The Marchies are 10.

My daughter’s 10th birthday marks another milestone: The friendships I made on a now-defunct Internet forum have lasted a decade. It startles me even more than the fact that my tiny newborn is now a YouTube-watching, long-legged tween who texts me funny GIFs and penguin emojis.

I started lurking on the Babycenter.com board for March 2007 due dates shortly after I found out I was pregnant, and I began posting in earnest when Evie was a newborn. I was lonely and bored and realized that if I positioned myself just right, I could feed or cuddle the baby while typing on a laptop. I found people: funny, smart, interesting people who were grappling with the sweeping life change brought by a tiny baby. Friendships formed, quick and fierce. Someone invited me to a private forum, away from moderators and public web searches.

In those heady early days, our connection was intoxicating and all-consuming. We talked about everything that mattered to us: our husbands, our jobs, our health concerns, our favorite books. We agreed that our mothers know exactly how to push our buttons (because they installed them), and we promised ourselves we’d do a better job. And, of course, we talked about our kids. Our Marchies. Every doctor’s visit and development milestone was rich territory for conversation. While our IRL (In Real Life) friends would politely smile and indulge us for a few minutes as we talked about our baby, the March moms asked all of the detailed questions: “Does gripe water work?” “Where did you get those baby leg warmers?” “Talk to me about swaddling.”

Our first online community was a discussion forum with 100 members. We prided ourselves in getting along with no drama, ever, but that’s not how large groups of people work. As our friendships drew closer, there were secret, gossipy conversations which then became fodder for more gossip. Small groups began to spin off. The center could not hold.

I remember the weekend it fell apart for the first time, just shy of the Marchies’ first birthdays. I recall crying in front of my laptop, calling my best friends, sometimes hearing their “real life” voices for the first time, and pleading with them not to quit the forum. I realized that all of my closest friendships could disappear into the ether as quickly as a person could click “Delete” on a website.

Our group was like a forest of trees with an entangled root system. No individual could extricate herself without becoming tangled in the whole mess. When connections between a few people became toxic, everyone felt poisoned. The biggest fights became fires.

I recall at least two conflagrations, and a few small flare-ups. Each time, we lost a few members but most of us emerged from the ashes and decided that what we had together was worth the risk and the pain. We rearranged and replanted, a little bit wounded and a little bit stronger.

Our group changed shape as technology changed. We stepped away from our laptops and online discussion forums, and we found each other on Facebook. As the Marchies went off to preschool and gymnastics and play dates, we carried our conversations in our purses. Some of us developed closer friendships than others, and we gave up on the utopian ideal of a drama-free community and accepted one another as people who might not always agree, but remained connected nonetheless.

Siblings followed the Marchies in waves. I didn’t seek out a July pregnancy board with Felix; instead I commiserated with the March moms who were pregnant with their second children at the same time.

We have held each other up through illnesses, divorces, and the rawest of grief. When one of us suffers, we all feel it. We rally together PayPal campaigns, send flowers, and explain to confused relatives how we know each other.

We know each other from the in-between spaces in our lives. The sleep-deprived chats when we were awake nursing our babies, now the quick Facebook posts from our phones while we wait through piano lessons and soccer practices. I’ve heard that the closest friendships come after spending hundreds of hours together doing small, ordinary things. This is why good roommates and neighbors have a lifelong hold on us. So it was with the March moms; our forging ground was the lonely banality of motherhood, and the conversations were digital but the connections were real.

I’ve learned so much about friendship from this group. You can’t keep score of which friends are closer to each other than you. If you want to meet up with people in person, you have to take the time to plan things and it’s always worth it. You can’t be sensitive to every slight or keep track of every misplaced word. Well-intentioned advice is still a gift, even if it’s not one you wanted or particularly like. Even digital gardens require watering.

I’ve also learned a lot about parenting, which is one of those jobs that changes as soon as you get good at it. It truly does take a village, and my children are being raised by dozens of moms (and a few dads) who have been with our family every step of the way. Not only have our kids grown up together, so have we.

The Marchies at our first Midwestern meetup, 2009

West/Midwest IRL,2011

Wisconsin IRL, 2015. It's become a thing.

Why we march: A letter to my daughter

Dear Evie,

When you live through an important time in history, you carry it for the rest of your life. You will tell people what it was like. They will ask what you did, even if you were only a kid.

I'm afraid we are living in those times, and here’s where we start. 

We are showing up at the state capitol tomorrow morning, where we will walk with our arms linked and our heads high, holding signs that express our fierce commitment to a better America.

It’s going to rain. We will be cold. We will spend a lot of time waiting in traffic and standing in crowds.

I will bring an umbrella for you. I will hold your hand in the crowd, which will hopefully be large, but probably smaller than the State Fair. In the unlikely case that people get rowdy or mean, I’ll steer you to safety.

You’ll be exposed to adult language, as we learned when I was Googling sign ideas and you looked over my shoulder. I hate that I had to explain to you what sexual assault has to do with the president, and why a person would carry a sign to point out that her body is her own. “Isn’t it obvious?” you asked.

That conversation, awkward as it was, convinced me that we should march together.

Protecting you and keeping you safe is an important part of being your mom, but it’s not the real job. My real job is to send you out into the world as an informed, caring, and brave person. The kind of person who will make this world better.

We won’t make any new laws or get a new president just for showing up.

But, God willing, we will get a few things: The comfort that we’re not alone in our concern for America’s future. The strength that comes from walking alongside others. New friends and new ideas for where we can show up next, make our voices heard, and drive change in our community. The most memorable social studies lesson of your fourth grade year.

Hot cocoa. We will absolutely, definitely get hot cocoa.

Love,

Mom

Unfinished People: a reflection 15 years after my dad's passing

My dad was wonderful. Ask anyone: His friends, his patients, his students, his family. He is my hero and my inspiration. I’ve written about him here before, but there’s one part of the story that I haven’t shared.

I disappointed him.

Growing up, I was my dad’s girl. We were bookish, inquisitive, and awkward in the same ways. I even looked like him. I have fond memories of reading the encyclopedia together, of Pizza Hut lunches on Sundays, of quizzing each other with my older brother’s SAT vocabulary flashcards.

I was in high school when things began to come apart. I was self-absorbed, deeply sensitive, and determined to establish an identity distinct from my parents. I was a teenager.

Travel Plans

I went to Poland once, when I was 15. It was one stop in my last European vacation with my parents. We visited relatives, my mother’s childhood home, and my grandfather’s grave. It was a powerful emotional experience for my parents, and while I know the trip was meaningful to me at the time, my clearest memories are of listening to R.E.M.’s Out of Time on my Walkman and missing my boyfriend.

Drinking espresso in my jean jacket. 

Letter to my kids, November 9, 2016

Dear Evie & Felix,

It’s 4:30 a.m. and I am trying to figure out how to tell you that the America you’re waking up in has elected Donald Trump as its next president.

You watched the first debate and, even at ages 6 and 9, you saw Hillary Clinton as the more polished, prepared, and knowledgeable candidate. She won, definitely, you said. He’s a bully. She is the smart one who talks about helping people.

Your dad and I have talked to you about how voting for a president isn’t the same as cheering for a sports team. It’s a decision that starts with your soul and reflects your beliefs about the world you live in and the people you share it with.

I’m going to remind you what our family believes.

The L-Word

Every parent gets the email, amidst field trip announcements and gentle reminders about snack policies.

Subject: Head lice was reported in your child’s classroom. It’s an ordinary thing, an email you can delete. It’s always someone else’s kid.

Until it isn’t.

Ours arrived on a Thursday. I was at the dinner table, wearing my soft pants that say “I give up” as I sputtered across the finish line toward the weekend. My evening plans were to eat tacos, play Candy Crush, and be in bed by 9.

The girl was scratching her head. The boy was scratching his head. Come to think of it, my head itched, too.

5 minutes later, I was throwing a coat over my pajamas and driving toward the kids’ salon before it closed. I burst through the door like a mad woman, blurting out my confession: "Lice! Help!"

Google Translate and the words in between

While translating my grandparents’ memoirs for The Poland Project, I’ve had a lot of help from Google Translate. I grew up bilingual, but my Polish is rusty and my vocabulary falls painfully short in areas like World War II weaponry and spy tactics.

Google Translate is powerful, but not perfect. Often the translations are too literal, too formal, or not quite right. I’ve spent hours smoothing the translations into English sentences and paragraphs that (I hope) convey the original meaning.

In doing so, I’ve become aware of – and felt indebted to – the people whose fragmented conversations are the building blocks of this database. So I accepted Google’s invitation to improve Translate by adding my own knowledge. I’ve translated or verified more than 1,000 Polish words and phrases into English. 

Here are a few things I've discovered: