necessary.

May we all remember to make the decision that when it comes our loved ones, we will grieve only once.

And may Webster remain at his current healthy weight for at least 30more years. ;)

More Webster Love

I just had to post this. It was filmed two days before Diabetes Scare 2012, and he's so precious!

Real Writing

My Peace4Kids group called "Love Me Now" making posters about their purpose.

A few weeks ago, I read a blog on The Huffington Post called “The Mom Stays in the Picture,” by Allison Tate. Some of you have probably read it. It’s a real, honest piece about how important it is as a mom to sometimes get in front of the camera instead of behind it, because self-acceptance is so incredibly important.

In the blog, Tate thoughtfully examines her insecurities and seeks to accept herself not only for herself, but for her children.

“But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives,” Tate writes.

Although I’m not a mother, the vulnerability in her words spoke to me. And, given the popularity of the blog post, it seems I was not alone.

Seeing this was affirming for me in several ways. Of course it encouraged me to remember to accept myself (or try!) and to love myself the way I am. For me, this will be a lifelong journey. That’s fine.

But the most palpable affirmation came from Tate’s vulnerable storytelling.

Over the years, I’ve written blogs both here and elsewhere. I’ve written stories anonymously because I wanted to tell a story I wasn’t comfortable sharing publicly. I’ve written stories that omitted the personal facts. And I’ve avoided writing stories altogether. Even this blog, up until recently, has remained somewhat anonymous.

You see, I’ve worried I’d seem self-indulgent or that I’d be judged harshly. I’ve worried that people who don’t know me would find out something about me they didn’t like before they gave me a chance. I’ve done a lot of worrying.

But ultimately, what I learned the night I sat down and read Allison Tate’s blog is that oftentimes, real, true, vulnerable stories directly from someone’s gut can make a huge collective impact on other people.

I know when I read a story I can relate to, something inside of me takes a step forward. I can only hope that when other people read my stories, they feel the same way.

Webster's Story

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

I needed a dog.

I wasn’t completely sure why I needed one, but I knew I did. I also wasn’t completely sure I could afford one or find the time to take care of one. But I knew I needed one. I was 23 and working my first post-college job in journalism. I wasn’t earning much, and my dive of a Hollywood apartment cost far more than it should have by any standard. It hardly had enough room for me and my roommate, let alone a dog. But none of that mattered.

On Labor Day 2008, my neighbor Z and I visited the home of a lady who ran a small rescue group in Long Beach. Upon my arrival, I knew the dog I’d seen posted online wasn’t quite right for me, so I asked if she had other small dogs I could see. She hesitated and then said she had one but she didn’t think I’d like him.

She brought him out in a towel because he had poop on his tail. Having never been too keen on dog smell and slobber and shedding in the first place, it’s safe to say I was apprehensive about holding a dog with poop on his tail. But I held him anyway.

And he melted into my arms like a tired baby, leaning all of his 9 pounds against me and resting his head on my arm. He never made a sound, and once he was settled, he hardly moved.

I couldn’t put him down, so I filled out the adoption paperwork with one hand while I held him with the other. I paid the rescue fee, and he was mine.

I named him Webster, after Webster’s Dictionary. After all, I was a copy editor at the time. Having been born in 1985, I had no idea there had been a hit ’80s TV show of the same name. Oh, to be that young again.

One of the first pictures I took of the little guy

The three of us drove back to Hollywood and stopped at Petco to buy all the supplies we needed. With what money, God only knows.

By the time we got home around 11 p.m., I was in love. Terrified and immensely broke, but in love. Webster, on the other hand, was not.

But who could blame him? As soon as we got home, I whipped out my newly purchased flea shampoo and dumped that little rugrat in the tub. After scrubbing and combing and washing him as much as I could, I used the blow dryer to dry him off. I doused his neck in Advantix and then finally, around midnight, I let him out of the bathroom. After all that, I'd hate me too.

What happened next is still a blur, but somehow someone opened the door and Webster took off down the filthy, dangerous streets of true Hollywood. Barefoot and in my pajamas, I frantically ran after him. So here I am, a barefoot, young (probably crazy-looking) woman running down a Hollywood street at midnight. Awesome.

About two blocks down, I caught him. And I shook with relief. I almost lost him once.

A month or so later, it was clear Webster would never intentionally leave me again. I became his very best friend and he became mine.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

It is clear that every risk I’ve taken for him has been worth it.

Webster has helped me through countless breakups and heartaches, career frustrations and tragic deaths. He has (anxiously) made two moves with me and made each new place feel like home. He snuggles with me when I need it and he gives me space when that’s what I need instead. He is my quiet, calm, snuggly little buddy, and I can’t imagine another dog being more perfect for me.

On Sunday, I took Webster into the vet for sudden increased appetite and unexplained weight loss. All signs pointed toward diabetes, the vet told me. I had feared this would be the diagnosis.

As I waited for test results, thoughts of daily shots and extremely regimented schedules danced through my mind. Though I surely make more money than I did right out of college, the extensive lifelong costs of a diabetic dog ran through my head as well.

But just as he has been worth those other risks, so also would he be worth this one. We’ll take this next step together, I realized.

The call came yesterday that he did not have diabetes but simply needed a diet change. And I cried I was so happy.

Far too often, it takes the dread of something terrible to make a person appreciate how good they have it. Today, I’m grateful for Webster. I’m grateful that at least for today he’s still healthy. He’s still mine. And I am his. He is worth it.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre