August 28, 2013

The Content of their Character

DD at the park
"What's that sound, mommy?"

"There are people outside, marching in the street."

"Can we see?"

"Sure!"

I threw open the door to the balcony, and watched my children take tentative steps down onto it. They're not normally allowed, and the thrill of taboo with the tumult of the shouting crowd below brought excitement and wonder to their eyes. The gentle morning breeze lifted their curls from their faces, and they gazed down at the throng.

"Why are they yelling?"

"Some of them are yelling because they're happy. And some of them are yelling because they're sad."

"Why are they happy and sad at the same time?"

"Fifty years ago, another group of people marched in Washington DC."

"Where Aunt Something Funny lives!"

"That's right. It was much much more people. And they marched because some people want to be mean to other people because of how they look."

SI crooked her eyebrow at me, and I saw the gears turning.

"This wasn't like the march we went to at the big statue, where people are mean because of what you wear. This was because sometimes people are mean to people because of what color their skin is..."

I couldn't finish. Maybe because I'm emotionally fraught from a whole week of pain and nausea and doctor's visits, maybe because there is so much left unsaid when you talk about the evils of the world.

I couldn't finish, because I so badly want it to be not true that the greatest, kindest of people are those who are torn from the world too soon.

"Do you girls want to watch a movie about it?"

"Yes!" They bounced back into the house.

And before breakfast, we sat in front of the computer, and watched Dr. Martin Luther King (SI said, "I like to call him Dr. King!") deliver a speech that brought me to tears.

I remembered being in fourth grade and talking about Dr. King.

I remembered being in third grade, and my black teacher breaking down in tears as she recounted the Kennedy assassination.

I remembered watching this same speech a dozen times. A hundred. And never taking in the same things.

I know that when the bells ring throughout my city in a few short hours, I will break down and cry.

I am happy, because so much has changed since even my childhood.

I am sad because there is so, so far to go.

Because right now, we're moving backwards. Away from that mountaintop.

But I want my children, all children, to live there. Where they are never less-than, where all human life is treated with dignity.

We sat and we watched, and I know they didn't understand it.

And sometimes, I don't understand.

None of us are free. So long as oppression denies the inalienable rights of anyone in our society, we are all complicit. We are all caught in the mechanics of an engine driven by greed, and hatred, and fear.

But maybe in another fifty years.

Maybe in fifty more years, I can stand with my children and my grandchildren and maybe my great grandchildren on the mall in Washington and things will be truly changed from how they are today.

Maybe at last we can all cash that check.



August 26, 2013

Race in America - End of the Month Controversy

Talking to my kids about difficult subjects
All this talk about Mily Cyrus at the VMAs and cultural appropriation has me thinking back to a subject I have wanted to discuss for a long time. (So no, this isn't a post about twerking. Sorry.)

The thing is, race is an incredibly difficult thing to talk about. I'm much more comfortable talking about general otherism, about the reality of privilege, or about economics and class than I am talking about race.

Race is something I've always found it difficult to wrap my head around.

You see, I am not white. That might come as a shock to you. I'm Jewish. Oh yes, I can pass. Lots of Jews can pass. And just as many, if not more, can't.

I have two biological sisters. My older sister is paler than me, but she doesn't pass as well. That's because of her hair- her hair that is indisputably ethnic. My younger sister doesn't pass as well either. That's because her skin is so dark that she's sometimes mistaken for Middle Eastern of non-Jewish descent, which can be particularly awkward when it's a Palestinian who's making the mistake.

Me, Aunt Genocide, Aunt Something Funny
But I pass, mostly. I've got blue eyes and pale skin. So I "pass."

But I've known I've been "passing" my whole life.

I've known since I was very little that I wasn't white. It's one of those things, people don't experience privilege unless they're excluded from it. Part of privilege is that you're "normal" from the get-go. When you're not part of it, you're a novelty.

I was the freaked out kid at the pool who all the middle aged white ladies surrounded, to take turns touching my hair without permission.

I was the good natured token Jew, listening to every story about every other Jewish person anyone else in the room had ever met.

At nine years old I sat on the floor with my best friend in the wee hours of the night, patting her shoulder and trying to comfort her through her paroxysms of grief that I was condemned to Hell and she would have to go to Heaven without me someday unless I could somehow stop being Jewish.

I am not white.

I am also not black. I do not share the universal cultural experiences of being African American. I don't have to choose between demanding equal treatment or being an "angry black lady," I've never been pulled over without cause, I'm not faced daily with the cultural appropriation of my incredibly large and visible minority by the even larger and disproportionately more visible white population.

But I am enough other to both to have experienced some of being either.

Being white isn't just about having pale skin and fine hair. Being white is about being the standard. About how any deviation from that standard is bad, and you are less accepted and even tolerated for it.

But being white also means that you have a pervasive ignorance of the experiences outside your privilege. This is something I know. When I was thirteen, I was playing a game with some theater friends of my older sister. I was pretending to be an alien, doing research on humanity. I asked her friend, an African American man, to describe his family. He told me he was raised by his mom. I asked if that was typical. He said yes, and I was shocked. And then I got a lecture from him, as well as another friend of his (also male and African American) about the dearth of male father figures in their communities. In their childhoods.

Although at thirteen I didn't exactly have the words for it, I saw my white privilege for the first time.

(And really, if you are not familiar with this particular social issue- take three minutes and watch this video. I'll wait.)



So even though I'm not white, I know what white privilege is.

But I still have a hell of a time talking about RACE.

I can say to my kids, "Part of who we are is persecution. Our entire Jewish culture is based on a history of fleeing Inquisitions, Crusades, genocides, pogroms... Every holiday we celebrate is under the cloud of five thousand years of otherness. When Columbus sailed to the New World, your ancestors were fleeing his homeland for the Netherlands with nothing but the shirts on their backs. When the Founding Fathers signed the Declaration of Independence, your ancestors fled Polish persecution for Israel. When the Civil War threatened to split your country, your ancestors were fleeing a genocide in Russia. When your great great grandfather came to this country, he would never see his family back home again- they would all perish in the Holocaust. And when your family came to this country, they were not welcome, in the way you feel now, mostly. They were other, Christ Killers, hook-nosed yids, traitorous money-lenders. That is how the country we love and call home saw them."

And I do love this country. Truly. And I am grateful for it, and to it. And it is my obligation to help it continue to grow and mature and change for good. And part of the debt I give my country is my children.

American children.

Children who, unlike me, have a white parent.

DD, she has my older sister's ethnic hair. She has my younger sister's dark complexion. She will not pass as well as me, and definitely not as well as her twin sister- who has finer hair, bluer eyes, lighter skin than I- who so nearly "pass."

So what do I tell my children about race?

I don't know what box to check. I'm not Caucasian, I'm more Middle Eastern. But realistically, I'm not Middle Eastern, either. I'm not non-white Hispanic, I'm not Asian or Pacific Islander, I'm not Native American.

The only box I can check is "Other," and write in, "Jewish."

Because race isn't about the color of your skin. Not always. But it's also about that.

When my three year olds tell me that their friend from school has a big sister with pretty brown skin, so when THEY'RE big girls, THEY will also have pretty brown skin, I bite my tongue.

I don't want to tell them they're wrong, because they'll figure that out on their own. Because I don't want to be the person responsible for making them suddenly see that there is a difference beyond the superficial in the color of their skin and another person's.

I don't want to be the one to put the words of privilege into their vocabulary. But even more, I don't want to leave them unprepared to ignore the words of bigotry and hatred.

I have long come to terms with the idea that it will fall upon me to explain anti-semitism to my children. The pervasive anti-semitism of a largely "accepting" majority Christian culture.

I've already had to explain that I don't want to watch Sesame Street today, because of shit like this:



That reminds me all too plainly of shit like this:


And this:


So, yes, I definitely want to direct this conversation with my kids. I want them to know that people are different, and that's GOOD. That people have different kinds of skin and different kinds of hair and different kinds of faces and different kinds of genitalia and different kinds of histories and different kinds of intellectual ability or disability, and the endless variations of humanity are a testament to how amazing we all are.

But I also want to explain to them, before somebody else does, that some people still see something else when they see somebody's brown skin, or kinky hair, or long nose.

I want to be the one to explain to them that, because they have light skin and light eyes, people will be nicer to them. Almost universally. And that as nice as it might be, it's wrong.

But I don't want to have these conversations, because they are based in a truth that can't be hidden, and can't be candy-coated.

I don't want to be responsible for showing my children that racially motivated hatred exists. I don't want them to start thinking of people in terms of race, because with racial awareness comes judgement.

But at the same time, they need to be aware of people's cultural and racial experiences. They need to know why certain behaviors are unacceptable- yes, including Miley Cyrus's twerking. They need to know that racial experiences are different, and that difference does not imply relative worth.

I have no idea how I'm going to have those conversations. There is no guide book to discussing race in America with half-white, non-black children.

It's far too nuanced and delicate a subject for any one book to handle.

But it is essential. It is essential to teach our children that racial biases exist. It is essential to teach them that our culture, as a whole, embraces them. That if they're not careful, one day they'll realize that they trust white skin on sight, and don't trust brown. Or that they'll expect every news report about a criminal to be about a person of color. Or that they'll be surprised when the bad guy in their movie doesn't have darker skin and coarser hair than the good guys.


I want my children to see these messages for what they are- ignorant assumptions made by a class that is spoon fed privilege from the day they're born.

I am in charge of making sure this is the message they receive. I need to take ownership of that. I need to make sure I raise people, American citizens, who don't accept their privilege.

The only way to end this culture of privilege is to ensure that those who benefit from it reject it. That when we are in the position of privilege and somebody else is struggling through persecution, we stand up and take ownership. I want to know that someday, if my kids see that their brown-skinned friends are being treated differently than them, they will approach the culprit and demand an explanation.

That is the debt I owe to a society that has largely accepted me as one of its own.

But I also want them to point out their differences when they are ignored. Point out the hurt it does when their culture is appropriated. I want them to take pride in their uniqueness, in their racial and cultural heritage.

And the best way to teach a child anything is to set an example.

And so I charge you, every one of my lovely readers, to step back from your life for a moment and look for the privilege you experience.

Do you know that you have a place to worship, no matter where in the country you might move?

Do you know that you will get fair pay for your work?

Do you know you can call the police if you are in need and they will see you as an innocent victim?

Do you know that if you speak the language of your childhood home, you will be understood?

These are privilege.

Be aware of it. And consider what it feels like to answer "no" to any one of those questions. To all of them.

The burden of educating my children on race and privilege doesn't fall only on me, it is ours as a culture. My lessons mean nothing without the contrast of reality, or the television they watch and the people they meet and the pictures on magazines on the rack at the grocery store.

It's time we all took some responsibility for that.

August 22, 2013

The Meaning of Life

M turned 31 three days ago. Happy Birthday, my love.
What do you do when your doctor tells you you're going to die? I asked my husband this question, once.

"Well, I don't really know. He never told me."

And that's true, because my husband made it very clear he didn't want to hear those words. He was twenty four, we'd been engaged for six days, and he had just started coming out of the sedated haze of his brain surgery.

I knew, of course. While M lay in recovery, slowly regaining consciousness under the close supervision of a team of nurses and anesthesiologists, I was sitting with his surgeon in a tiny consultation room, listening to phrases like, "stage four multiform glioma," "eighteen months," and, "You don't often see people five or ten years out."

But M didn't want to know, so I didn't tell him. Instead, I planned our wedding.

Because what would you do if you knew you were supposed to die, and soon? You would do whatever you had wanted to do, but might have been too frightened to. You would live life as though whatever was most important to you was your top priority. And marrying me, well, that was his top priority.

Besides, we were in love with each other. Getting married is what you do when you're in love.

The happiest day of our lives.
And something miraculous happened. He didn't die. Instead, the experimental trial his doctor has put him in worked. He didn't get better at first, exactly, but he didn't get worse. And nobody knew what that meant.

So eighteen months became a giant question mark, and we were married, and we did what married people do. We talked about whether or not we wanted to have kids.

I had always known I'd wanted to be a mom. There was never any doubt in my mind. M had always known he wanted to be a dad, it was a sure thing. But... should we?

Every young person with cancer has been through this. Recovery isn't black and white. Recovery is forever. Every year that you live, the likelihood that the cancer is coming back is diminished, but not gone. Never gone. It's something that you'll have on your radar for the rest of your life, and it never ends.

Remission feels inevitable. You don't let it run your life, but every time something feels even the slightest bit off, you wonder... is this it?

So when you're twenty five and in love, newly married, should you have kids?

M and I decided to. We decided that if you don't know how long you have, why waste time not doing the things that you know will give you the most joy? We decided to get pregnant immediately, because not knowing how long he had didn't mean he had no time at all. If he had ten years, he would have ten years with children who could grow up knowing him, loving him, and understanding him. If he died in twenty years, he would get to coach softball and chaperone middle school dances and go on college visits. If he died in five years, at least he would have experienced the happiness of holding his children in his arms while they slept.

During M's last round of chemotherapy, I got pregnant.

And here we are, four and a half years later, three children on and he's still with us.

Three spectacular children.
We're not alone in our choice. We have known many young people to fight cancer, and beat it. And we have also known those who lost.

I've watched my friend holding his infant daughter after his wife succumbed to the cancer that infiltrated her bones during her pregnancy. It rocked my soul, left me shattered and weeping, imagining what was and what could be. I stared at her photograph, with her husband and daughter by her bedside, her eyes filled with longing and love as she gazed at the child who would never know her.

There is no right answer. There is no wrong answer. There is only knowing what will make you happy. What will give your life meaning.

For us, it was parenthood. It isn't for everyone.

And every year that passes is another gift, another promise. We try never to take them for granted.

We would all do well to remember that.

August 21, 2013

Public Breastfeeding Day

Public Breastfeeding- NBD.
Last week, I was fortunate enough to attend a public breastfeeding day of action.

I know, that sounds a little ridiculous. But here me out-

Women are shamed constantly for how they feed their babies. If they feed their babies formula, if they nurse, if they supplement, if they pump, if they use donated milk...

But, people as a whole love to eat. Really, nearly every single person in the world enjoys filling up their belly with delicious food. I don't think I've ever met anybody who didn't love a good meal.

If you put the two of those things together, you get a very skewed picture of womanhood and babyhood. It's a picture that says, first of all, that our society is only okay with SOME people eating (which is a line I'm sure everyone in congress abolishing food stamps can get behind), and that breast milk isn't food.

Many American adults look at a woman breastfeeding in public the way Jonathan Ke Quan looked at the dinner in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.



And yes, it looks just as ridiculous on them as it does on a melodramatic kid.

Breast milk is food. And it's not just food for an obscure culture, we're not talking about American's aversion to eating cats or dogs or nutria. With very few exceptions every baby, all over the world, eats breast milk. Given the opportunity, of course.

She would be mortified if you saw her ankle
(That said- there's nothing wrong with choosing to formula feed your baby either. Just so long as you're not doing it with cholera tainted water or anything.)

So, do we need a day of action for breastfeeding?

Yes, we do.

Because new mothers all over the United States have a big problem- and it's isolation. I've written a lot about the isolation of new motherhood, and this is a huge part of it. When you feed your baby breastmilk, with your breasts (stop clutching your pearls already), it can be daunting to leave the house. Wherever you go, will you be able to feed your hungry baby? It matters, it matters a lot, and normalizing breastfeeding in public is important.

We've only recently forgotten, as a culture, how normal breastfeeding is. Think back to one of the stuffiest times in human history, as far as ideals of propriety and social correctness are concerned. Let's say, Victorian England.

Did you know that breastfeeding photos were a huge fad back then? Really.

Breastfeeding was pretty huge throughout all of human history. Because without it, babies died, pure and simple.

But here we are, post-Puritans, post-sexual revolution, and we've got the worst of both when it comes to breastfeeding. A cultural repulsion to seeing skin, paired the inability to see it as anything other than sexual.

Nursing Madonna-16th Century
Really, I think that somebody would have
been burned at the stake for painting
this if breast milk was like urine.
People compare breast milk to urine, or even semen. They say it's "gross," or inappropriate. And new mothers, already overwhelmed by the stunning responsibility of caring for a new, entirely helpless person, face ostracism for fulfilling that tiny person's most fundamental need. It's a horrific Catch 22.

So The Bump is stepping up. They've begun an annual breastfeeding event, a public nurse in, if you will. It's not so much an act of protest as it is an act of outreach.

The Bump is pairing with local businesses across the country that support breastfeeding to offer women a safe public space. In Chicago, a fabulous shop called Urbababy hosted a breastfeeding event, and The Bump brought in sponsors- like Boppy- to give away nursing aids to the women who came.

One of the most important things we can do for women who want to nurse is provide them with
education, and The Bump is on it. Every few Tuesdays they have guest lactation consultants on their website to answer breastfeeding questions.

It's a wonderful resource.

The other most important thing we can do for new mothers is support their feeding choices- whatever they might be. And that means that when you see a lady with her boob in a baby's mouth (or even, gasp, a toddler's!), you don't scowl at her. You don't leer. You don't tell her to cover up, or ask her to stop, or tell her she's "bothering people."

You either look the other way, or go get yourself a sandwich.

Because a full belly generally means a better attitude.

It's something you and the baby can both agree on.

August 19, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 8.18.13

Hello! And welcome to another edition of the blogaround!


It was kind of a rough week in the blogosphere. Some truly terrible things happened to some really good people, but there was a lot of good writing that came from it. And I've done my best to break up the sadness with a little levity- because to be honest, this was also a hilarious week in the blogosphere. The internet is strange like that.

Enjoy!


"The Sitter" - The Spin CycleSue's son is getting older and more responsible, and the conversations you have about a parent night out change as they grow. But this story is about more than having a night away from your kid, it's about watching them grow and exceed your expectations. I loved it.


"Sugar Bowl Condolences" - Ninja Mom Blog
As I wrote earlier this week, Courtney at Our Small Moments lost her husband to cancer. There have been a lot of us online writing about it, but this is one of the most moving posts. Nicole writes about losing her father, the lack of control we have over our lives, and sharing grief with friends. Definitely read it.


"The Religion Post" - Ask Your Dad
Religion is absurdly important in America. Fundamentally, it's personal. It's about your relationship to your beliefs, about your relationship to your spiritual life, and about the way you cope with the world around you. But in recent years in particular, religion has taken more of a front seat in American culture. I have always been a member of a minority religion, and that makes this shift obvious to me. I see it every day, and the plethora of emotions it gives rise to can be difficult to express. John does the subject justice.


"Until 2009, the human clitoris was an absolute mystery" - io9
And now for something completely different. I love biology and anatomy, which is convenient because SI is a little bit obsessed. One of her favorite things is visiting her friend Moss's house, and reading his anatomy textbook. That said, I'm grateful I haven't been faced with explaining the clitoris to her. And I'm grateful that now I'm sure I'll actually know what I'm talking about when the time comes.


"Telling My Son The Bad News About His Stepdad" - Single Dad Laughing
Dan's son's stepfather was in a motorcycle accident this week. And he wasn't wearing a helmet. Now, I'm going to hold back from my usual rant about the need to protect your brain, I'll leave that to my dear friend Kate (who is finally out of rehab!). But Dan's son is only a little older than my kids. How do you tell somebody so young about the closeness of death, prepare them in case of the worst?


"My Live-Tweeted Nightmare (or, Abercrombie & Bitch)" - Kris McDermott
If you have small children, I both recommend taking in a teenager from another country for the summer. I also advise you to delegate some of the "fun things" your temporary teenager might want to do to other people. People without kids. And definitely people who are hilarious stand-up comedians. Because I laughed so hard while Kris tweeted that I actually woke up the baby.

August 15, 2013

Things- They Happen

That is one big prehistoric fish.
As you may or may not be aware, I set myself a goal for when my manuscript would be "done." I don't mean DONE with all caps, I mean done enough. You know, enough for me to be confident moving forward.

That deadline? It's tomorrow.

And you know what? It ain't happening. I am SO CLOSE, close enough that I can say Monday with certainty. But end of the day tomorrow?

No way, Jose.

But why?

I'll tell you- some super exciting developments have come up. I dedicated a whole day to a pretty intense interview for a literary site.

Let's do the "Columbus"
I spent most of today at The Bump's Public Display of Breastfeeding Day (yes, there is a whole post coming on that tomorrow).

Everybody lactate!
I took my kids to the Field Museum. Tomorrow I'm taking them on a boat tour. And then I'm taking my loaner teenager to the airport and bidding her farewell.

And yet, somehow, the book is closer and closer to done.

So never you fret, friends and loved ones. Things are looking good.

Riding the great majestic Daddysaurous
I therefore leave you for the moment with this wonderful image- DD has decided that for Halloween she wants to be half Batman, half Robin.

Should be fun.

August 13, 2013

Grief, Relief, Guilt, Grief


As I sit in front of my computer, listening to the storm raging outside my window, I can't help myself.

I worry.

I worry because another woman's husband died from cancer, another child's father. As always, another person's cancer-related death sends me spiraling into waves of grief and relief and guilt.

They are three distinct emotions, rolling one after another, with predictable momentum.

Grief, because I understand. I know the waiting, the fear. I know how hard you cling to good news. I know how desperately you struggle to turn bad news around, to spin it into some bit of positivity.

I know this grief. I've listened to it gnawing at my ear at night, sitting in hospital waiting rooms, hoping that when a doctor comes in, sweaty from surgery, his face will melt it back to the darkness.

The grief buckles my knees, brings tears to my eyes. Empties my stomach into a hollowness of cold, wet longing.

Relief because it is you and not me. Because my family is whole, and it might not have been. Because my husband has little worries, like a meniscus tear and lack of sleep. Relief that I don't spend my days in latex gloves, meting out poisonous pills in the hope they'll make everything better.

The relief makes me dizzy, makes me reach out to touch the cool surface of my desk, steady myself against the hardness of reality. It fills my stomach again in nauseous lumps of solid fact. Photographs on the wall. Children sleeping in their beds.

Guilt, because life is not binary. It's not you or me, your family or my family, your husband or mine. It's not black and white. Your loss is not my gain.

It flattens me, humbles me, because it feels so wicked to have considered for a moment that my happiness depends even in the most abstract way on someone else's suffering. That another family's loss could cause me even a moment's relief sickens me, but I can't stop it. And that sickens me more.

Then the grief comes again.

I am angry at myself. Angry at all the useless words that cannot convey the simple concept that I understand. That I wish with all my might I could make it not true. That my grief is real, and powered by the self loathing of standing on the far end of the finish line, unable to help you through.

I shower and sit before the air conditioner, shivering despite the hot, summer rain that pounds against the windows. I listen to my children wake up from their naps, tousle haired and smiling, and tell them daddy won't come home for dinner tonight. Daddy's working late. But daddy will come once they're in bed, to kiss them goodnight.

I have this luxury, to wallow in the endless conflicting emotions that surround death.

I have the option to taste them, swirl them around and spit them out again. I am not living them. I am not consumed by them. I don't have to feel them at all if I don't want to, but some part of me must want to.

Some part of me feels I owe it to you, who are grieving. I owe you my solidarity. I owe you my understanding. I owe you more than sympathy.

My husband got better. He was supposed to die, but he didn't. He got better.

Not everyone is so lucky. Not you.

Part of me needs to know. Part of me needs to look death in the face, every death, and see my own reflection. Part of me needs to stare into it and find peace with it now, before it can catch me unprepared.

And part of me wants to turn my back. Remind myself that all is well, that everything is fine. That the world is cruel to some, but kind to me. That tomorrow is another day I can spend with my arms wrapped around my family, secure in our joy. Safe in our completeness.

I have this luxury. Some do not.

And as the rain beats against the torn screen, the thunder shakes the floorboards. It's real, this thunder.

It's something I can't see, but it's real.

Just as death and grief and relief and guilt are real.

They shake me just as much. Rock me in my seat.

I can't see the cold coming from the vent, but it chills me. Sends shivers down my spine. As true and physical as the emotions I might choose to ignore.

Just as invisible.

From Our Small Moments
My children are awake, playing and laughing, pretending they're astronauts in space suits. The baby is sitting in her crib, flipping through books and pointing out noses and eyes.

I can't go in there until the battle against my emotions is over. Until I know if I'm going to dissolve into tears at the sight of them, or plop down on the floor and read and sing and go back to the business of being mommy.

The tears win. The tears always win.

I look at the rain outside, knowing my husband will walk home through it.

With tremulous hands I pack the grief down and go back to the business of being mommy anyway. Because I have no choice. Because no matter what tears at my heart, they need me.

And with you in my thoughts, the woman who's husband is gone today, the woman who's children's father will not be coming home, the cycle begins again.



----
Please keep Courtney of Our Small Moments in your hearts today. And every day.
And please remember how fragile and beautiful your lives are.







You can donate to the fund for Scott's final medical bills here.


---
For more about M's story, read here.

August 12, 2013

There they go, just a walking down the street. Singing Do Wah Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Do.

I'm delighted to have another guest poster in the Telling Stories series! Today's guest poster is
Angela of Momopolize. She writes about her four sons as well as life with Lyme disease and Lupus. Sometimes serious, usually humorous, always honest. I'm honored that she is sharing her story with us on Becoming SuperMommy today.


----


This school year, we had a dilemna. Are Eric and Greg are old enough to walk home from school alone? After going back and forth (and back and forth and back and forth), we decided yes. Since we live less than a mile from the school, we do not have bus service. Up until this point, someone has picked them up every day. There are walking paths and sidewalks the entire route home and there will be 4-5 kids walking together. No big deal, right?

Today was the first day of school. They were very excited about the big walk. As the day progressed, scenarios went through my head of things going wrong.

What if they forget they are supposed to walk home and stand out in front of the school waiting for me. The other Moms will think I forgot to pick up my kids on the very first day! How embarrassing will that be??? Yeah, my first “worry” was what others would think, not safety. Mom of the year here.
One of the paths goes near a busy road. What if they are goofing around and go off the path? What if they get too close to the road with the cars whizzing by?? At least my SECOND worry was safety. I redeemed myself. A little.
What if Eric and Greg get in an argument? They have reached the age that arguments between them usually turn physical. I pictured them rolling around in the grass, wrestling and punching as their buddies cheered “Fight. Fight. Fight.”
What if they get lost? They could be wandering through the woods hours later in the dark. We’ve walked that way many times so that thought was most ridiculous, but it was still a thought.
I finally calmed my fears by deciding to walk half way to meet them. That was a good compromise for the first day. I knew they wouldn’t be happy to see me intruding on their “big boy freedom” but that’s ok.

At dismissal time, I strolled out of the house thinking of a good response to the “why are you here, Mom?” question when I met them. “It’s just such a pretty day, I decided to walk also.” That wouldn’t really be convincing as I had sweat dripping from the 95 degree heat. Oh well, stalker Mom it is.

I got half-way to the half-way point when it dawned on me – there are two different ways they could walk home. We hadn’t discussed which way they were going to walk. If I picked the wrong path, I would miss them completely and they would go home to an empty house and think Mom didn’t even care enough to be home to see how their first day went. I turned around and walked back home. At least they won’t know I was helicopter Mom now.

Twenty minutes after dismissal passes and they still aren’t home. Common sense told me dismissal takes longer than normal on the first day and the kids aren’t going to sprint home, but I still wondered if one of my premonitions had happened. To the car I go. I drive to the end of our street and as I turn onto the next street, I see them. Almost home. Not on the route I was walking on to meet them, of course. They were happily walking on the side-walk, grinning from ear to ear. I thought about slouching down in the seat and backing down the street back to our house so they wouldn’t see me, but it was too late.

They walked over to my car and, as predicted, Eric says “What are you doing?” I sheepishly respond, “just checking.” He gave me the one eyebrow raised look that I know too well. As they are standing in the road by my car talking to me, I realize that THIS moment is probably the LEAST safe moment of their walk. Way to go Mom.

After the friends go to their houses, Eric and Greg sprint home. They get to our driveway faster than I can drive there. They race to see who can get on the video game system the quickest as they yell “we don’t have homework, but YOU do!”

I guess they really are ready to walk home alone. It’s me that isn’t.

August 11, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 8.11.13

Hello, lovely readers! And welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!

It's been a busy week at Casa SuperMommy, and on the blogosphere! I'm delighted to show you this week's crop of excellent posts.


Confessions of a Stay-At-Home Mom"When Did This Happen?" - Confessions of a Stay At Home Mom
Steph's daughter turned five years old. I know, it happens to every child, ideally. But it's a terrifying prospect for me, when my twins are nearing up on four. And I can't imagine the changes that come with the paradigm shift of kindergarten. And as always, Steph expresses her confusion and even a little grief in the most beautiful way.


"To An Invisible Mom" - Tell Another Mom
Yes, I did write this post. But you might have missed it. And you should read it. I posted it there rather than here because it's almost a little too personal, but not exactly to me. It's not exactly my story to tell. But you should read it.


"The Metropolitan Opera, Nov. 4 1953" - The Lively Morgue
I love everything about this. Having spent so much of my life in theater, and having so many friends in theater, I can't say enough how fabulous it is to see that some things really never change, and some things are always as melodramatic and amazing as they ought to be.



"The Duchess of Cabridge's Natural, Unmedicated, FANTASTIC Birth" - Moms New Stage
This isn't really about Kate's birth experience. It's about every birth experience. So many moms, myself included, didn't get what we wanted. And we feel judged for that, as though it was our responsibility, and we feel hurt by that, because we share that impulse, to judge ourselves. And every experience has value, but the lack of something so meaningful to us, of an experience profound and rare, is a genuine trauma to those of us who have experienced it.


"Mom left him alone with his older sister in the bathroom for one minute." - Reasons My Son Is Crying
I think somebody sneaked into my house in order to take this picture.



"What is Normal Anyway?" - Man vs. Mommy
I know what it's like to be afraid to ask the question, "Is this normal?" And I know what it's like not to get the answer you want. And this view into Mommy's head and this glimpse into Man's life is beautiful and moving. A wonderful read.


"Love in the Time of Dementia" - Kelley's Break Room
This is heartbreaking and beautiful. A love story, but the side of it we never tell. We like love stories that end when the couple is young and full of life, when they ride off into the sunset. We don't ask what happens to them when they're old, and caring for each other at the end of their days. This is what happens.


"Good Enough" - Don't Mind the Mess
As if it's not hard enough to be a mom, and is if it's not hard enough to parent a special needs child, and as if it's not hard enough to go through a divorce, Jess is also a blogger. And that makes all of her mistakes, all of her questionable moments, public. Which matters when you're a parent of a special needs kids, going through a divorce. This is an incredibly honest look inside her mind and her life at a very difficult time, and one from which we could all learn a few lessons about how to forgive ourselves in our dark times.


"It's What Dads are Supposed to Do!" - The Kopp Girls
I love Kyle. I wish he wrote every single day. But I'll just have to settle for these great stories about traumatizing his kids. (I'll also definitely have to watch that movie he was mentioning. It sounds awesome!)

August 9, 2013

"It's going to be okay."

"Why are you sad?" SI asked me over dinner. I heaved a sigh and pushed my chili mac around my plate.

"Adri and Zoe's grandma got sick," I said, "and some kinds of sick don't always get better."

"What happened to Zoe's grandma?"

"You know how some kinds of sick you feel in your nose? And some kinds you feel in your tummy? Well, Zoe's grandma got a kind of sick called cancer, and it was in her breasts."

SI reached over and put her hand on my chest, tenderly grazed my skin.

"It's okay, honey. Mommy's fine."

"Did she go to a doctor?" DD asked.

"She did, honey, but it didn't get better. The sick moved from her breasts into her bones and brain." I breathed shallowly, and made eye contact with M for the briefest moment.

Is this the time? I wondered. Surely, this cannot be the right time to tell my children about Daddy's brain cancer. This is the worst time. They'll be sure Daddy is going to die. This is not the time.

My eyes prickled. "The cancer got into her brain, and then she couldn't get better. And so we're going to go to her funeral on Sunday, and see Zoe and Adri and Zoe's mommy and daddy and Uncle Dan and Aunt Amy. But you need to use your best Princess Manners. Okay?"

"Why?"

"Because everyone will be sad."

"Because Zoe's grandma died?"

"Yes, honey."

"Why did she die?"

I held my breath for an instant. Because sometimes, it feels like God is cruel? Because it was time for her to die? Because she was tired and she fought a long battle, but lived long enough to see her three sons married and settled down? "Because sometimes when people are sick they don't get better."

On Sunday we were late.

We're always late. It's one of the drawbacks of having three kids in less than three years. We sped along the freeway as quickly as Sunday morning traffic would allow.

The whole drive, I reminded the children of their manners.

"It's very important. This is a sad day for everyone, and you need to remember your Princess Manners. No running, no yelling, remember any more?"

"Always say please and thank you!" SI offered.

"Right."

"Don't throw things!" DD suggested.

"Good job, girls."

We sat in the back of the funeral parlor, on overstuffed couches covered in throw cushions. The girls played with their My Little Ponies and I bounced RH gently on my knee. She babbled loudly a time or two, but they were mostly quiet, and polite, and respectful, and I was proud.

The rabbi told us the last words Rollie spoke to her son, my good friend, when he told her he didn't want her to die.

"It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay."

That summed her up to me. I'd known her a long time. She was a terrifyingly perfect woman. A doctor, the mother of three boys, an incredible cook and fashion forward. The first time I met her, my friend had brought me home so I would have a place to go to High Holy Days services. She fed me, she joked with me, and although their was something imperial in her manner that made her feel she was towering over me and I was only a child, I always felt welcome.

I saw her at her son's wedding and her grandchildren's birthdays. I saw her at occasional holiday celebrations when I was too poor or too busy to travel home to my own family. She always seemed content to add another chair to the table.

Her youngest son was married only six weeks before. She barely made it through the reception before she was in the hospital with a stroke.

"It's going to be okay."

Of course it was. Because she was the person who always made it okay. She was ready.

As we approached the graveside, Adri saw the girls. Her face lit with happiness. I understood- at ten years old, she knew what happened. She knew she had lost her grandma forever. But she was a child, and she was alone. And now my children, who were too young to understand grief, would play with her. Zoe, who was younger still, stayed at home.

I watched Adri vacillate between happiness and profound sadness, oblivious of their contradictions. It was hard to breathe, watching pure emotion without the adult filter of self-consciousness.

We sat shiva with the family all afternoon. The three girls disappeared to play with Adri's dollhouse, where they happily ignored the sad adults. I was grateful my children could help their friend this way. I was grateful that by playing "pass the baby" downstairs with RH, I could spread a little joy among the adults.

Adri ran up to me, informed me that she had taken the girls to the potty (pride beaming from every pore) and the SI had pooed, "In Grandma and Grandpa's bathroom," and needed my help. She stopped to play with the baby, and I went upstairs alone.

I followed the sounds of my children's laughter into the bedroom. I tried not to notice Rollie's things set out, I tried harder not to notice his. Her widower, Adri and Zoe's grandpa, whose grief cut into parts of me I try to pretend don't exist.

I walked into the bathroom and cleaned SI. She was so proud to be sitting on the big potty, and I hugged my children so tight and sent them back to play, and as I followed my eyes landed on Rollie's vanity and I froze.

I stared at the wig on its stand before the mirror, and the room went airless.

I stared, and I cried, because I knew she would have hated for me to see it, but she was beyond the cares of breaches of privacy or propriety or decorum. She had a house of grown sons and a husband who wept openly together, her sons slumped against their wives as those strong young women held them up. Strong, like her. Her sons couldn't help but find women that emulated this one, essential part of Rollie.

"It's going to be okay."

Tonight I'm taking my children to LaLa's Relay For Life. Because LaLa also got sick in her breasts. She also fought the cancer, and she won.

Her son was young, barely in high school. She wasn't ready.

"Why did Zoe's grandma not get better, but LaLa did?"

"I don't know, honey. But you don't need to worry about your Princess manners this time. This time you can yell and clap and shout because everybody is going to be so happy."

I pictured LaLa in her wig at my wedding. I pictured Zoe's grandma's wig on its stand.

I pictured M, bald, his scar red and shiny and puckered in the crook of its curl. Curving from in front of his ear to create two thirds of a circle that ended again over his forehead. I pictured it beneath my hands as I gently scrubbed the blood that had been caked on for over a week out of his hair, knowing that in a few weeks his hair would fall out anyway. I remember touching each one, prying off the clay colored crust, reminding myself how thick and full it was, carefully flaking away congealed blood behind his ear.

I pictured M, his head on my lap, as day after day I tweezed the ingrown hairs in the scars of his staple holes, cleaning the infections gently.

I pictured M, newly bald and exhausted from radiation, smiling broadly for our "Save the Date" postcards. Six years ago to the day.

I pictured Zoe's grandparents, caring for each other through the last month.

I pictured my father's face when I was barely older than Adri and fell asleep on an armchair waiting for him to come home, waking me up to tell me his mother had died from cancer.

I pictured my friend, weeping into his wife's shoulder at the graveside.

I pictured LaLa, her hair curled, grinning in her sparkling mantle of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and hair bows, with arms thrown wide to hug my children.

I pictured M dancing with RH at her wedding in the terrifyingly not-too-distant future.

"It's going to be okay."




August 7, 2013

Doing What Scares You

No fear in these kids.
I learned an awful lot at BlogHer.

I learned a lot about growing my platform, about pitching my book, and about finishing my book.

I learned a lot of other things, too. And not all of them were things I expected to take away from a blogging convention.

For example, conquering my fear.

The lunchtime keynote on the last day of BlogHer was Sheryl Sandburg, of facebook. Now, I have some problems with facebook. I have problems with their model of user-reported abuse monitoring, which first of all gets used for the purpose of petty bickering (such as when trolls flag things as inappropriate when they're utterly harmless), or hardly get used at all (such as the disastrous conditions leading to the #fbrape campaign). But I'm all for self-empowering talks and the advice of successful people.

Sheryl Sandburg encouraged everyone to identify the things that scared them, and then do them. And yes, I'm doing the things that I thought of at BlogHer. But I did something else, too.

This bad boy made me cry.
I rode a motherfucking Ferris Wheel.

Now, this may not seem like a big deal to some, but is a huge deal to me. And it wasn't just any little Ferris Wheel either, oh no.

It was THE Ferris Wheel.

...well, THE Ferris Wheel in Chicago, anyway. It's not even close to as big as the London Eye. But still, at 150 feet, it's pretty gigantic.

Let me tell you a little something about Ferris Wheels. They are secret killers. They are death traps.

Nevermind that there have only been a handful of Ferris Wheel related deaths in my entire lifetime, PEOPLE HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF THESE THINGS. I mean, how crazy do you have to be to go up in something like that, totally unprotected from the inevitable fall? Yes, it's inevitable. If you ride a Ferris Wheel, you will fall to your death.

It's going to happen.

Not worth the risk, obviously.

But as my family approached the monster, DD looked up at me with those big, beautiful eyes of hers and said, "Mama? Will you ride with me?"

And what could I say? "No, honey, your mother is mortally terrified of Ferris Wheels. The tamest, slowest, most peaceful ride ever invented. Call me when you're tall enough to ride the Demon Drop or the Superman coaster. I'm totally up for that. But if you ride this thing you're dead to me. Because you'll probably be dead."

Of course not. I nodded and squeezed her hand tightly enough to make her wince.

I kept hoping as we waited in line that there would be limits on how many people could ride. Our temporary teenager was with us, so there was an extra pseudo-adult handy. I could stay with the baby, and M could take the girls up, and it would be fine.

But no. No excuses.

We passed the checkpoint where it became clear I was getting on the thing. And then, because of "balance," they had to let a bunch of cars go by empty. This gave me time to think.

First of all, I thought that if "balance" was that delicate, we were all going to die. A few empty cars weren't going to save us.

Secondly, I thought that I was just going to cry. And I hated whoever put up the sign next to where we were standing to let us know that at a full seven minutes, it's the longest ride of its sort in the world.

Thirdly, I thought of Sheryl Sandburg. You know what, Sheryl? I am scared to fucking death of Ferris Wheels. And I'm going to get on this bitch and ride it to Hell.

I somehow managed to smile for our pre-boarding picture.

In my head I am screaming for help.
And then M lifted DD and SI on to the Ferris Wheel. And clutching RH to my chest as though she were a life preserver, I got on too.

The first ten seconds were okay. We were still basically on the ground.

But then we started going up. So slowly, you couldn't feel it happen. All you could feel was the horrifically perilous swinging, the gentle sway of the car as my husband and children proclaimed at all the sights which meant that at any minute we were going to die.

I squeezed RH as tight as I thought she could handle it, and I sobbed like a baby.

This is humiliating.
And I laughed, because M and our Temp Teenager were laughing at me, and they were right, it was ridiculous.

And I kept crying, because we kept going up.

For a solid three and a half minutes, I buried my face in my baby's back, and freaked my geek out.

And then I looked up, and we were at the top. The very top.

And you know what? The view was amazing. I could recognize that despite the renewed tears, of relief, that finally we were going to go down again.

Looks nice, right? But what happens when you zoom in at my face?

That's right. Tears. Tears behind the glasses. No lie.

And for the next three and a half minutes, I squeezed the baby and repeated, "It's almost over. It's almost over. It's almost over." while DD and SI tried to get me to look down at the boats in the harbor.

And then it was over, and I had to stand perfectly still on the ground and breathe slowly for a while before I could walk again.

But you know what? I did it. I did it without screaming, without begging, without ruining anyone else's good time.

And while I probably won't ever do it again, I feel like a boss for doing it once.

I might not have conquered my fear, but I did give it a good talking to.

Thanks, Sheryl.

August 6, 2013

I Heart Kate




You may remember about a month and a half ago I told you about my friend Kate. This is a post about her.

Kate is awesome. She's funny, compassionate, interesting, smart, creative... so many adjectives I could use to describe her. Since the first time I met her, I've enjoyed her company tremendously.

Her daughter is right in the middle between my kids, so when they get together it's a like a flock of adorable. Really, it's too cute.


So Kate is green and earth-friendly, all about sustainable living. It's kind of a passion of hers. And as part of her efforts to protect the environment and live a sustainable lifestyle, she and her husband got rid of their car. Only public transit, bicycles, and the heel-toe express for them.

One day, Kate got into a bike accident. It wasn't bad, she banged up her head a bit, but she got up and walked away.



But a week later, she started having migraines. She started experiencing strange disturbances in her vision. The migraines got worse, so bad she couldn't function. She took her year and a half old daughter to a friend's house for the day, so she could rest.

A short while later, her friend found her on the floor. Conscious, but completely unable to move her body or speak. Kate had suffered an severe stroke.

The next week was, to put it mildly, terrifying. She had emergency surgery to remove the clot, which had nearly severed the cerebral artery where it attached to her brain. She was on and off of breathing tubes, CAT scans showed the bleeding continued, the doctors put a drain into her head. She had a direct to stomach feeding tube inserted, as well as a tracheotomy. To say that Kate is lucky is putting it mildly. That lady has an entire crew of guardian angels watching over her.

Nearly three weeks into the ordeal, this image popped up on facebook.


She was back, her sense of humor completely undiminished. I don't think four words and a picture have ever made me so happy.

Kate spent more than three weeks in the ICU. She is still in a rehab facility, getting hours and hours of physical and occupational therapy a day. But she's getting better. REALLY.


Her trake has come out, and she's eating solid food. In fact, she's well enough that this past weekend, her doctors gave her permission to make the trip out to her brother's wedding.


She's remarkable. And her recovery is remarkable. And everything about it fills me with relief and joy.

Every time she posts a picture on instagram of another awful hospital meal, filled with genuine joy that she can EAT IT instead of another bottle of Jevity (yuck), my heart soars.

It used to be she only took pictures of her "Kate Face," which could easily be confused with Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome. Now, she's grinning in every picture.



Each time Chris updates us on her progress, I am overwhelmed by gratitude.

I see everything she's going through, from brain surgery to physical therapy to recovery transitions, and I see in her me and M, just seven years ago, and I just want to wrap my arms around her and her family and squeeze them so tight and tell them how unfathomably glad I am that they are whole. That Cora has her mommy, that Chris has his wife, and that Kate has her life.

That said, they really do need some help.

You might recall that I have an intimate understanding of how expensive brain surgery can be. It's no joke. And although she and her husband Chris get by just fine normally, that's as a dual income household. Kate hasn't been working for two months, and it's likely to be quite a while before she's at full strength, working from home as a graphic designer LIKE A BOSS with a toddler running around.




Insurance covers some, but not all medical expenses. But it doesn't cover childcare. It doesn't cover the income lost when half of a dual income family is in the hospital. It doesn't cover transportation costs for a family without a car, let alone one that can accommodate a wheelchair.

If you can, PLEASE! Donate to the I Heart Kate Medical Expense Fundraiser.

Give what you can.

Spread the message around to everyone you know.

As Kate says, ALWAYS WEAR YOUR HELMET. And in addition to that, take any injuries seriously. See a doctor when you have frightening symptoms, like crippling migraines and vision problems. Or, in M's case, like weakness on one side of your body but not the other.

Never be afraid of seeing a doctor early. The worst that can happen is a waste of time. There are so many worse things.

Please- donate to the I Heart Kate fund.





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I'm afraid I don't have any photographs of me and Kate, but I do have a video where I Gangnam Style past her in my back yard. So there's that.

August 5, 2013

Danger for Moms Who Read

Today I'm delighted to have Debra Kirouac of Just Jack sharing a story for my guest series! Deb works as a communications specialist for Save the Children, an international nonprofit helping children worldwide. Debra spent six years as a contributor to the Fairfield County Weekly, writing theater reviews, conducting interviews with celebrities, and writing funny (at least she thinks so) stories about her three year old terror toddler.

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If you ever want to get a toddler’s attention, try reading something on the couch near them. Nothing piques a child’s interest more than seeing their mother relaxing and enjoying herself. I’ve noticed my son will sit in a trance-like state while watching his shows on Nick Jr. as I putter around the living room, sweeping up his cast-off snacks. I could burst into flames before him and his eyes would not flicker with recognition or even look my way. But if I attempt to read a sentence in a book, magazine, newspaper or even a leaflet, his sole purpose in life is to destroy my reading material: “Screw Nick Jr.! Mommy’s trying to read!”

The other night, while we sat and watched an episode of Franklin for the eight-thousandth time, I pulled out my autographed copy of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck. It had been a long day at work and I was hoping for a few moments of “Me Time.” In the book, there’s a chapter on the realities of raising children – a very funny chapter -- but just as I got to the funny part, I felt thirty pounds of toddler weight collapse onto my pubic bone and lower abdomen with the force of a bag of bricks. The pain was exquisite and my yelp for help amused Jack so much that he did it again. He also managed to grab my book (again, this was autographed by the late Nora Ephron) and took it out of its dust jacket. I managed to hurriedly put it back together again before any pages were ripped, but when he calmed down and I re-opened it, the jacket had been placed upside down over the book. Ay dios mio!

As I tried to read a few more words, my crazed critter squeezed between my back and the couch, demanding I give him a “backpack,” which is his way of saying “piggyback.” I explained to him that Mommy was trying to read a funny essay, but he seemed immune to my pleas.

Suddenly his hands wrapped around my neck with a strength that belies his age, and I began to gasp for air. Being held in a chokehold by your towheaded toddler doesn’t lend itself to book reading… or magazine reading…or newspaper reading…or leaflet reading.

I tossed the book aside before he tried a half-nelson on me. I knew this was a good time to body slam him against the couch, which I did repeatedly. No mercy! Unfortunately, this only served to amuse him, of course, and he came at me with the ferociousness of a feral cat, his eyes crazed, his mouth sputtering toddler-isms that sounded like a cat in heat. What the heck was he saying? Who was this wild child?
So to moms of toddlers everywhere: don’t read your prized autographed books in the presence of your pre- pre- pre- pre- pre- pubescent progeny; there’s practically no point.

And learn Greco-Roman wrestling before they do!

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