The Writing Life

The "chair-ness" of us

2012-01-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

I love the notion of the Platonic Ideal. I don't recall exactly when I heard the concept - probably in my Philosophy 101 classes in college - but it struck me with the weight of a 2x4 covered in goose down. A solid thwack with a side of oh.

"What makes a chair a chair and not a table?" When the professor asked the room, I'm certain we were all thinking he was high. Or at the very least that we were infinitely more intelligent than he. Honestly, who asks that kind of question?

He went on to explain and get us to think. Why is a chair a chair? Both a table and a chair have four legs. Both are often made of wood.

"A chair has a back you can lean in to," someone called out.

"You use a table and a chair differently," came another answer from the room.

As the discussion continued, we realized they weren't all that different, though. A beanbag chair has no back, but we still consider it a chair. Some kids sit on top of tables. Especially in college. Some tables don't have legs - what about a tree stump in a rustic setting? That could be used as a table, too. So what is it that makes a chair a chair? Is there some essential quality of a chair, every chair, that makes them chairs? No matter the individual design elements, we still recognize them as chairs, in some particular category of solid object that possesses some essence of "chair-ness." And if you extrapolate that out to every object, is there some seminal essence that renders each of these things exactly what they are? Is there some quality of dog-ness, car-ness, cloud-ness for everything?

What about me?

I have spent a lot of time lately trying to define just who I am. Perhaps it has something to do with recently turning 40. Perhaps it is because I am finding myself at a bit of a crossroads as a writer trying to decide which project I move forward with (or not). How can I be the best me, the best version of Kari? I have to incorporate Mom-ness, wife-ness and writer-ness, all things that encompass multiple things within them. It is a process fraught with peril. I would have thought I had some definition of myself by now - know myself well enough to know what drives me, what is important to me, which things need to fall away - but it turns out I am not as close as I thought.

Some things have fallen away. I no longer define myself as a sexual abuse survivor or a child of divorce. Those things are part of who I am but like the tree whose trunk grows around the nail placed in it as a young sapling, I have formed a scar and incorporated them into myself.

So the question remains, what is the essence of me? At my core, what are the definable attributes that make me Kari and not Bubba or Eve or Lola? Or, on a larger scale, my mother? (Yes, that is a concept to wrestle with, too, as I age.) How am I different, unique, special and, yet, the same as these other humans near and around me? What is it that makes up my inner essential quality?

As I examine this notion, I am struck that it is not as frightening to ponder as I once thought it was. What ever these things are that make up my essence, they are immutable. Whether or not I ever discover them and am able to put a name to them, they will exist. Whether or not I can excavate them and polish them to a perfect shine does not really matter. Like the chair, even though I have a special "chair-ness" all my own, I am free to express it however I want. Like the chair, I can have four legs or three, or none at all. I can be plush and velvet or carved from a redwood. It does not change my essential Kari-ness and the fun is in playing with that, secure in the knowledge that I am me. No matter what.

SnowBound

2012-01-19T14:25:00.000-08:00

So Eve says she is "done" with snow. Too bad for her that Mother Nature doesn't really give a rat's patootie whether or not she has had enough.

I will say it has been a long go for her at this point, though. Last Friday she left with about sixty of her classmates, teachers and parental chaperones to drive to Mt. Baker for a four day weekend. The plan was to spend most of the first day building snow caves on the mountainside large enough to sleep in that night. The following day was to be spent skiing, snowboarding or snowshoeing. They would eat their meals in the lodge and sleep there for two nights and basically have a blast without their parents. At least the kids whose parents didn't decide to chaperone. Like me. Sleeping in a snow cave is not my idea of a fun weekend. I'm happy to snowshoe but I would like to come home to my own bed and a hot bath at the end of it. I am too damn old to build my own snow cave, sleep in it, spend an entire day doing physical exercise and still not come home to a massage or a hot shower.

Unfortunately for Eve, the day she came home, it had started to snow here. And by the time she woke up the next morning, I had determined not to send her to school because there was a threat of several more inches. By Tuesday night we had about four inches of snow. Not a ton, but in the Pacific Northwest, with our hills and propensity for freezing temperatures overnight, it renders our cities completely unnavigable. By Wednesday mid-day, we had ten inches of snow and Eve was tired of hanging out with Lola and I. She spent several hours on the phone or video chatting with her best friends, lamenting the fact that their neighborhoods only had two or three inches of snow. Our house exists in this strange microclimate that gets more snow/rain/cold temperatures than the metro areas. Way to live in the suburbs, I know.

Thursday morning I woke up to what I thought was rain falling on the skylights and thought this was it for our snowbound selves. Whew, enough. By the end of the day, we can go back to doing what we normally do and the kids can go to school on Friday. I fell back asleep for an hour. When I awoke at 8:00, I realized I could still hear the sound of 'rain' falling, but the skylights weren't any clearer. That was when I got up and realized the sound was actually ice pellets hitting the snow on the roof. Those continued for about two hours, building up a nice, crunchy layer of ice on top of our now 12 inches of snow.

Since then it has turned to snow and we've accumulated another two or so inches. And as much as I'd like to say it is driving me crazy, I can't. We have plenty of food in the pantry and fridge. The power is still on (for now - there are lots of folks in our area who haven't had power for eight hours or more). And although the girls are about to skin each other alive, every time I look out the window and see this lovely, fluffy white stuff falling with abandon, softening the edges of everything it comes in contact with and insulating the world from sound, I feel calm. Despite the occasional crack and thunder of a huge tree limb succumbing to the weight of the snow and ice, it is incredibly peaceful. Yesterday I found bear tracks trudging across my front yard. Stepping out on to the deck, the only noise comes from the hungry cries of the stellar jays in the trees. And as soon as I retreat back in to my warm nest, I realize I am safe at home with my girls. I feel cocooned here, knowing that I can't change what is happening outside and I needn't even try. The boundaries of my world have shrunk and closed around me like a snug blanket. Everything inside this perimeter is real and important and tangible. Making warm meals. Snuggling with the cat. Playing board games with Lola. Being.

Food and Memory

2012-01-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

Eve discovered grapefruit about a year ago. She was helping me unpack our weekly CSA box and as she pulled two pockmarked peach-colored fruits out of the box she exclaimed, "These oranges are huge, Mom!" My brain flooded.

At first, I was astonished to realize that she was eleven years old and had never eaten (or seen) a grapefruit. I had a moment of shame before my own memories of grapefruit rushed in to wash it away.

My mom standing at the kitchen counter, small curved-blade knife in hand, cutting in to each segment of a halved grapefruit to release it from the thick casing separating it from its neighbor. This knife was created specially for this purpose, down in to the segment she plunged it and with a curve of her wrist, she expertly pivoted it in a teardrop shape before lifting the blade and moving on to the next segment, turning the fruit slightly like the minute hand on a clock so that her hand was always in the same spot. She would place each half-grapefruit in a shallow bowl, dust the tops with sugar and hand them to us on Saturday mornings. I hated it. The bitterness assaulted my mouth and made it water uncontrollably until I thought I'd drool. The sickly-sweet sugar sitting on top of the bitter flavor made me shudder. I soldiered on, seated next to my father who ate his with the kind of pleasure generally reserved for things related to cars and soccer. He ate quickly, sometimes groaning with pleasure, and then grabbed the fruit in his freckled hand and squeezed it over his spoon to catch every drop of the juice. Squeezed it over and over again until it looked like a deflated football, the segment casings glistening white like the skeleton of the fruit. It was his favorite weekend breakfast. I would eat as much as I could and hope for a distraction as I tossed the rest so I wouldn't get busted for wasting food.

I had to use these grapefruits. And I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce Eve to something new. I remembered seeing something on a cooking show about sprinkling brown sugar on the top of a grapefruit half and putting it under the broiler for a few minutes to caramelize it. Eve ate both halves and asked if I would do the other one for her, too. I considered for a moment showing her my father's trick for getting the juice, but using my hands in the same way he had used his was too painful to consider. Instead I described how to get the juice out. She squeezed it into her bowl to mix with some of the brown sugar bits and asked for a straw.

In the last few weeks I have rediscovered grapefruit. This week two enormous Texas Ruby Reds showed up in our CSA box and Eve was out of town with her classmates for four days. I used a small paring knife to free the flesh of the grapefruit and stuck it under the broiler with some brown sugar. As I ate the segments, warm and crunchy on top with brown sugar, cool at the core, I lamented my technique and considered buying a grapefruit knife. Too much flesh left behind clinging to the skin. I didn't cut closely enough in my effort to avoid the bitterness of the pulp.

When I had eaten every last segment I lifted the fruit and squeezed the juice into my spoon, noting how my hands have freckled and aged over the years and look a little like his did. Tasting the bittersweet, sitting in the quiet, I shared breakfast with Dad.

Acknowledging the Darkness Within

2012-01-12T19:22:00.000-08:00

There is a little girl that lives inside of me and when I least expect it she shows up to remind me that the world is a scary place. She reminds me that I ought to be wary and protective and that it might just be best to crawl in to bed and hide for a while.

When she comes I get frightened. Even though she is small and nobody else can see her, she reminds me of what it feels like to be powerless and alone. She tricks me in to believing that I can't trust anyone and that I need to be taken care of. Because she wants to be taken care of. Because she feels like she never was. And she feels like she never will be.

Over the years I've learned that the best thing I can do is comfort her and remind her that she is okay. In years past, I have alternately slammed the door in her face and become her - to the point where I did actually climb under the covers and retreat from the world for a bit. Unfortunately, denying her existence only makes her scream louder and look for more profound ways to grab my attention. Becoming her pushes me over the edge in to that deep, dark hole with no way out. And so when she shows up, I have to keep my wits about me and try to come from a place of love instead of a place of fear. That doesn't mean that I don't worry that she will get bigger if I 'feed' her. But if I can remember that I am not her and offer her love and understanding I feel safer.

Today, with the help of a good friend, I came to yet another plane from which to see her. As we talked about those parts of us that feel dark and scary, those parts that we don't show to the world, I mused aloud whether there was a way to acknowledge those pieces of us that are just as vital as the rest and see them for what they are. If I think about it that way, this little girl is amazing. Despite the sexual abuse and trauma she endured, she found a way to survive. Her protective instincts not only spared me the pain of living each and every moment of the abuse by walling it off in my brain until I was ready to remember it, but she set up a strict criteria by which to decide who could be trusted as I moved through life. True, she over-reacted in most cases, but with her 8-year-old intellect and intuition, she led me to a place of independence and strength I needed to deal with my parents' divorce and the loss of my foster brother and other difficult times in my life.

As I began to understand just how central a role this frightened little girl has played in my evolution, I was amazed at how much I owe her. And as I move away from defining myself as a sexual abuse survivor, her existence is threatened. As I begin to heal some of the deepest wounds I have, excising her from the essence of who I am is not an option. Instead, I must honor her for the role she played in protecting me and reminding me how important it is to tell the truth about my experiences in order to help others heal. That doesn't mean I need to allow her to have power over my life as an adult, but it does mean that she deserves to feel safe and validated. I hope that as I continue to process all of this I can finally give her the rest she has earned and neither of us has to be scared of those things that happened so many years ago.

More Life Lessons With Lola

2012-01-09T11:09:00.000-08:00

One day as Bubba and I were walking and discussing a particularly thorny parenting issue with regard to Eve, I expressed my fervent hope that Lola would be easier on us as a tween. Or that we at least would have learned enough from working with Eve on difficult issues that it would feel easier. Bubba, with his uncanny ability to assess personalities, replied that Lola is who she is.

"I don't think she'll get any harder as she grows up. I think what we see in Lola now is simply a smaller version of who she will eventually be. I think she has laid it all out there for us from the beginning."

He is right. For all of her quirks and overflowing cup of personality, Lola is comfortable in her own skin. She is much like her father in that way - she knows who she is and isn't apologetic about it. In all honesty, neither of them could be any other way if they wanted to.

A few days later when we returned home after a week at the in-laws' to discover Lola's pet hamster wasn't looking so good, she laid it all out again. The four of us were distressed as we gathered the little one up for a trip to the emergency vet and as we waited for the veterinarian to assess the situation, Lola alternately sat on her own and watched the doctor intently and crawled into my lap to bury her face in my shoulder. At one point, she knew she couldn't process any more and excused herself from the room to peruse the quiet, dark waiting area with its photos of previous patients and skeletons of exotic pets like snakes and chinchillas. She solemnly ran her finger over the bones and breathed deeply and took her time coming back.

When it became clear that the hamster would have to stay overnight she nodded her head and walked to the car quietly. At home she required some assurance that her baby would be well-cared-for overnight and expressed her sadness that we had been away when she fell ill.

Over the next two days as the hamster got progressively worse, I knew it was time to have a "quality of life" discussion. I wasn't even sure whether it was appropriate or not for a nine-year-old, but I knew I had to try. Turns out Lola had been thinking about it on her own.

"Mom, if she is hurting, I don't want her to. If they can help her without hurting her and she can get better for a long time, let's do that. But if they're going to do surgery and she will hurt from it as she heals for weeks and then dies a couple weeks later, that's not a good life."

After we made the painful decision to let her go, Lola once again clambered up in to my lap (not a simple task given that she stands as high as my shoulders all of a sudden) and cried a little.

"I am so confused. I don't know how to feel. I'm happy she doesn't hurt but I'm sad she's gone. And I'm happy I got to be her Mommy for a year and I know I was a good Mommy and I gave her a good life, but I don't want her to be gone."

I was amazed at her ability to articulate her feelings. I was more amazed at her lack of anger or sense of unfairness. Hell, I'm 40 and it felt unfair to me!

I told her I was so sorry she was in pain and that, as her Mommy, I often wished I could give her a life without sadness or emotional upset. That it hurt me to see her unhappy.

She sat up and looked me in the eye, "That's silly, Mom. I know that seems nice at first, but I wouldn't want a life that didn't have upset or sad or angry feelings. That would be like having the sun shine all day long every day - no night, no rain, no snow. How boring!"

Bubba's right. This little girl has it going on. She has a deep knowledge of her own life and emotions. She feels things deeply - period. No going beyond into ramifications and consequences. She allows herself to feel what she feels and is able to express her emotions without censoring them. She is a one-of-a-kind, our Lola.

It has been two weeks since her baby died and, other than acknowledging that she needed someone else to clean out the cage because it was too painful, Lola has not expressed a desire to move on quickly. She has not asked for a replacement pet. She cries every once in a while and asks to be held while she mourns her hamster. She passes by Eve's hamster's cage reverently and offers this little one treats, relishing her role as auntie without jealousy. She is simply feeling what she feels and honoring it. I am in awe of her ability to be exactly who she is without self-criticism or judgment. Thank goodness I have her as one of my teachers.

My "Duh" Moment

2012-01-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

I'm fairly certain that growing up in the 1970s and 1980s was, for me, the moral equivalent of being sold a mirage in the Sahara. Coming of age in that era of instant-gratification and get-rich-quick schemes and ever-present celebrity news (MTV, anyone?) gave me the impression that life comes in bursts and at any moment I could expect all of my wishes to be granted simultaneously, thereby changing my life forever in a millisecond.

I still sometimes believe that.

Turns out that what actually comes in bursts (at least for me) are the revelations that this is all nonsense.

For so many years I believed that goals were seminal events. That to accomplish one of the milestones I set out to reach would profoundly change the landscape of my life going forward. With a few exceptions, that is total BS. But somehow, I manage to hold on to the exceptions in my mind as reality. Marriage was one of those exceptions, or at least I used to think so. In all honesty, though, Bubba and I lived together, sharing expenses and household duties for nearly a year before we actually had the wedding ceremony. And while the honeymoon rocked, when we returned to our tiny apartment with our two cats and our full-time jobs, except for the part where I had to stand in line forEVER at the DMV to legally change my name on my driver's license, nothing much changed.

Having babies changed our lives markedly. I'll give you that one. And graduating high school and college necessitated a drastic shift in the way I spent my days. Beyond those things, though, when I stop to think about it, there aren't many things I can point to that created dramatic change in my daily life. And even the build-up to graduations and childbirth were gradual, so I can't really say that any of those things came all at once.

So why is it that when I fantasize about a particular writing project or personal milestone, I expect things to change radically for me? When I finished my first manuscript I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment - the culmination of three years of research and two years of writing and re-writing. But the next morning, I still got up, made breakfast for the girls, had my latte and drove them to school. Even if I had sold the manuscript, my life wouldn't have become unrecognizably altered.

I have a few friends who successfully published their work in the last year and while I was tremendously pleased for them and a tiny bit jealous, I have to admit that their lives are still essentially the same as they were before. Yes, maybe they are getting more exposure in the literary world. Yes, I suspect they spend some portion of each and every day selling or marketing or talking about their writing. But when it comes down to it, the most basic parts of their lives are still the same - raising children, finding time for self-care (or not), struggling to write new material. So where is that Shangri-La? That, "Oh. My. God. I'm famous. I have 'arrived.' I am [fill in the blank]!"

It doesn't exist. That is truly the exception. If it even happens. Because I suspect that even those folks who become famous overnight or win a trillion dollars in the lottery ultimately revert back to who they really are. If you loved junk food and reality TV before you were elected governor of your state, you might move to the mansion the day of your inauguration, but I won't give you long before the cupboards are full of cheesy poofs and Oreos and someone has set the DVR to catch "Survivor."

Much like the lesson I learned from looking back on 2011 with Eve and Lola, I am reminded that it is the daily things we do that add up. Those moments where we are truly ourselves, doing what we do best without pretense or expectation determine the path our lives take.

Call it a "Duh" moment. I'm pretty sure it doesn't qualify as an "Aha."

Looking Back on the Year

2011-12-31T12:31:00.000-08:00

Since coming back home from my in-laws' as the holiday season winds down, I've been feeling a little down. The stress of packing fourteen people (seven adults and seven children) into a small space for a week with dreary, cold weather and lots of opinions on parenting and cooking and politics and everything in-between has caught up with me. We had a lovely time with these amazing individuals, but after a few days of rubbing up against each other, things get a little chafed and it was time to head for home. For a person like me who tends to be very introspective, the tendency to self-judge and second guess becomes overwhelming. Unfortunately, we came home to a very sick hamster (Lola's) who was valiantly fighting off a bacterial infection and lost the battle yesterday. We are all very sad to lose this adorable, feisty member of the family and, as grief comes in waves, at any time of the day one of us can be found in tears over her loss.

As the sun rose today and I contemplated the gathering we will have tomorrow to welcome the new year, Bubba recognized my mood and strongly encouraged me to head to yoga. I did, and struggled a bit to stay "on my mat" in mind and body during the 90 minutes, but now, 90 minutes after class, I'm feeling somewhat more centered. I gathered the girls at the kitchen table to review our year a bit and was astonished to discover how quickly we amassed a pretty impressive list of things we have done in the past twelve months. In no particular order, here goes:

Eve: successfully learned to manage her 6th grade schedule

survived (and thrived at) her first sleepaway camp

had her first official babysitting job

cooked an entire dinner for the family (with significant help from Lola)

Turned 12

Broke her first bone

Played on her first basketball team and loved it

Did the dinner dishes for an entire month by herself

Went on her first class camping trip

Learned to sail with her classmates

Lola: started skateboarding lessons

survived (and thrived at) her first sleepaway camp

played her first season of lacrosse (and kicked butt)

did all of the laundry for an entire month by herself

cooked an entire dinner for the family with her sister

started a recycling education project in her classroom

lost her last baby tooth

got braces

Both girls: chicken-sat for the neighbors

went to the San Diego Zoo for the first time

visited Joshua Tree National Park for the first time (me, too!)

took paddleboarding lessons (me, too!)

steered a boat in the Pacific Ocean

saw a stingray off the coast of Maui (me, too!)

learned to play beach volleyball in Santa Barbara

kayaked in Lake Wenatchee

I managed to get published on line in BuddhaChick Magazine, created a relationship with BlogHer that increased my readership, took approximately 60 yoga classes, learned to make good gluten-free baguettes, took my first trip with Bubba away from the kids, turned 40 and saw U2 in concert. Bubba's company grew, he participated in his first camp singalong, he traveled to some new places and made new friends and became more beloved to each and every one of us.

Looking over the list we managed to put together in a few short minutes began restoring my faith in hope. I had Lola grab a fresh sheet of paper so we could scratch out some predictions for 2012 and we were quickly laughing and fantasizing. I've decided to leave both lists out so we can add to them throughout the day as inspiration or memory arises. Maybe it was the yoga. Maybe it was finally settling back in at home. Maybe I'm feeling better because the sadness is running its course. I don't know, but I am happy that the simple act of looking back on our year for a few moments had such a profound effect on my mood.

I am struck by the notion that most of the things on this list were not earth-shattering. Most of them were not things we specifically set out to do. They were simply things that happened in the course of our lives, moving along through space and time the best way we know how, loving each other and sticking to the values we hold most dear. I hope that a year from now I can look back again and be amazed at the adventures each of us have had, together and individually.

Here's to 2012 and all it brings.

A New Perspective on the Holiday

2011-12-20T10:10:00.001-08:00

Five days until Christmas day. The kitchen is silent but for the sighs of the dog splayed out on the floor next to me. Eve and Lola are upstairs, straightening up their rooms so that they can find a place for each and every new treasure they receive on Christmas Day. Eve cleans while belting out popular songs with no pretense. Lola stops every few items to crouch on the floor and read a few pages of a Calvin and Hobbes book.

The day outside is grey and misty and I'm determined to avoid the reality of winter in the Northwest by only gazing at the 4x4 photo of Dad sitting on the front porch with the girls as babies, squinting in the sunshine, his freckled legs showing in a rare moment when he wore shorts outside of the gym.

I feel as though I ought to be rushing around completing last-minute tasks, but all but one gift is wrapped and under the tree and I'm not baking any treats this year. We have deliberately scaled back gift-exchanges over the years in deference both to those who have more stuff than they know what to do with as well as those whose needs run to the more serious - like groceries and money to pay the heating bill. We still spoil the children and delight in odd gifts for each other here and there, but I'm thrilled to be part of the older generation now, my true delight in watching the children's eyes as they rip the glossy paper off of their presents.

More than anything I look forward to the gathering. The unexpected history shared after a few glasses of wine that sets everyone to hysterical laughter. The moment where the youngest child discovers the piano in the living room and the magical sounds it makes. The stolen moments on the couch where I pretend to be asleep and hear philosophical conversations between adolescents. For all of the hoopla around Christmas cookies and intricate wrapping methods and hours spent in the kitchen preparing the roast, I look to the next five days for rest and quiet spaces and spontaneous bursts of joy. For this, I wish Christmas came more than once a year.

Life Lessons with Lola

2011-12-16T12:51:00.000-08:00

On the way to school yesterday, Lola started complaining about her loose molar. She has one left to lose (yes, she is only nine, but both of my children were precocious about getting and losing teeth) and it is at that hanging-by-a-thread point that is making her nuts.

Eve used to love having wiggly teeth. She would push them back and forth, back and forth with her tongue and her finger, working it and working it to see just how precariously she could get it to cling before it fell out. She delighted in disgusting friends and family by pushing the tooth until it was perpendicular to the others in her mouth.

Lola was terrified of losing teeth. And I didn't help. Her first tooth began coming loose when she was five and in Kindergarten. Every day she would complain that it bugged her to eat with it like that and at bedtime she would cry in fear that it would come free in her sleep and she would swallow it or choke on it. Day by day it got more and more loose but she was afraid to touch it or let anyone else touch it for fear that it would rip violently from her mouth and she would bleed to death. Despite Eve's repeated efforts to calm her by telling her it didn't hurt to lose a tooth and my lectures about it being totally normal, Lola became increasingly hysterical as the days wore on.

One afternoon as I passed by the playground where Lola was having recess with her class (I worked in the office at the Montessori school), Lola ran to the chain-link fence and called to me. When I walked over to her, she burst in to tears and told me she was so worried about losing this tooth. I was frustrated and, frankly, done hearing about this damn tooth, so I asked her to open up and show me. As soon as she opened her mouth to its widest point I reached my thumb and index finger through the fence and into her mouth, grabbed the tooth and pulled it out. [It was only holding on by a thread, trust me, it didn't even bleed.] She jerked away from the fence, her eyes wide in horror and I presented the tooth to her.

"Here you go. Now you don't have to worry about it anymore, honey."

I know it was mean. But, honestly, after all of the drama we'd had for over a week about this damn thing, I was ready to show her that it wasn't such a big deal after all.

She never let me see a wiggly tooth again unless we were separated by a wide table or an entire room. I can't say that I blame her.

So fast forward four years and I'm terribly relieved she only has one more to lose. I asked her if she still feels as frightened now when she loses a tooth as she did back then.

"Not really, but you have to admit, Mom, the way you talk about it is pretty scary."

Huh? Turns out she's right. To a kid, "losing" something is always bad. Losing your favorite toy. Losing your mittens at school. Losing your TV privileges. And so when we say to a kid that they are going to lose a tooth, it doesn't sound natural. It sounds scary.

"You're right, Lola! I never thought about that. How else could we say it?"

"I don't know, Mom. Telling a kid their tooth is going to fall out isn't much better. Nobody wants to have some part of their body 'fall out.'"

She's right. And, ironically enough, by the time you are able to truly understand that losing a tooth is an exception to the rule that losing things is bad, losing a tooth actually would be a bad thing.

So here's to Lola's last baby tooth "leaving the nest."

Lola's Holiday Heartbreak (and Recovery)

2011-12-12T12:28:00.000-08:00

Let me start by saying that Lola, my nine-year-old, has a heart of gold. A heart the size of Texas that is solid gold. She is very emotionally sensitive and idealistic and sometimes this means her heart gets broken. It's hard to watch. It is even harder to watch when I know it's my fault (or Bubba's - in this case, it was Bubba's fault).

Lola has always believed in Santa Claus. Even after discovering that her older cousins and her older sister thought it was all a hoax, Lola maintained that they were crazy. From time to time she would come to me and ask how to counter their arguments (or taunting), and I could see that she so desperately wanted to believe in Santa that I would help her out. And maybe I was setting her up. But there is something magical about the notion that there exists someone out there in the world who loves you just because you are a kid. Someone that doesn't have to love you (they aren't your family, after all), but who, once a year, acknowledges the mystery and wonder that is you and surprises you with some of your heart's desires. Just because. And when you put it in that context, who wouldn't want to believe in that?

Bubba and I played our part - wrapping gifts from Santa in special wrapping paper that didn't match our family gifts and using our left hands to write out the names in case the kids scrutinized the handwriting. We even colluded with our extended family to share wrapping paper and buy the same kinds of treats for the stockings when we were planning on sharing Christmas morning with them. I will admit that we indulged a bit in the coercion of "Santa is watching" for the last few weeks before the holidays, but it was mostly joking. Or so I thought. But it's tricky to know how kids interpret things unless they talk about it. Or write to Santa.

Lola's letter to St. Nick last year went something like this:

"Dear Santa,

I do not think I deserve any presents this year. I've tried to be nice this year. But I

can't do it. But if you think I deserve it, I want a Zune.

Love, Lola

P.S. Never quit your job."

I started out chuckling when I read this letter, but quickly got a lump in my throat. Poor dear. Bubba was also charmed by the note and decided that we ought to keep this letter indefinitely. Even if we never showed it to her, it was a priceless keepsake. So it remained tucked in his desk, safely inside the envelope addressed by Lola herself, until Lola discovered it this July.

Catastrophe.

I never would have imagined how betrayed she would feel. She was mortified, both because she felt duped by her own parents (and stupid in the face of her cousins' teasing the last two years), and because of the implication. No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.

Bubba and I felt horrible. She cried for a long time and my only consolation was that it was the middle of summer and Santa's demise wasn't associated with Christmas.

Fast forward to December and I began wondering how she would handle the notion as the holiday approached. When I picked her up from school last Wednesday and inquired about her day, she told me her teachers had asked her to write a Christmas story to share with the younger kids in class. (Lola attends a mixed-age Montessori school and her classroom has kids in grades 1-4. She is the oldest.)

"So I wrote this story about this kid who asked for a toy boat and a scooter from Santa Claus and, since her parents didn't believe in Santa, they bought the things for her. But when Christmas morning came, the little girl got two boats and two scooters. The parents got into a fight later because they each accused the other one of buying the gifts but it turns out Santa did it. They still didn't believe it, but their daughter decided to give one boat and one scooter to the homeless shelter and she felt great. The next year, the same thing happened and the girl got two of what she asked for and gave half away. The next year, the parents both stayed up to spy on each other and catch the other one in the act, but they caught Santa instead. They were surprised and talked about not getting the little girl something from then on, but finally decided she had so much fun giving away half of her presents that they would just keep doing it. And Santa was happy, too."

Huh. I think she's recovered the spirit of the holiday. Something tells me she'll be just fine. Santa lives on in Lola's spirit, believe it or not.

President Obama Decision Fear-Based, Disappointing

2011-12-09T14:06:00.000-08:00

From the AP Newswire on December 8, 2012:

"President Obama said today that 'as the father of two daughters' he supports his health secretary's decision to block over-the-counter sales of the Plan B 'morning after' birth control pill to girls under 17 years of age."

My response:

As the father of two daughters, Bubba once considered investing in chastity belts.

As the father of two daughters, Bubba has mentioned more than once that he is counting on me to talk him off the ledge when he considers shadowing Eve on her first date.

As the father of two daughters, Bubba is uncomfortable recalling what it was like to be a hormonally-driven teenage boy.

As the mother of two daughters, I realize that my girls may not always be completely honest with me about the pressures they face to do things that they aren't ready for LIKE HAVE SEX.

As the mother of two daughters, I am certain that my girls will make mistakes and I hope that they have the opportunity to clean up their messes and learn from them without it changing their lives forever.

As the mother of two daughters, I am appalled that President Obama, the man I voted for, would let his own discomfort with the notion of one of his daughters needing Plan B cloud his judgement on this issue.

I wish there were a world where girls as young as 10 and 11 couldn't possibly need access to Plan B.

If there is, we don't live in it.

And if I'm being totally honest, with this move, I can't honestly say that I trust Obama to protect abortion rights without requiring parental consent for girls under the age of 17. I don't see that that is much of a leap from this position, frankly. And that scares the crap out of me.

From the AP Newswire on December 8, 2012:

"Sebelius, overruling the Food and Drug Administration, said there are too many questions about the safety of Plan B for girls who can bear children as young as 10 or 11 years old."

My response:

Are you kidding me? Where to begin?

1. Overruling the FDA? Honestly? One person decided, despite the legions of scientists and policy-makers at the FDA who actually TESTED THE DRUG, that she knew more than they did? I don't think so.

2. What about the safety of a 10 or 11 year old child GOING THROUGH PREGNANCY AND CHILDBIRTH? Isn't that a consideration?

From the AP Newswire on December 8, 2012:

"He [Obama] and Sebelius decided 10- and 11-year olds should not be able to buy the drug 'alongside bubblegum or batteries' because it could have an adverse effect if not used properly. He said 'most parents' probably feel the same way."

My response:

Bubblegum and batteries can have an adverse effect if used improperly, too, President Obama. When I used to work with mentally ill populations of children I can remember a rash of attempted suicides where the kids would purchase - you guessed it - batteries and ingest them so that their stomach acids would break down the batteries and release the acid inside, killing them.

And since when is policy made based on an assumption that "most _________ probably feel that way?" The reason we have organizations like the FDA is so that policy will follow accepted guidelines of rigorous testing and examination of the implications of different actions. We don't make decisions based on how we THINK other people PROBABLY feel.

Yes, as a parent, the notion that Lola would need to sneak down to her local drugstore to buy an emergency contraceptive is terrifying. Because she is so young. But what about when she is sixteen? I hope against hope that both of my daughters will feel as though they can come to me if they are in any kind of trouble and I am working hard to create an atmosphere like that in our family. And I'm damn lucky. And so are Eve and Lola. Scores of girls don't have the luxury of a stable, supportive family. Some girls are neglected, abused, and even sexually exploited by their family members. So, please, Mr. President, don't use the emotionally evocative image of a 10-year old girl to justify your decision based on fear. Your daughters will grow up. And I hope that they feel comfortable coming to you and Michelle for support when they screw up, no matter what form that mistake takes. In the meantime, there are so many other girls for whom you are creating a hardship and a barrier to taking some control of their own lives, girls who are 13, 14, 15, and 16. Girls who we know, thanks to information professional organizations like the Guttmacher Institute, ARE HAVING SEX and are AT RISK FOR UNWANTED PREGNANCIES.

The Importance of Acknowledgement

2011-12-05T12:50:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, I re-realize things that send shock waves through my life. Generally this happens after a bit of struggle and strife and when the shining moment comes for the pertinent message to penetrate my thick skull, I am astonished. And then, the more I think about it, the less astonished I am at the actual notion and the more shocked I am that I forgot this lesson in the first place.

My most recent realization? Humans need their actions to feel meaningful in order for them to be motivated.

I know. Duh.

Author Dan Ariely puts it so well in his book The Upside of Irrationality: The Unexpected Benefits of Defying Logic at Work and at Home. He conducted experiments to determine whether people will continue to be motivated to complete tasks they knew were meaningless even if they were paid to do so. Not surprisingly, he discovered that the interest level falls off sharply when the work is disregarded or set aside without acknowledgement. Somewhat surprisingly, he noted that even the slightest form of acknowledgement (looking over the page of work and nodding your head before setting it aside) was enough to keep most people going for a long time despite the fact that they were paid the same amount as those whose work was not acknowledged.

I began thinking about the implications of this when it comes to my life. I know that when I had a job that made me feel as though I was making a difference in someone's life, I was not likely to grumble about it or drag my feet to get to work. I can't say that I am ever excited to get out of bed to the tune of an alarm clock before the sun rises, but I have always been much more likely to do so if I felt like the tasks ahead of me were important. (This may be why I hate packing school lunches so much. If the kids acknowledged the food as delicious and appreciated and I didn't see much of it come home and go into the trash, I might be happier making lunches every morning pre-dawn.)

When I quit my job to stay home with my kids I can honestly say that the monotony got to me. It is discouraging to change diapers again knowing that there will be more coming soon. The same tasks day after day, performed in the service of a non-verbal companion seemingly incapable of truly appreciating them didn't exactly feel meaningful.

Then I thought about the implications for my kids. The one year Eve went to the local public school, she came home with reams of papers to complete every week as homework. She quickly became discouraged despite the fact that her homework was always completed and turned in on time. Or maybe because of that. At some point her teacher learned to expect that from her and Eve was no longer acknowledged for being a student who was timely and efficient. At her first conference, the teacher verbalized her lack of concern for Eve by saying, "Oh, she's fine. I don't worry about her. She sits quietly in class and turns all of her homework in." That was nearly the extent of the entire conference. Eve felt meaningless. By December, she knew that the only way to get any attention at all from her teacher would be to misbehave. She couldn't intuit any sort of global meaning or ultimate pinnacle that all of the paperwork was leading up to (nor could I, for that matter), which led her to believe that it was all just busywork. Meaningless.

She checked out mentally and emotionally. She began pretending to be sick every day and begged me, in tears, not to make her go back to school. She was not being bullied or harassed. She was not performing poorly in school. She was somewhat bored, but more importantly, she was frustrated with the lack of meaning her days contained. I wonder how many kids feel that way. I wonder if we could find some way to help them understand the context of their school work and help them feel as though the assignments they are completing are important in some way, whether they would perform even better.

I also thought about the implications this lesson had for my relationships. How often do I let people know that they matter to me? I suspect not often enough. I suspect that there are times when Eve or Lola or Bubba would love some acknowledgement of their efforts. I know I would. When I was really struggling with depression several years ago, it was truly a crisis of confidence that I mattered. At my lowest point I truly believed that I was entirely replaceable. Bubba could hire a housekeeper and a nanny to take over my daily duties and nobody would miss me a whit. I know now that they would have missed me, but I still struggle from time to time wondering what value I bring to the world. Spending five years researching and writing a book that never gets published is a particularly effective way to become convinced that your work stands for nothing. Especially when so many of the other tasks I perform on a daily basis are "consumed," like the food I cook and the laundry and the housework. I know from experience that something as simple as a comment like, "Mom, great dinner tonight! Would you make this again?" can sustain me for days as I shop for groceries and do dishes.

As so many people find themselves out of work right now, I wonder if we wouldn't all do ourselves a big favor by finding ways to occupy ourselves that feel meaningful. Whether or not it brings in money, volunteering to help organizations in our communities or friends or family members can give us such a big boost in terms of our own self-worth that it may just elevate our spirits to the point where we catch the eye of a potential employer. Short of that, I think I will make a concerted effort to remind the people in my life how much their actions mean to me personally.

Social Media and Our Tween

2011-11-29T12:25:00.000-08:00

We have rules when it comes to technology. Unfortunately, sometimes just knowing that leads to a bit of complacency on our part (the parents, I mean). And other times, even those limits aren't enough to spare us some lessons.

Let me just say that we have two daughters, ages 9 and 12. We have one computer that lives in the kitchen where I spend most of my time, at least when the girls are home. There are parental controls on the computer, but they honestly aren't clever enough to let the girls use certain sites that are perfectly safe, so from time to time I let them use my logon so they can get around the really dorky restrictions. But only when I'm in the kitchen.

Both girls have their own iTouch devices with a free texting app. Lola, my 9 year old, doesn't have any other friends who have the ability to text, so she's pretty much out of luck but it doesn't seem to bother her. She'd rather play iPhyzzle or Angry Birds, anyway. Eve, the 12 year old, texts her friends all the time and knows that either Bubba or I will perform surprise spot-checks to read text messages on a whim. Neither of the girls is allowed to have their iTouch upstairs without express permission since we have wi-fi at home and these devices can let them surf the 'net. At night, the iTouches live in the "technology box" on the kitchen counter.

So, yeah, I feel fairly secure.
Until now.

Yesterday I had to run downtown to get the dog from the groomer. Both girls had just arrived home from school and Lola was changing for basketball practice. I decided to leave the girls at home to have a snack while I went out to get the dog - I would be gone for 20 minutes, maximum. The rules were this: no screen time (TV, computer, iTouch), no sweets. I was fairly certain that if either of those rules was violated, one of the girls would rat the other one out. As I was opening the garage door, Eve called out, "Mom, can I just check my email really quick? D was supposed to email me about the assignment we're working on."

I gave her permission to check her email. But only that. Again, Lola would take immense pleasure in throwing Eve under the bus if she strayed.

So imagine my surprise when, two hours later, Bubba calls and tells me that Eve has joined some social networking site. HUH? When? How?

It turns out that, while checking her email, Eve discovered a message from one of her school friends inviting her to join this group where they can all socialize. Seeing the email addresses of several other classmates, Eve clicks on the link to this site. She swears she didn't go so far as to sign up, but somehow as soon as she enters the site, her entire email contact list is snagged by this site and emails go out to everyone she knows, telling them she has just joined this site (Zorpia.com) and would they like to, too?

Bubba and I have some questions about whether or not Eve signed up for the site, but that's not the point. The point for us is that Eve didn't really understand the implications of what she was doing. Bubba sat with her and showed her around the site, pointing out the advertisements for "Find Hot Local Singles" and "Work from Home" scams. He explained that there are many of these kinds of sites around who use you for your email contact list and are not safe places for kids to build profiles.

Ultimately I am grateful that this happened, if only so that we could refine our guidelines for the girls.
First of all, if you go to a site that asks for your entire birthdate, month/day/year, that's a red flag.
If, upon determining that you are a minor, it doesn't tell you to get parental permission, that's a red flag. (The Terms of Service for this particular site says in teeny tiny letters that you have to be 16 to sign up, but even after Eve's birth year was entered, it didn't flag this or disable her account - hmmmm.)
If part of the registration process asks you what your sexual orientation is, that's a red flag.
If the site offers, as part of its main objectives, matches or dates or connections with people you don't already know, that's a red flag.
Before you join any site for any reason, check with Mom and Dad.

Thank goodness this site actually did SPAM all of Eve's contacts, or Bubba and I might not have discovered what was going on. It's questionable whether Eve would have actually had the opportunity to use this site anyway, given that the computer is in the kitchen, but I wonder how many of Eve's classmates have successfully created profiles on this site and opened themselves up to predators of all kinds.

Stuff and Nonsense (and a new book review)

2011-11-26T08:24:00.000-08:00

My latest book review (a fictional novel which is a departure for me) can be found here. It is a quick, fun read about book-banning in a small town in the South.

Other things going on here over the long holiday weekend include some angst (on my part, anyway) about this little guy. I'd tell you his name, but there is some dispute about it, given that he doesn't really belong to us. Or maybe he does. I'm not sure at this point.

The day before Halloween I was in the driveway cleaning out my car (a weekly necessity thanks to the carpool snack consumption that goes on inside) and I heard a pathetic maiow. I looked up to see this skinny black kitten watching me and slowly, tentatively making his way toward me. I managed to convince him to come to me and I scooped him up and brought him to the garage. I called all of the neighbors to see if he belonged to anyone and we decided to keep him around until at least after Halloween to keep him safe. By the time I heard from one neighbor who claimed him, it was November 1 and he had settled in quite nicely to our garage and back porch with several periods a day of snuggling inside on the laps of Bubba and the girls. We couldn't let him live inside because of our other cat, but he seemed perfectly happy to play and sleep outside and come cuddle a few times a day.

When I told our neighbor I'd bring him back home, she said, "Whatever. He lives outside, anyway. He'll come back on his own." This cat was not destined to live inside their house, in any case, so she figured he would just roam the neighborhood at will and roost at their place. We disrupted that, I'm afraid.

At this point, two days after Thanksgiving, I'm not sure they've seen him at all. We have settled in to this pattern of feeding him in the morning, snuggling with him often during the day, and feeding him again at night. Bubba generally claims him for an hour before bed, messing with his tail and ears and paws in a show of masculine affection.

I know, I know. We have stolen the cat. I have considered not feeding him but that feels mean. We have plopped him back inside the fence of the neighbors' yard and he promptly jumps on top of the posts and follows us back to our place. They won't let him inside their house, so there's no keeping him away (and we're not terribly motivated to, in any case). Lola has expressed some concern from time to time that we are doing the wrong thing and I understand her sentiment, but this little guy is so lovely I can't stand it. I have this squishy morality going on in my head that says he can go home anytime he wants - roaming the neighborhood until he gets there (they live next door) and, if they offered him any affection, he would choose to stay. I know we're tipping the balance by feeding him.

But wouldn't you?

Miss Representation and the Beauty of the Internet

2011-11-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

Newest Miss Representation Trailer (2011 Sundance Film Festival Official Selection) from Miss Representation on Vimeo.

A few weeks ago I saw that the OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network) was offering an encore presentation of the documentary "Miss Representation" and I set my DVR. I finally found a couple of hours the other day to watch the show and my emotions alternated between disgust, rage and sharp sadness. The film breaks down the role of modern media in perpetuating negative stereotypes of women and girls in a clear, concise way that is an absolute call-to-action.

I found myself cringing from time to time as I agreed with some of the people interviewed for this documentary (among them Katie Couric and Lisa Ling and others who are not household names but are doing really important work). Not because I didn't want to agree with them, but because I have always identified myself as a bleeding-heart liberal - one who believes in freedom of speech and expression. The atrociously misogynistic Go Daddy advertisements come to mind. I can't stand them and the way that women are portrayed, but I have always respected their right to exist. I can't say I still feel that way after watching this film.

As they began to detail the ways in which female leaders are judged in the media (Hilary Clinton was not "assertive" or "certain of her convictions," she was a "harpy" and a "bitch;" Sarah Palin was not judged on her knowledge of issues - or relative lack thereof - but on the way her skirt highlighted her ass and whether or not she had gotten breast implants) I began to laud the physical anonymity of the Internet for helping women's voices and opinions be heard without this kind of scrutiny. Organizations like Moms Rising and Emily's List can amass the voices of many women and present convincing arguments - or at the very least, convincing power - without having to dodge the conversations about whether their leader is a dyke or a man-hater. Let's be honest, anytime a strong female role model has come out to challenge the status quo, regardless of her message, she is instantly judged by her physical attributes. If she doesn't look like one of the original Charlie's Angels, she is instantly pronounced a lesbian and that somehow is supposed to mean that when she opens her mouth, we hear the voice of the parents on every Charlie Brown special, "Wah wah, wah wah, wah wah." If she does look like a pinup, she is carefully examined for any trace of plastic surgery or asked about her exercise regime or diet, as if those things trump the message she is trying to convey. The internet eases some of the pressure in that way. The more women can clearly articulate their positions in writing and band together as groups to support a common cause, the less power the media has to derail their momentum by commenting on her boobs or her fashion sense.

While I still feel that it is important for us to address the way women and girls are treated in the media, I am relieved that there seems to be one place where our words speak louder than our looks. Now, go out there and use it to the best of your ability, folks!

And if you haven't yet seen "Miss Representation," please go see it. Whether you're single or married, have daughters or sons, are female or male, it is an eye-opening documentary that features the voices of men and women alike. Go here to find a showing in your neighborhood.

Holiday Musings

2011-11-21T11:25:00.000-08:00

I officially broke the seal on Christmas last Friday and purchased the first holiday gift of the season. I didn't really mean to, but this particular item struck me as something Bubba and the girls would get a huge kick out of. So I got it and brought it home. It is sitting in my underwear drawer, buried beneath a pile of boot socks and in order to diminish the paranoia that someone will find it, I suppose later today I'll go dig out the wrapping paper and ribbons and Christmas labels and camouflage it for real.

And once the holiday wrap is out, it's all over. I will begin accumulating gifts and wrapping them as they show up on my doorstep (I do 99% of my gift-buying online - I hate shopping except for groceries and love that I can click a few buttons and have things show up on the porch for days afterward).

I have favorite sites for books, weird stocking stuffers, and lovely gifts for friends. Before kids, I loved to browse through craft stores and small, independent clothing or book stores, selecting just the right gift for everyone on my list. Inevitably, I would over-purchase, forgetting that I had Gift A at home in the closet for Susan and buy Gift B for her because it struck me as the perfect thing. As our family grew, both with our children and our siblings' children, Bubba and I realized that the expense was getting out of control. Not to mention the fact that our kids (and everyone else's) had one of everything and didn't need a dang thing.

A few years ago, we agreed (through much angst and negotiation) to draw names for the adults in the family on both sides and just buy for the children. In doing so, I also made my plea for minimal gifts for the kids. A science kit or craft kit, perhaps. Maybe one article of clothing and a nice book instead of an entire outfit and a series of books. Outings are nice - tickets to a play or an IOU for a pedicure with Grandma don't clutter up the closet and are fun to look forward to. I was cast as the Grinch in some instances.

It's not that I don't want my kids to have a lovely holiday. It's that I don't think they need stuff to make it lovely. And I know that Bubba's parents and mine waited a long time for grandchildren and they see it as their Universe-given right to spoil them, but I think we're sending the wrong message. Here we are three days before Thanksgiving and instead of seeing messages about gratitude and communities coming together, the media is trumpeting Black Friday Sales and economic forecasts for the holiday season. I love giving gifts as much as the next person, but I seem to be the one in the family who keeps trying to come up with ways to minimize the consumerism every year.

Eve had to do a project for school this week that highlighted a cultural difference between a South American country and the U.S. She chose to interview a family friend from Argentina about the way they celebrate holidays. In the beginning, it was fun to think about the fact that Christmas happens in the middle of summer for them and she had to remind herself that Argentineans have no reason to celebrate Thanksgiving. As the interview went on, however, it became clear that the differences run deeper than that. Leandro spoke about the importance of family gatherings on Christmas, New Year's and Easter and the way that they are centered around togetherness and food. Yes, the Easter Bunny has made it's way to South America, but thus far, he plays a fairly minimal part in their celebration of the holiday itself. It reminded me of my childhood Christmases as we traveled to Southern California to be with my mother's family. My mom's parents and her four siblings lived in Santa Barbara and there were four cousins for the four of us kids to play with. I don't honestly remember how they managed gift-giving. I do recall my mom sewing matching dresses for the girl cousins one year, but other than that, I have no clue whether she and her siblings exchanged gifts or not. For me, the memories revolve around going to the beach and playing hide-and-seek in my Aunt Barb's huge house. The gifts were those moments spent with my cousins.

So while Bubba and I continue to seek out ways to connect with our families over the upcoming holidays, I struggle to find ways to divert my girls' attention from the fanfare of gift-giving (or, to be honest, gift-getting) in favor of those spontaneous moments that are generally more rewarding in the long run. I'm not sure what they are yet, but here's hoping we can continue to emphasize the less tangible aspects of the holiday.

Planet Explorer Book Reviews

2011-11-15T16:48:00.001-08:00

I recently began reviewing books for BookPleasures and my second assignment was this series of travel guidebooks geared toward children. The author has written several and I offered to review the ones she wrote for Chicago, New York City, and Walt Disney World. The reviews are below and, while the books are suggested for 8-12 year olds, I would say that I think anyone with kids over the age of four or five could find a vast array of vital information in these books. Here goes:

Planet Explorers Walt Disney World: A Guidebook for Kids

If you are planning a trip to Walt Disney World, this is the perfect companion for your travels. The sheer size of this massive amusement park can make it overwhelming to navigate, but Laura Schaefer’s guidebook breaks it down in a fun, easy-to-read style.

The park is organized in to different areas in this book, each with its own list of restaurants, rides and attractions. Schaefer offers a wealth of good information about each ride, having devised a way to catalog them for kids of all ages (S=scary, D=dark, A=awesome, T=thrilling, W=wet). She also posts height restrictions so you can skip the ones your kids are too small to ride without much drama.

Each section also highlights fun facts like when certain attractions were built or if there are renovations or new rides being planned. There are tips on when to go do certain things or how to find characters roaming around the park.

The illustrations and photos, maps and fun facts are a fantastic complement to the vast amount of information packed in to this book. Most of the sections contain hyperlinks to things they might want to know more about like Bill Nye the Science Guy or the Samurai swords.

This book is a great way to help plan your trip through the park and come to an appreciation of the work that goes in to maintaining a place like Walt Disney World.

Links to the other two reviews are here for NYC and here for Chicago. The books all follow a similar format, so the reviews are quite similar as well. That being said, if you are planning a family vacation anytime soon, Laura has written Planet Explorer books for Disneyland, Disney cruises and Philadelphia as well as the three I reviewed. Do yourself a favor and find one that fits your travel needs.

My Anti-Multitasking Experiment

2011-11-11T09:47:00.000-08:00

Thank goodness for AJ Jacobs. This is a man who knows how to write for attention-defunct brains. His chapters are short and concise and sprinkled throughout with humor (to keep my monkey mind on task), and I can sit down to read one and complete it in a relatively short time, limiting the amount of interruptions, both external ("Mom! I need my jeans!") and internal (I probably ought to throw that load of laundry in pretty soon.)

He does all of this, in many cases backed up by research that he explains in a simple, digestible way.

When I was reading My Life as an Experiment on my recent vacation, I was struck by one chapter in particular where Jacobs spends thirty days avoiding multitasking. Like most of us in Western societies with access to a multitude of technological toys and the perception that we need to be PRODUCTIVE above all else, he noticed that he had become increasingly unable to do anything with his full attention. I could give you examples, but I suspect many of you are lowering your heads right now under the weight of your own realizations. He did some digging and discovered that there is more than one research study showing that multitasking is, in all reality, much less efficient and more time consuming than simply doing one thing at a time. It also tends to split our attention to the point where we don't produce quality work like we would if we were single-minded. Over time, multitasking erodes our cognitive abilities to the point where our attention spans become pathetic little fleas, jumping from one side of the dog's rump to the other to find a tasty meal. Yikes!

I thoroughly enjoyed the chapter describing Jacobs' attempts to eliminate multitasking in his own life and decided to try it on my own. Disclaimer: I decided this while on vacation - away from home without the normal tasks of cooking meals, keeping house, driving kids to and from school and other activities, etc. I suspect it wouldn't have seemed nearly as possible an undertaking if I hadn't been lying near the pool in the sunshine when I decided this...

Upon arriving home, I began. For ten days I resisted efforts to empty the dishwasher while making my latte, check Facebook or email while writing a blog post or a book review, help Lola rehearse her lines for an upcoming play while folding laundry and watching the Oregon Ducks play football. It was hard. Really hard.

But I learned some valuable things.

1. When I multitask, I often start 57 things and only ever finish about 20 of them in a day. I have this frantic perception that if I don't at least start something RIGHT NOW that I'll forget I wanted to do it and it will be lost to the ether. When I explore that notion, I realize that if I forget I wanted to do it, it probably wasn't all that valuable a task in the first place and, it doesn't much matter that I started it if I don't ever finish the damn thing.

2. The more balls I have in the air, the more I have to worry about one dropping. It turns out that only doing one thing at a time is really calming. When I'm writing a book review and force myself to trust that All of Those Other Tasks Who Shall Not Be Named will wait, some part of my brain is given permission to shut down and rest for a bit. And that book review or blog post or letter to a teacher gets written much more quickly.

3. When I practice not multitasking with people (typing an email while I'm on the phone with my mother, playing a board game with Lola while helping Eve with homework, etc), they feel good. I can honestly say that, while it was terrifically challenging, using this tactic with Eve on her most recent homework project contributed to our ultimate success in completing it.

It occurred to me yesterday that multitasking is overkill. When I think about it, our bodies are already working really hard on several fronts simultaneously - pumping blood, creating white blood cells to knock off that cold virus we picked up from our kids, taking in visual information and processing it, moving our bodies through space, breathing, the list goes on... To ask them to do more than that is cruel and unusual punishment.

My single-mindedness has fallen off a bit of late. Old habits die hard, I guess, and Bubba has been out of town a lot lately. But when I recall the feeling of utter calm that came over me when I asked myself to do only one thing at a time, I am motivated to continue striving to get better at it.

6th Grade Homework = Migraine + Connection

2011-11-06T20:09:00.000-08:00

As I sit here writing this, I have a splitting headache that has so far not responded to twice the recommended dose of Advil and I am sporting a grin a mile wide. Yes, you read that right.

I am sporting a grin a mile wide after a Sunday night marathon homework session with Eve. No, she didn't save all of it for the last minute - just the most complex stuff. And normally, despite the fact that the subject was Science and that is generally my forte, I would have asked Bubba to step in for me, but he is out of town for the next few days, so I was it. Whether we liked it or not.

Eve and I have always had a bit of difficulty doing homework together. I generally chalk it up to the fact that we are two peas in a pod. Twins separated by three decades. Ex-act-ly a-like. Eve starts out with a chip on her shoulder if she is forced to ask me for help with anything. She is fiercely independent, a perfectionist, a control freak and stubborn. She quickly gets defensive and degenerates into high-pitched squeals of indignance if I don't understand precisely what she needs from me on the first explanation. God forbid I ask to see the directions or her notes from class. Bubba? He can joke with her, sit for hours and puzzle over something, or just tell her to suck it up and dig in and she smiles sweetly and follows his lead. It used to drive me nuts. Until I remembered how I felt about my mother when I was Eve's age. Until I read The Four Agreements and learned how to not take it personally.

So Eve and I, we are a bit gunshy about doing homework together. But tonight there was no choice. Bubba was away and this assignment is due tomorrow morning. I would be lying if I said I wasn't worried. But I swore not to let it show.

As Eve began explaining the assignment to me, my inner self let out a colossal groan. She was supposed to draw 3-dimensional schematics for an invention she would craft using pulleys, gears or levers.

Permit me to digress for a moment. There are a few things that I absolutely cannot do. Things I used to struggle with but eventually came to terms with the fact that I am incapable of doing. Things I have "traded" in my own mind for other things that I am oddly accomplished at. Fortunately, I have managed to structure my life in order that I don't have to do any of these things. They are (in no particular order):

1. Tying a knot in a balloon. I don't care what you say - you cannot teach me to do it. Been there, tried that, can't do it. Won't even try anymore. Not important.

2. Iron an oxford style shirt. You know, with the collar and buttons and plackets and all that. Again, no interest. Tried a million times.

3. Visualize things in three dimensions in my mind. Nope, can't do it. Took Organic Chemistry in college and had to purchase a set of Tinker Toys in order to put the molecules together and draw them on paper. My brain simply will not wrap around imagining things in 3-D when they are described to me or rendered in 2-D on paper. I can't manage it. At some point my brain simply shuts down during the process of trying.

And now here, I had to help Eve visualize her invention in 3-D and draw it to scale in each of its different perspectives so that her teacher could fully understand it and so that Eve can build it out of foam core according to those drawings.

Hold.

The.

Phone.

I will confess that at one point I had to go get a toilet paper roll and some ribbon to use as props so I could "see" it.

I will also say that about 20 minutes in, Eve was flat on the floor in my closet sobbing and squealing like a pregnant potbellied pig, certain that we couldn't do this.

Normally this is the point where I call Bubba in.

Instead, I dug deep, stayed calm and came at it from another angle.

Somehow, I managed to get her back on track and she responded.

Somehow, when we thought we were done and checked the assignment sheet only to discover that we needed two more drawings, of the individual components to scale, I was able to remind her of how far we had come and help her see that the finish line wasn't that far off.

Somehow, I found myself having fun.

As I played cheerleader from across the kitchen where I was putting dinner together and reminding Lola to tuck her completed homework away in her backpack, I suddenly realized I was enjoying this. Far from feeling frantic and unmoored, I was the picture of calm, pureeing ingredients for soup in the food processor while reminding Eve of the scale and fixing her compass when the lead fell out. No yelling. No reprimands. No whining about "too much homework" or "this is too hard." We were working it out. We had managed to get past the defensiveness and blaming, the intractable positions in our opposite corners, and get it done.

At one point it seemed that all was lost. There was one more component of the project that seemed insurmountable at dinnertime on a Sunday night. And then it happened. I thought outside the box. I lived up to the nickname some of my former co-workers gave me one day: "Queen of the Workaround." Not cheating. Not even a shortcut. But a way to stick our tongues out at that brick wall, turn on our heels and walk right around the damn thing without even breaking a sweat.

As Eve finished packing her now completed homework away I told her how proud I was that she stuck it out and finished. She walked over to me, wrapped her arms around me and gave me the most genuine hug I've had from her since she was a toddler. Resting her head on my heart, she snuggled in tight and murmured, "I love you. Thank you, Mom."

So, yeah. I'm grinning like a fool. Headache and all.

It's Your Words That Matter (Stupid!)

2011-11-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

As I puttered around the house doing laundry and tidying the kitchen and fluffing pillows yesterday morning, my local NPR station was on in the background. The host was interviewing Barry McCaffrey of Clinton-era war-on-drugs fame and I found myself intrigued. I recall him taking a very different tack from the Nancy Reagan "just say no" campaign, but couldn't really remember many of the specifics, so my ears perked up and I slowed my tasks down in order to pay closer attention.

It is easy to pay attention to General McCaffrey, given that he is a career military man and speaks with 100% authority. He has very strong opinions on seemingly every subject in the Universe and speaks about them with no equivocation whatsoever. When callers or the host disagreed with him, he was not condescending, but so sure of himself that I wonder if he often causes others to question their own rationale. I found myself agreeing with him on a few issues and disagreeing about others, but glad I wasn't in the room with him admitting my dissent.

Until he began talking about the drug policy his task force crafted for the Office of National Drug Control Policy during his time in the Clinton White House. It started innocently enough, with him advocating for developmentally appropriate approaches to drug resistance education. Okay, fair enough. I can see the logic in that.

Saying, "You don't tell a 17-year old who is smoking a joint that they will get lung cancer or throat cancer. They don't care about that. You say, 'Hey, Stupid! You're going to get pregnant or drop out of school and never get a job!"

Huh.

Really?

How is calling someone "Stupid" a way to change behavior?

How is belittling someone and trying to frighten them a way to motivate or encourage?

How is making someone think you see them as an idiot going to help you understand them?

As a former teenager who smoked a lot of pot (thank goodness my kids don't read this blog), I can tell you that by the time I had made the decision to engage in this behavior, I had already written myself off. I didn't need anyone else to. The reasons I used drugs were several:

1. There was a community of other potheads who accepted me into their group.

2. On some level I felt invincible (common among teenagers, and doesn't bode well for Gen. McCaffrey's fear tactics. I was sure I wasn't the one who would get pregnant or get caught smoking pot).

3. I was trying to escape some of the difficult realities in my life.

4. I felt somewhat hopeless about my life.

Luckily, stronger drugs weren't really available to me at that time. Couple that with the fact that I was a control freak and I had some pretty strong notions of which lines I wouldn't cross, which is why I never drank alcohol.

Also luckily, I had a few supportive adults in my life who may or may not have known I was smoking pot, but who believed in my ability to live my dreams. They encouraged me to get to college which afforded me a different way to escape the difficulties in my current situation. I saw that as a clean break and a way to reinvent myself somewhat and I was able to separate myself from the drug culture I had immersed myself in.

I certainly hope that General McCaffrey's drug policy is not standard operating procedure in most of the schools around the nation. I believe that the only way to really change the way we treat illegal drugs and alcohol is by understanding the reasons people turn to them in the first place and supporting them as they learn to deal honestly with the challenges in their lives. I understand that game plan isn't nearly as clearcut as a military man might like, but I am certain that berating and belittling and attempting to scare people is not the way to go.

Vacationing is Hard Work

2011-10-29T12:10:00.001-07:00

When our children were toddlers, I had a girlfriend describe vacationing with children as “parenting in a different place.” She was right. If you’ve gone on a trip with your partner before having children, you know that taking children, especially babies or toddlers, out of town, is not nearly as relaxing as it could be. The endless accommodations you have to anticipate for diapers or food or public tantrums are, quite simply, exhausting. Corralling your children in a familiar place like home is much easier.

- Let me be the first to say how grateful I am that my girls are eleven and nine.
- Let me be the first to say how grateful I am that we insisted on swimming lessons (and they took to them like guppies) when they were toddlers.
- Let me be the first to say that there is nothing like traveling with your in-laws to a lovely tropical location to inspire such gratitude as you watch them manage twin 2-year-olds who want to go in two different directions, both of them potentially dangerous. (All this after you’ve given your kids some cash and told them to stay within shouting distance of the pool or the shave ice stand.)

It turns out that the most difficult thing I had to manage on my recent vacation was myself.

Day 1-3: Guilt. Despite the fact that my girls were both blissfully flitting from pool to beach to cousins to snack shack and back, requiring little if any interaction from me, I found myself often sitting in a chair on the beach beating myself up mentally. “I ought to be swimming with them.” “I ought to be taking a romantic walk down the beach with Bubba.” “I probably look really lazy sitting here in the sun while my sister-in-law struggles with the twins. I should go help her.” “Some exercise would be good. I ought to go for a run or swim some laps.” I could go on, but I suspect you’ve got the message by now.

I wasn’t getting dirty looks or pleas for attention. Cash, yes. Attention, not so much. The simple fact is, the girls were having a ball with their cousins (five of them accompanied us on the trip), and Bubba was fully immersed in vacation-mode, doing what he loves best (boogie-boarding with the girls, staring at the ocean, and having a martini with his father by the pool). And yet I couldn’t turn off the part of my mind that was certain there were more important things I could be doing.

Day 4-10: Occasional guilt. But mostly, since I continually worked on reminding myself that I work really hard at home and THIS IS MY VACATION, TOO, I was able to stop and give myself permission to be lazy relax. See? I can’t even bring myself to call it lazy. I guess that word is too thick with negative connotation for me to be comfortable with.

I won’t say that I didn’t continue to struggle with that constant questioning voice asking “what should you be doing?” At some point I was reminded that someone once told me no matter how far you run, you are still stuck with yourself. So while vacationing with my kids is now a lot easier, one thing that will never change is that going away in any circumstances is “being with myself in a different place.” It was a stark reminder that working on self-acceptance is still the most important work I have to do – no matter where I am.

Book Reviews are Back!

2011-10-23T17:44:00.000-07:00

I recently joined Book Pleasures as a reviewer and my first assignment was a long but rewarding book. I've posted the review in its entirety here, but I highly recommend you pop over to their site for any other book reviews you might wish to see. Their reviewers represent all different genres and the list of books there is staggering.

Book Review
Victory Deferred: How AIDS Changed Gay Life in America
By John-Manuel Andriote
ISBN: 978-1-61364-678-6
University of Chicago Press

In this revised and updated version of his comprehensive book, the author takes a look at the AIDS epidemic in America from its explosive beginnings to present day. He traces the strange origins of what was first known as the “gay cancer” and, through exhaustive interviews and vast amounts of research, paints an extraordinary picture of the way gay culture was significantly altered because of it.

Andriote, himself a gay man who was present as AIDS made itself known, spreading like wildfire through the gay communities in cities like San Francisco and New York, has a unique perspective on what life was like for gay men before and after the epidemic hit. He watched as this population, actively discriminated against and almost completely disenfranchised, came together as a cohesive unit to address the issues that AIDS presented for them. The book is a fascinating history of the movement almost entirely started by the gay community to demand recognition and respect in the face of this deadly disease. It traces the roots of the comprehensive in-home care systems (known as the “San Francisco model”) that ensured that those afflicted with AIDS could receive effective, appropriate care based on their individual needs. Far from treating AIDS as a solely medical issue, the gay community quickly recognized the need for housing, food, and counseling as well as medical treatment.

The author looks at the drive for acceptance and acknowledgment by gay men and women and the monumental barriers put in their way by the political and cultural establishments of the 1980s and beyond. The reader quickly begins to understand how incredibly hard it is to navigate a bureaucracy like the United States government when you are part of a group so hated and stigmatized. Nonetheless, the early efforts of those determined to fight for funding and research and treatment for AIDS were tireless and passionate and served to change the gay community itself from a set of disparate individuals not prone to sharing struggles or finding commonality amongst themselves into a unified, organized force for change.

The book itself follows some of the most dynamic individuals in this struggle up to present day as well as the course of AIDS policy throughout the years and changes in political leadership in the US. The path taken by many of the organizations created in response to the AIDS crisis is a primer for any other service organization, as the author does a thorough job of exploring, through the lens of history, some of the mistakes and missteps as well as acknowledging the triumphs and lessons learned by these grassroots efforts.

Victory Deferred is a testament to the passion and spirit of the gay community when faced with a catastrophe within their ranks. He shows that the fight is far from over and, indeed, has gone a bit off-course in the last two decades, but his even-handed and painstakingly complete account of this crisis serves to enlighten and educate the reader to a degree I would not have thought possible.

If you're interested in buying this book click here.

Review by Kari O’Driscoll for BookPleasures.com

BlogHer's "Life Well-Lived" Series

2011-10-18T18:16:00.000-07:00

What do you do to get your day going on an upbeat, positive note?

That was the question posed to me as a blogger featured on BlogHer. I signed up to answer questions as part of a series exploring how women can live better lives. Not change themselves or their life circumstances, but live in the lives they already have in a happier, more grounded way.

I will admit, when the question appeared in my inbox, my first thought was, "What makes them think I start my day on an upbeat, positive note?"

Joking aside, however, I do actually strive to ground myself before my eyes even open for the day by shoving aside the conveyor-belt to-do list that wants to muscle its way to forefront of my brain and imagining the day stretching out before me in the most positive way possible.

Upon hitting the kitchen (the nerve-center of our household), my routine is set and everyone in the house knows it. Other than letting the dog out to empty his bladder, the first needs that are met are mine. Over the years, I have discovered that using the espresso machine to make my latte is a ritual that is as soothing to complete as the final product is - my own "Japanese tea ceremony," if you will. The familiar process of priming the machine and steaming the milk until it makes just the right squeal somehow centers me. I never use a thermometer to check the temperature - on my machine I know the precise pitch of perfectly hot milk. I never get tired of watching the thick, dark espresso run into the shot glass, swirling as the foam rises to the top. I head to the kitchen table and gaze out at the fountain burbling away in the backyard. Many mornings, there is a chickadee or blue jay drinking or bathing in the fountain and this quick re-connection with nature, coupled with the warmth of my drink and a few moments to myself set the tone for my day.

What are your rituals for starting your day? Pop over to BlogHer's Life Well Lived site to add your two cents and read others' tips for starting your day off happy. You can also enter to win a $250.00 Visa gift card if you share your ideas.

Not the Post I Wanted to Write

2011-10-13T20:50:00.000-07:00

I had planned another blog post for today - one I've been ruminating about for the last couple of days. Often, ideas for posts come to me as I walk or read or find quiet moments throughout my day, and this one was no exception. But I was derailed by the issue that has screamed its way in to my email inbox and plastered itself across my Facebook page every day this week - HR 358.

[H.R.358 would allow hospitals to refuse to provide a woman emergency, lifesaving abortion care, even if she will die without it.]

Anyone who reads my blog can easily peg me as someone who ardently supports a woman's right to make her own health care decisions - proudly "pro-choice." And despite having grown up with that right in place (I won't say firmly), I have never considered myself as someone who takes abortion rights for granted. That said, I didn't truly believe it was possible for the House of Representatives to pass this bill today. I live in an area where my state representative shares my conviction on this issue, relieving me from any email efforts to remind him where I stand. He voted against the bill just like I knew he would. But that didn't mitigate my complete and utter shock at the news that the bill passed anyway.

I'm not sure what I find more perplexing about this.

1. That politicians would presume to tell physicians - professionals who have undergone years of specialized training in healthcare issues - how to do their jobs. Physicians do take an oath to "first do no harm" upon passing the bar and beginning their practice. It seems to me that letting a woman die when there is a life-saving procedure available to her violates that oath. Egregiously.

2. That despite the much more pressing issues facing our country (recession, wars, a broken healthcare system), and the certain knowledge that should this bill find its way on to President Obama's desk, he will veto it, they insisted on spending time and energy and money putting it to a vote. For what? To send a message? Believe me, the public is clear about Boehner's intentions to end legalized abortion in the United States. We don't need the message in any other terms. We get it. This is the seventh time a bill attempting to restrict abortions in the U.S. has been up for a vote this year.

I must say, I'm past being disgusted and fully immersed in confusion at this point. Are politicians so completely out of touch with what is going on in the country that they think this is pressing work? Have they become such automatons in their belief that it is important for them to wield their power to make laws and push specific agendas that they have lost the ability to be flexible and respond to what the people of our country are dealing with on a daily basis?

Get Lost!

2011-10-07T10:20:00.000-07:00

I like maps. And my GPS. Even when I think I know where I'm going, I like to plug the address in to my iPhone and get directions as a back up.

When we were in Tuscany with the girls in 2004, I found the Italian approach to road maps a tad frustrating, to say the least. Not only do they seem to lack accuracy in scale, they don't note the toll plazas and when you're faced with the prospect of changing lanes to exit when you don't have any change and there are locals whizzing by you at 125 mph, it often seems easier to just stay on the motorway. Except that the next opportunity to get off might be miles and miles down the road. And it is probably getting dark. And the two- and four-year-olds in the back seat are most likely getting hungry.

I decided that the Italians, who truly enjoy their hours-long lunches, complete with wine, might be better off outsourcing their mapping jobs to the Germans. They were the only ones who seemed more perturbed about the lack of accuracy than I was.

So I like to know where I'm going. And how long it will take me to get there. And I hate being late. So sue me. I get that it's a control thing. And I'm working on that - the being comfortable not being in control part, I mean. But I still need a knock on the head every once in a while.

Cue David Whyte and his amazing book, "The Three Marriages." I have written about it before, but I am reading the book again, having decided that I would get more out of it if I read it with some friends. So we have a mini-book-club thing going and I am much more mindful and deliberate about reading it this time and am able to go another layer deeper in to the subject matter.

It came as no surprise to me that, after a day of pinging around the house, lost to purpose and wondering when I might get some inkling of energy back to begin to engage in writing and creating, I read these words:

"Eventually we realize that not knowing what to do is just as real and just as useful as knowing what to do. Not knowing stops us from taking false directions. Not knowing what to do, we start to pay real attention. Just as people lost in the wilderness, on a cliff face or in a blizzard pay attention with a kind of acuity they would not have if they thought they knew where they were. Why? Because for those who are really lost, their life depends on paying real attention. If you think you know where you are, you stop looking."

It was the last line that really stopped me in my tracks. If you think you know where you are, you stop looking.

And sometimes, when I am desperately seeking a path TO somewhere (home, the dentist, Eve's friend's house), my vision hones in so tightly as I look for clues that I fail to notice the breadth of the world around me. I am so focused on the end point, the goal, and what I imagine it to look like, that I might drive right past it because it doesn't seem to fit my expectations.

In the case of my writing goals, I am reminded that it is more fruitful to pay attention to where I am right now and simply take the next step than it might be to fantasize about what the final product will look like or how it will be received. I may well discover an entirely new path that contains delightful surprises or challenges me beyond what I thought I could do or leads me on the journey of a lifetime.

I need to get lost more often so that I can pay more attention.

You Make a Mess...

2011-10-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

you clean it up. That's the rule in our house. It's the rule at Eve and Lola's school, and the rule at most workplaces I know. You dirty up some dishes in the lunchroom? Wash them, dry them and put them away. No reason anyone else ought to be doing your dishes. It's a respect thing.

I get that sometimes accidents happen. I've seen Lola trying to maneuver a container of yogurt out of the fridge from behind that enormous jar of pickles, only to bump the jar and have the pickles and pickle juice cascade all down the front of the refrigerator shelves and onto the floor. What generally happens in that instance is that someone comes to help her clean it up. But nobody does it for her.

More importantly, though, when it is a purposeful activity that leads to a mess - say Eve's got a hankering to bake cookies on a rainy Sunday afternoon - she's responsible for cleaning it up. If she needs help she can always ask.

If Lola gets aggravated at her sister for calling her a name or treating her disrespectfully and decides to dump her entire load of clean, folded laundry over the railing onto the hardwood floor below it is Lola's job to pick up the clothes, refold them and put the basket back in front of Eve's door.

Why is it that we hold ourselves to a higher standard than we hold our world leaders? It's a basic premise: You make a mess, you clean it up.

Last Thursday I was listening to NPR as they featured an interview with the man responsible for starting and maintaining the landmine museum in Afghanistan. Seems like an odd theme for a museum, I know, but his purpose is to bring awareness to the enormity of the problem with landmines in this war-fatigued country. I was astonished to learn that there are an estimated TEN MILLION LAND MINES IN AFGHANISTAN. Yes, you read that correctly. And I looked it up again to make sure I heard it correctly.

A huge majority of these mines are left over from the war between the former USSR and Afghanistan. You know, the one that ended in 1988. The mine of choice for this particular ten-year war is very benignly known as a "butterfly" mine. Turns out they actually look like butterflies and were designed this way so that they could be dropped via air and gently flutter to the ground without exploding. They only explode on contact with an animal or human being. Now, can you think of a human being that might be intrigued by a hand-sized object that resembles a butterfly? A child, perhaps? And can you imagine how many children have lost limbs and eyes and THEIR LIVES by picking up these land mines that have been in Afghanistan for the last 30 years or so?

Land mines litter the landscape of Afghanistan. They are on the land that is used to graze animals, paths to and from towns, and on school property. The incidence of land mines in Afghanistan has resulted in the depopulation of entire swaths of the country because people are unwilling to take the chance that they might come across one in their daily lives. And yet, the proprietor of this land mine museum still encounters children who actively seek out these mines in order to gather the scrap metal to make a little money for their families. Because their families have lost livestock to mines or they have been forced to give up growing crops that could sustain them because their land is too dangerous to work.

Ignoring the larger question of whether or not it is even morally defensible to use land mines as an offensive tactic, when a war is over, I think it is not unreasonable to expect the country that placed them to go in and clean up the land mines. Finding and disarming these deadly weapons is expensive and time consuming, but I think if you're willing to use them to target civilians (and don't tell me that this isn't what the the USSR and the Taliban were/are doing by placing mines in these particular areas), you ought to be willing to go pick up your mess when you've made your point. The fact that you can declare that a war is over and walk away knowing that generations of innocent civilians continue to be placed in harm's way as a direct result of your actions during wartime seems a little too easy.

It would seem to me that the countries who use land mines as a way to wage war ought to know in advance that they will be held responsible for all of the fallout from that decision. Not all is fair in war, and I believe that leaving a country riddled with land mines constitutes a war crime.

Curriculum Night

2011-09-28T08:06:00.000-07:00

... at Eve's middle school. Those words are enough to strike fear (or frustration or boredom or eye-rolling) into most adults I know. One friend, confiding to me that she wasn't going to her daughter's Curriculum Night, explained that it is essentially an open house where the parents travel from room to room, following the path that their child takes during the day. Not much time for in-depth conversations with teachers or parents of other students. Not all that illuminating.

So why did I bend over backwards to go? Because Eve's school is different than any other school I've ever encountered. For examples of how, you can read this which has two other examples embedded within it. Suffice it to say that I LOVE THIS SCHOOL. So I was interested in what this year would look like for Eve and I moved Heaven and Earth to make sure I could get there.

And while I fully expected a happy ending, I still managed to be surprised at the depth of the presentation. Eve's 6th grade team has got it together! They have designed a curriculum that is integrated across all subjects (yes, music, art, physical education, math, humanities and science included) and speaks to the developmental phase that these girls are in right now. They have taken into account the brain research that shows how 11 and 12 year old girls' brains work, what they are interested in (themselves, mostly), and how best to engage them in the learning process. Each of these instructors stood up and talked about how excited they are about what they are charged with teaching to the girls this year and how important it is that each and every one of the students feels connected and supported and empowered within this community.

Now I understand that cynics' eyes are rolling at this point. Rhetoric. I'll believe it when I see it. But let me tell you that I do believe it. Because I've seen it. Last Thursday, the entire class embarked on a camping trip that was designed for team building. The girls did a ROPES course, rock climbed, and challenged each other and themselves physically, emotionally and mentally, sharing information about their hopes and fears for this school year. Last year, the 5th graders in Eve's class did similar exercises and came together so solidly as a group that when spring basketball signups rolled around, despite the fact that only two of the girls in the class had ever played basketball before, nearly the entire class went out for the team. Despite the fact that they looked more like the Harlem Globetrotters after a couple of bottles of tequila out there on the court, nobody worried about looking silly. They were simply a group of girls having fun playing together. As. A. Team. Let me repeat that: 5th-grade girls not worried about other girls making fun of them for looking silly. Because they trusted each other.

This school year is designed to be all about the girls. Because they are all about themselves right now. The first third of the year is spent exploring how they got to this point. In Art, they are looking at aboriginal art, basic techniques and building blocks. The Humanities teacher has them reading the book "Nation" by Terry Pratchett in an effort to get them to understand society-building. The Music teacher is exploring rhythm and the Science teacher has them building simple machines out of Lego blocks. The Math teacher is making sure everyone has basic skills in mathematical operations and the PE teacher is helping them tell their own stories, physically and verbally. How did I get here? To this point?

The second third of the year asks "Who am I?" Again, each teacher has his or her own way of exploring that question with the girls. For example, the girls will be sketching self-portraits in Art and breaking down the human body into operational systems (digestion, circulation, etc.) in Science.

The last portion of their studies focuses on development. Where are we going from here? They will all work together toward the end of the year for their final culmination ceremony which is a three day bike ride and camping trip on a nearby island. They will push themselves farther emotionally and physically than they ever thought they could, all while using simple machines (bicycles), examining this tribe they have created over the past nine months, and feeling supported.

I caught up with one new parent on our way out last night and she turned to me and exclaimed, "The teachers are all so dynamic! So different from my middle school experience. I wish I could go back to school like this!" I couldn't agree more. I wish every child had the opportunity to be a part of an educational experience like this. I love that Eve's school supports a diverse array of families through scholarships and opens up to kids who wouldn't otherwise get this opportunity, but it still isn't enough. Until we as a society begin demanding this kind of thoughtful, deliberate approach to education, involving the teachers in curriculum creation that excites them and empowers them and giving them the flexibility to utilize things like brain research and outside-the-box thinking, most kids won't ever experience this kind of education. I feel pretty damn lucky that Eve and Lola will and I can only hope that they will find a way to work toward making sure more kids get it, too.

Life Lessons a la Lola's Skateboard Instructor

2011-09-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

I love Lola's skateboard instructor. For a kid in his mid-twenties he is surprisingly intuitive about the psyche of a nine year old girl.

Lola is a kamikaze. Sort of. She is very enthusiastic and not fearful of physical challenges. What she is afraid of is looking stupid and there are a lot of opportunities to do that on a skateboard. The first few lessons she took were at a local skate park crawling with boys of all ages skating without pads or helmets (I make her wear both) with wild abandon. They fall, skid, trip, run right off the end of their skateboards and have some of the foulest mouths I've heard in a long time. Most of them are consumed with perfecting their tricks and are constantly showing off for each other.

One of the first things her teacher (I'll call him Sam) did was to change Lola's lesson time to morning when the teenage boys are still in bed and she can have the venue to herself. But even before that he amazed me. One of his first goals was to get her to go down the biggest hill in the park. They worked for a bit on stance and balance (she's "goofy-footed" like me which means that her opposite foot goes in the front - unusual) and then he walked her to the top of the hill. On my beach towel in the grass, I was too far away to hear what they said, but they talked for a minute, he steadied her on the board and then let her take her time deciding when to go. After about 60 seconds of hesitation, he called to her and waved his hand so she would join him in a different area of the park. Without going down the hill. They worked on some smaller hills for a bit, practiced turning, and then went back to the big hill. Another hesitation of about 45 seconds and he waved her off again.

During each of these mini-sessions, Sam challenged her and high-fived her when she conquered a task. I could see her proud grin from across the park. After four or five attempts at doing the hill, I figured out what Sam was doing. He had somehow concluded that Lola was psyching herself out by thinking too much about skating down the hill and he knew that the longer she stood there, the more fearful she would be. By waving her off, he was letting her know that it was no great disappointment that she hadn't gone down the hill and he was redirecting her attention to something she could do. He was letting her be successful and building her confidence. Gradually, throughout the lesson, Lola came to trust Sam. She grew to believe that he wasn't going to ask her to do anything she was not comfortable doing and she trusted that he wanted her to be successful as much as she wanted to succeed. She built a bond with him and ultimately she decided she wanted to go down that hill for herself and for him.

Before we left that first day, Lola flew down that hill twice on her board. Twice. She did it on her own terms without feeling as though she had to in order to prove herself, but the beautiful thing is that she did prove something to herself and to Sam. She showed that when you are given space and time to believe in your own abilities without judging yourself, you can soar. And Sam reminded me that overthinking things leads to fear. Often the best thing we can do for ourselves when we're intimidated by something is to go bolster our own self-confidence by excelling at something smaller or less frightening. And then when we are ready, it is easy to tackle the bigger task without too much angst.

I love Lola's skateboard instructor.

Losing My Brother

2011-09-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

(Alternately titled "The Fourth, Part Two). Here is part one of this story.

After a year, Cameron is taken away. All of the new clothes my parents have bought him are packed away in the small suitcase he came with and he walks solemnly behind some woman out the front door of our house. His smile is gone, but it hasn’t been around as much lately, anyway. His head is down, looking at the orange shag carpet in the living room and he doesn’t turn around to say good-bye. I can’t say anything. I can’t breathe. I follow them onto the grey cement steps of our porch and hold on to the black iron rail so I won’t sit down hard.

I watch the door of the white van shut and the lady get in the front seat. The van sat in our driveway, engine chugging the entire time. Someone knew he would be packed already. Someone knew he would be ready to go when they got here. I can see Cameron’s one cloudy eye watching me. I can feel the thick ball in my throat as the van backs up into the street. I watch the smoke from the back of the van curl up past his window and make it hard to see him anymore. I can’t look. I have to close my eyes. I can’t go inside. I’m just standing here in the springtime sunshine feeling cold and little.

Finally someone tells me to come inside.

“Can I write him letters?” I ask my mother and my voice sounds high and whiny. She shakes her head and her eyes are full of tears.

I don’t understand. My big brother shrugs his shoulders to say he doesn’t know anything, either. My sister is too little to know anything. All I know is that Dad didn’t like Cameron very much and now he’s gone. Dad doesn’t like my little sister very much, either. And he is trying all the time to make my brother tougher. He was really pissed that Cameron could play soccer better than my brother could. Dad’s the coach and his own son ought to be the star player.

It takes a while but the cold ball in my throat finally settles in my stomach. I’d better be really good from now on.

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This was the "scene" from my perspective as an eight-year old girl who knew that something was wrong. I knew that my parents were fighting a lot and things were not easy at home. Mom was unhappy and the kids were all walking on eggshells. This incident proved to me that it wouldn't take much for our family to simply disintegrate. Indeed, it was shortly after this that my father moved out and they announced they were getting a divorce, although I don't recall any of the specifics. Within six months, my father had accepted a job transfer in another state and I was even more certain that, one by one, we would all be picked off, our ties as family members dissolving as easily as the translucent rice paper wrapper on that Chinese candy we got at the store sometimes. From that moment on, I made it my mission to keep my brother and sister as close to me as possible and never do anything wrong. I didn't want to be next.

Tempting Fate

2011-09-13T15:35:00.000-07:00

I am always amazed when I read childhood memoirs. Not only at the vast array of experiences in people's lives and the way children interpret things with their developing minds, but at the ability of the storyteller to conjure up such rich, detailed images of things that happened so many years (often decades) ago.

Other than the family stories that have been told and retold and a few snapshots that I have seen hundreds of times, I have no memories of my childhood before 5th grade. I can recite the story of my first day in Kindergarten where I was too short to hang my coat up on the hooks mounted in the hallway and was rescued by a classmate who would become a treasured friend. I can't tell you what the hallway looked like or what color my coat was or what the weather was like outside. I also couldn't tell you what the rest of the day was like, or even if I attended full day or half day Kindergarten classes. That story came from my mother.

I have several other "memories" like that - that were witnessed by others in my family but resonate with me no more than they would with you if you heard the story several times. I know the names of my first and second grade teachers, couldn't tell you who my third grade teacher was if my life depended on it and am only marginally certain who my fourth grade teacher was because there were only two to choose from in the entire school and I think I got the mean one. Or was that my brother?

For most of my life, I thought that was normal. I didn't realize that other people had vivid memories of times in their childhoods and it wasn't until I had my first flashback nearly sixteen years ago that it occurred to me that there was a reason I didn't know anything about my life as a child. I don't even know if I can properly call what I had a "flashback." It was more of a still photo than anything else. From that memory came a clear knowledge that there was a song associated with that period in my life - the period during which my sister and I were repeatedly sexually assaulted by the teenage son of the woman who watched my sister after school until I could come get her and take her home.

The only other clear memory I have is of the day when our adopted brother was taken away from us. I have searched and searched for the post that completes the story I began with the above link and it appears I never did. I guess I know what my next post will be. I have to finish that story now that I feel as though I have more memories of it. Sorry - stay tuned for that one and in the meantime, go back and read the first half so you'll be up to speed when I post the finale, as it were.

For the last several years in therapy, I have examined the themes and patterns in my fears and anxieties and have found them to be mostly related to abandonment issues, control issues and not feeling as though I am worthy of unconditional love. I have often questioned where these strong issues come from and, several times, have wished I had more concrete information about my childhood. That wish is very quickly followed up by a resolute slamming of that door in my head. No f*ing way! Stay out of there. It could undo you.

Today as I practiced yoga I once again wished for some more clarity about my history. And instead of succumbing to the knee-jerk response that admonished me to Shut.The.Door., I asked myself why. What was it that I was hoping to gain from having these memories? I realized that what I want is to know who to blame. Who can I legitimately be furious with for screwing up my life? I have done a lot of work around forgiving the boy who abused me and feel as though there is a light spot in my heart because I have let go of most of that. And, while that is certainly trauma enough to cause me to lose memories, I know that none of that happened until I was at least in the 3rd or 4th grade. There is more. I know that.

I was so surprised at my ultimate reason for wanting to recover these traumatic memories that I nearly fell out of my side angle pose. Do I really want someone to blame? Yup. And even though I know that I will likely not find any easy answers or any justice, the idea that someone other than myself is to blame for what I experienced is huge. For years I have carried around the notion that I was unlovable, incapable of deserving nurturing attention, the person who blew things out of proportion simply to get attention and I'm tired of that story now. I was a kid. I deserved love and affection and care and comfort. And knowing that someone else should have been responsible for that and dropped the ball lets me off the hook a little bit.

That's not to say I'm not freaking terrified of these memories. And a friend of mine who suffers from PTSD and has had flashbacks has warned me that I have no control over whether or when I might get them back, in any case. Personally, that's the part that turns my knickers inside out. I want to know and I want to know on my terms. But like they say, if you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans. Still, I feel as though I've tempted fate by simply writing these words and I suspect that I ought to have been more careful what I wished for...

Mama's Summer Camp

2011-09-10T16:43:00.000-07:00

Summer is one benchmark I use to measure the girls' development. Not only have they just completed another year of school, but they have generally grown an inch or so and matured a wee bit as well. In keeping with their gradual aging, summer is when I add another chore to their respective repertoires. I know. What a way to kill summer enthusiasm, huh? Buzzkill.

Whatever. My kids are not growing up without ever having had to lift a finger to help out around the house. And, since summer is devoid of homework, rigid bedtime schedules and sports/piano/guitar/horseback lessons, I figure they have all the time in the world to master this new skill, right? Usually when I introduce another chore I simply explain it, model it, tell them my expectations for how often it needs to be done, and consider it done. Given that they are already responsible for feeding the pets, taking out the garbage/recycle/compost, folding the laundry, and setting and clearing the dinner table, I was working a bit to come up with new chores. So I asked them what they thought. Suckers.

Eve decided she would like to try doing the dinner dishes.

Lola said laundry.

The month of July was reserved for housework immersion summer camp. Mama-style. The first night, I showed Eve my method for rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher, separating the hand-wash only things out and scrubbing and rinsing them, and wiping down the counters. She was also responsible for emptying the dishwasher in the morning and putting everything away. Unfortunately for her, I love cooking and cook dinner at home from scratch nearly every night.

Lola was schooled on how to separate delicates from colors from linens from whites from handwashables and how to put each of these groups of laundry through the washer and dryer. Suspiciously, our dry cleaning bill skyrocketed in July when Bubba learned who would be responsible for caring for his work clothes.

My plan was to have the girls be solely responsible for these two tasks during the month of July. In August, they had Harry Potter camp and we were out of town for a week, so we would have to play it by ear. As soon as school started, they would only be responsible for these tasks on the weekends, leaving their weeknights free for practices and homework and family time.

Can I just say that I was terribly relieved when August 1 came? It was all I could do not to look over the girls' shoulders and chew on my bottom lip. I offered Eve advice when it seemed as though she was rinsing more than necessary or if there was a more efficient way to get things done, but she would have none of it. I don't blame her. I had to remind myself that she would learn more if she made her own mistakes. I wasn't willing to let Lola make mistakes with my clothes, though, so I gave a bit more input there. Still, their timelines weren't the same as mine.

Eve knew she had to clean the kitchen as soon as dinner was over. The problem came the following morning. Lola and I get up at the crack of dawn and my routine is to come downstairs, empty the dishwasher, make my latte and read the news. Eve discovered the joy of sleeping in this summer which meant that the dishwasher often didn't get emptied until well after Lola and I had eaten breakfast. Which meant dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Waiting for Eve to get out of bed. Driving me nuts. Every day.

Lola's job was much more cyclical. Not having my perspective and ability to look ahead and anticipate who would run out of underwear when or need to wear her "favorite skirt," she quickly fell into a habit of only doing laundry when I told her to. Despite my continued warnings, she often started a load of wash and left it in there to molder for a few hours before remembering it needed to go in the dryer. She eschewed the laundry basket, preferring instead to gather up as many of the warm, dry clothes as she could in her (short, 9-year-old) arms and carry them to the couch, leaving a trail of clean items behind her in the dog and cat-hair tumbleweeds on the floor in the hall.

I spent far too much time ruminating on my frustrations - trying desperately to recall how I learned to do dishes and laundry the way I do them. I know for a fact that my mother would accept no jobs half-done, but I can't recall any specific lessons on how to do things the way she wanted. I resigned myself to letting the girls work out their own systems and, by the end of the month, they had both learned some valuable lessons about how to be more efficient with their respective chores. That being said, on August 1st, it was an enormous relief to get back to doing the dinner dishes my own way. As for the laundry, Bubba has mysteriously decided that his clothes are safe to be washed at home once again. It was not all in vain though. At one point Eve said to me (her arms up to the elbow in dishsoapy water), "Mom, this is a lot of work. Every night after dinner, I'll rinse my own plate and put it in the dishwasher for you. I promise."

I'd like to say Lola had a similar revelation, but since her laundry accounts for the smallest portion in the house - given that she thinks being clean is vastly over-rated - and the fact that running large machinery combined with pouring chemicals is a dream generally reserved for her sleeping hours, she won't likely come up with any gems. She is still more than willing to drop a load of laundry in the washer or dryer for me at my request.

Overall, it was a good experiment and it's nice to know I can rely on the girls to help out when asked, but I am more than a little embarrassed to say that I don't relish giving up my dominion over the kitchen or the laundry room again anytime soon.

Writing: The World's Oldest Profession?

2011-09-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

"When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over." Sappho, Ancient Greek poet, 610-580BC

Despite the beauty of the words, what struck me first about this quote as I first saw it were the dates during which this poet lived. Nearly 2,500 years ago. There was written language. Like this.

Forgive me for being terribly consumed by the age in which I live - the age of high speed internet and bluetooth cellular capability and routine air travel via jumbo jet. When I look back at my own life (nearly forty years long) and realize that most of these things haven't been around that long - heck I started out life with rotary dial phones and didn't get my first computer until I was a junior in college - I am astonished at what remains. In the last hundred years, automobiles were invented, rail travel was perfected, the telegraph came in to being. I often take for granted that our world changes drastically in small increments from generation to generation. I have seen movies go from reel-to-reel to beta to VHS tape to DVD. Phones go from rotary dial to push-button to cordless to cellular to smart phones. I will not be surprised in the least to look back on my life from my 80s to discover that something I thought impossible as a child has come to fruition.

But to be struck with the notion that over thousands and thousands of years, one thing in particular has remained for humankind, I truly did feel shocked. Communication. From the beginning of humankind, we have felt the need to converse with each other, tell each other stories, find a way to express ourselves. Before written language, there were oral histories, songs, musical instruments, sign language. And although written language has changed dramatically, from handwritten letters between two individuals to digitized e-books, the ultimate purpose remains. Communication. Sharing our ideas and needs and knowledge with each other.

Families with non-verbal members have long struggled to find ways to communicate among themselves. Technology has afforded many of these families with the ability to better understand each other, by circumventing the spoken language with keyboards and iPads.

Upon completing my first manuscript, I began to worry that the publishing industry would go the way of the dodo and I would be left scrambling to find a way to share my work. I needn't have broken a sweat. The simple fact is, human beings are who we are because of our need to communicate with each other. We will always find ways to accomplish this - radio, blogs, ebooks, rallies, pamphlets, songs, things I am sure I haven't yet considered. As a writer, I am heartened to realize that what I do fulfills such an integral need of humanity. Not everyone will read my words, and not all who read them will agree on their accuracy or importance, but the simple knowledge that language and discourse has stood the test of time and will find its way through like a weed in the sidewalk grounds me.

I Love Aging!

2011-09-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

No, really. I do. It almost sounds cliche (or maybe it's closer than "almost") to say this, but dang, I feel pretty good. Despite the fact that I'm 40 days away from turning 40, I can say that the revelations I've had in the past decade are what have made me appreciate being exactly where I am in life.

I was having lunch with a girlfriend the other day and we were lamenting the fact that both of our tween daughters are asking about wearing makeup. I distinctly recall seventh grade as the "magic" year for me - I started shaving my legs, had my first period, and was allowed to wear deep blue eyeshadow and Debbie Gibson-brand mascara to school. All of those things sound horrific to me now. Each and every damn one of them. But back then, I was thrilled. And Eve, entering sixth grade this year, is convinced that she ought to be able to start wearing a little makeup as well. She did make a fairly keen observation, though.

"When I am allowed to wear makeup, who is going to teach me how to put it on the right way? You don't know how to wear it, do you?"

I could have considered that an insult. But she's right. Somewhere around the age of 19 or 20, I realized that I was trading sleep for makeup application time. Working two jobs and going to college full-time meant that sleep was at a premium. One of my jobs started at 4:30am and required me to care for the animals who had stayed the night at the local veterinary clinic - administering their medications, taking the dogs out to pee and stretch their legs, and cleaning the kennels before the office opened for the day. Those guys certainly couldn't care less if I had mascara on. Generally, I finished just in time for my 8:00 class, so makeup lost the battle there.

I did retain the habit of wearing a little mascara and some blush for special occasions, but by the time my wedding day rolled around, I had to go out and specifically purchase makeup for the day since the stuff I had had been rattling around in a drawer for several years.

There have been times throughout the years where I have felt bad about myself, especially as I became more sedentary upon entering the workforce and again after having the girls. I have a closet with clothing that ranges in size from 6 to 12 and I am acutely aware of which of those clothes fit me comfortably. The difference now is that I won't force myself to wear the smaller ones because of the number on the waistband. I am much more forgiving of myself and much less tolerant of tight, uncomfortable clothes. I prefer to spend my days feeling good.

I am also much less likely to beat myself up mentally. I started jogging in June, determined to add some cardio fitness to my yoga regime so that I can keep up with the girls better. While I generally don't like running, I find that it is much more enjoyable if I don't treat myself like a newbie at boot camp. If I miss a day or two, I don't berate myself. Instead, I remember all of the previous days where I ran and tell myself that tomorrow will present another opportunity to run again. I have become capable of telling myself the same thing with regard to having dessert a few days in a row or not being disciplined enough with my writing schedule. Decrying the mistakes has never been motivating for me, but remembering that skipping one workout or sharing a hot fudge sundae with Lola isn't grounds for desertion puts things in perspective.

Saturday, we had planned our first ever family whitewater rafting trip. The girls were old enough to be excited about it and it promised to be 90 degrees out. I was really excited until the guide launched into his safety spiel about what to do when you fall out on a Class 3 or 4 rapid, how to signal that you're okay (or not), and how your paddle should never be out of your hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lola begin to blanch and I knew I had to keep my cool. I couldn't let on that I was nervous, if only to reassure her. By the time the four of us climbed into the raft, Lola had recovered but I was sinking deeper into apprehension. I could see Class 3 rapids right out of the chute and did some quick calculations to determine whether the girls were actually okay to do this. Neither of them even weighs 65 pounds! I envisioned backing out. What would Bubba do? Would it be a relief to one or both of the girls - they could back out, too, and save face? I forced myself to stay put and breathe. I reminded myself that I am a very strong swimmer and I only had to be in this moment right now. Nowhere else. No projections into the future. And then I heard it. That voice inside my head. The angel on my shoulder. She said:

"You do not have to be anything other than you are right now."

What?

Really?

No shit?

So I can be a somewhat-frightened, 39-and-counting mother of two sitting in a raft in the glorious sunshine. And that's okay?

Yup. It is. It doesn't require action on my part. It doesn't mean that I ought to be striving to be anything other/different/better. It will not drastically alter anyone's life for me to be just who I am right now in this moment. It would not make anyone else's life or experience better if I were different. I simply am.

And that, my friends, is the beauty of aging. I finally get to just be who I am and be happy with it. No excuses. No shame.

Versatile Blogger Award

2011-09-01T16:37:00.000-07:00

Dee over at Coming Home to Myself just honored my blog by passing on the "Versatile Blogger Award" and naming me as a blog she thinks deserves more readers. Thanks, Dee! I love more readers, if only because it invites more dialogue (read: comments), and that is what my writing is all about - creating conversation.

In keeping with the protocol of this award, I will point you to some other blogs I have recently discovered that I enjoy reading. Check out:

A Moon, Worn as if it Had Been a Shell

Penny Jar

The Dust Bunny Chronicles

The Presence of Magic

The final requirement is that I share seven unique things about myself. Here goes ---

1. I was a vegetarian for thirteen years, very happily. Then, on a trip to the Canadian Rockies, as I sat down to nurse my then-seven-month-old daughter, Eve, I caught a whiff of the neighboring campsite's bratwurst sausages on the grill. I begged Bubba to get in the car, drive to the nearest town (Banff), and buy me some. Ever the frustrated carnivorous husband, he couldn't get there fast enough. I ate three that night and have loved meat ever since.

2. I have half a tattoo. Luckily it is in a very inconspicuous place. As a freshman in college, I went along with my roommate and her friends to get their tattoos and allowed myself to be peer-pressured in to getting one, too. I finally agreed and then changed my mind halfway through and abandoned the process, telling everyone that it was too painful to continue.

3. I had so many kidney infections as a kid that the doctors thought I would have to get a transplant and be on dialysis. It wasn't until I was in my thirties that I realized the infections "magically" ceased as soon as the neighborhood teenage bully stopped sexually assaulting me on a regular basis.

4. I love cooking dinner so much that I make a weekly menu every Saturday night, shop for groceries on Sunday (and fresh produce and meat again on Wednesday), and cook almost every night of the week.

5. Doing dishes makes me happy. It is this lovely, zen moment where everyone else in the house leaves me alone (they don't want to be recruited to help) and I get to engage in something that has tangible results. Often it is the only project I get to begin and end all in one fell swoop the entire day.

6. My dream car is a 1962 convertible Corvette. Candy-apple red with white interior and a white hard-top. Always has been. Always will be. I got to ride in one once as a Homecoming Princess in high school and haven't forgotten it since.

7. I love the sound of moving water. My favorite place of all time is the beach (any beach, cold or warm water - doesn't matter), but I love lakeshores, babbling brooks, koi ponds with waterfalls and backyard fountains. It somehow brings me to my center.

I'm on one last vacation with Bubba and the kids at a lake this long weekend and right now, I'm sitting at the kitchen table overlooking the water with a sopping wet dog at my feet (he has fetched about 652 sticks so far today) and two girls with their noses stuck in books in the room next to me. I am blissed out. Have a beautiful weekend, all.

The Fun Part

2011-08-30T13:44:00.000-07:00

...is having your work shared. Follow the link and find my most recent essay for BuddhaChick Magazine. This is the third one I've had the pleasure of seeing "published" online and I hope for many more. When you're done with this, look through the entire issue. There are some pretty amazing writers and women's voices contained within.

Namaste.

Be Careful What You Wish For: Sleepaway Camp Revelations

2011-08-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

We all survived Harry Potter Camp. It was the girls' first attempt at a sleepaway camp and I would not be exaggerating if I said it caused us all some anxiety. Back in March, when I signed Eva and Lola up for this week-long YMCA-sponsored camp, it was easy to be excited. The girls were thrilled at the prospect of getting to immerse themselves in all things Harry Potter for a week - trying their hand at quidditch, potion-making, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and escaping from Azkaban. Bubba and I could hardly contain our glee at the idea of getting an entire week at home without having to arrange for a babysitter if we wanted to go to the movies or dinner. I vowed not to cook or do dishes for the entire week and told Bubba if he scheduled a business trip I would wring his neck like a Thanksgiving turkey.

And then the week approached. We checked items off of the packing list and pretended not to be nervous around each other. Lola broke first.

"I'm gonna miss you guys a lot," she turned her eyes down to the tablecloth, avoiding eye contact. I felt a little tear in my resolve.

"I'm going to miss you, too. But I think you're going to be so busy every day that you won't even remember to miss me very much."

Two days before we dropped the girls off, Bubba told me he had to go to California for two days the next week. Before I could wrap my fingers around his thick, stocky neck he reared back, "Come with me! The girls won't know. I'll get a nicer hotel than I normally stay in. You can bring your laptop and hang out by the pool and we can go out at night." Again, it sounded great.

I imagined myself as one of those mothers who could say I'd been away with my husband on a fabulous trip without the kids. I've always aspired to join that group, but have balked at leaving the girls behind. The truth is, I like spending time with them and traveling is a great way to have new and different adventures with them. But this, well. They were leaving us, right?

The camp counselors had the drop-off down to a science. Get everyone out of the car at the lagoon at the bottom of the hill, give hugs good-bye and load the kids into waiting paddle-boats for a trip across the lagoon. The kids were excited about a boat ride, unsure whether this was the "real" good-bye, and the parents had to climb back into the cars and drive the sleeping bags and suitcases up the hill to the cabins. Busy the parents checking their kids in, have them drop the gear in the cabin to which their child was assigned, and send them on their way.

WHAT? Oh. I guess we said good-bye. I will admit feigning a full bladder so I could use the restroom next to the campfire before driving away. This way, I got to catch a quick glimpse of Eve and Lola fully immersed in campfire chants with Ginny, Hermione, Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley.

I didn't cry. Bubba and I didn't look at each other and made nervous, chattering conversation for the hour and a half back home. We checked the movie listings, went to "Planet of the Apes," and got to have sushi without ordering a veggie roll. By the time we got home, we could pretend that the girls were just on sleepovers at friends' houses. On a Sunday night.

Monday, Bubba got to go to work. I pretended it was a school day, blissfully free of lunch-packing and prodding Eve to get out of her snug bed. I went to yoga with a friend, had coffee with another friend and drove downtown to have dinner with Bubba at a fancy restaurant.

Tuesday morning I cried. Tuesday morning I panicked. What if Lola, true to her balls-out nature, flung herself out of a tree and broke another bone? What if Eve got some food that wasn't gluten-free and her stomach was in agony? And I blithely went to California, a two hour plane ride and a two hour drive away? Bubba managed to talk me off the edge and call his sister to ensure that she could dash to camp and get the girls if something horrible happened.

And, yet again, I was thankful for the dichotomy in our parenting relationship. As the parent who stays home with the girls, I have built my life around them. Any activities I do are scheduled during the hours when I know they don't need me. And if they do need me during those hours, the activities don't rest on my participation. I can leave to go get a vomiting child. I can skip a day of volunteering if Lola has a teacher inservice. I can reschedule my appointment if Eve is running a cross-country race one day.

Bubba has the option of separating himself a bit more. He knows he isn't what I call the "primary parent." He knows that he won't be called upon unless it is an extreme emergency. He goes to work knowing that very few things have the potential to derail his day. And while this has prompted some resentment on my part over the years, it also affords him a different perspective. He is able to see things in a more global way and come to decisions about how to deal with tricky situations more quickly than I. I used to think that this was because I am more emotionally-driven than he, but I'm not so sure anymore.

My relationship with the kids is more need-based than his. From the beginning, they learned that I was the repository of all food, comfort, physical relief, and crisis management. For me, that set up a constant state of readiness. Even when the girls went off to school, I knew that I had to have my cell phone at the ready and not be too far away in case someone needed something. While that often made me frustrated at the restrictions it placed on me, I realize that I came to rely on it. When you learn that coloring inside the lines is important, you begin to respect the lines. Count on them.

With the girls away for a week, in a place with adults I trust to take care of them, and the likelihood that they would need me for something very slim, my lines are gone. I'm free. Like that tame bird whose cage door stands wide open, I'm a little afraid to venture outside of what I know.

In the end, the girls came home from camp filthy and exhausted and full of tales from Hogwarts. Who knew wizards could have belly-flop competitions? Who knew you could go to the Yule Ball in August? They made their own wands, were sorted into houses (Eve in Ravenclaw and Lola and Hufflepuff), and were sad to leave. They slept for two days when they got home, taking breaks only to spill tales of adventures at camp like machine gun fire.

And me? I learned that there is life beyond parenting. And it's pretty good. Thank goodness I have several more years to figure it out.

To Glee or Not to Glee

2011-08-25T15:55:00.000-07:00

My girls have reached the "musical" stage of their childhood. Eve got to go see "Oliver!" last year with her class and she came home singing all of the songs and begged me to get the music. Lola's music teacher taught them most of the songs from "The Sound of Music" last year and she went around singing them until I thought I'd throw up. Repetition aside (or maybe repetition-inspired), I decided to expand their repertoire by finding some more musical soundtracks to introduce them to.

"Annie?" Check.

"Mamma Mia?" Check.

"Grease?" Triple check.

I loved that movie. It came out in 1978 and I must have been too young to see it in the theater, but I watched it a dozen times as an adolescent (we weren't delineated into teens and tweens back then, of course). I saved my money and bought the album as soon as I could and I listened to it over and over again. In fact, I'm fairly certain that green cover with the photo of Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta sat empty in my cupboard for a long time since the record rarely came off of my record player. Twenty-five years later I still remember all of the words to all of the songs and just hearing them conjures up images of Frenchie's pink hair and Rizzo dancing in her underwear at the slumber party as she sang "Sandra Dee."

My girls quickly fell in love with the music to "Grease" too. And it wasn't long before they began asking to watch the movie.

Gulp.

Eva is nearly twelve and Lola just turned nine. Are they too young? I don't honestly remember how old I was when I first saw "Grease," but I know that some of the concepts are pretty grown up. Even some of the song lyrics are a little edgy - "...I'm Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity." (Mom, what's 'virginity?' I can imagine Lola asking.) The boys singing "Greased Lightning" and talking about the girls "creaming their pants." Hmmm.

I don't recall my reaction when I heard lines like that in the movie. I know there isn't any sex or nudity and, other than the sexual inferences and stereotypical bad behavior from teens, I don't think there is anything objectionable. But do I want to be responsible for my girls learning concepts like "creaming your pants?" Of course, the cat's out of the bag for a lot of it if they slow down and really listen to the song lyrics. And they already listen to a lot of music with words I don't allow them to say - heck, even the Indigo Girls drop the f-bomb here and there.

I'm stuck wondering whether I want to let them see me squirm and, thus, set them up to pay closer attention to the movie, wondering what it is that I'm worried about. Maybe they will watch the movie, absorb the parts they care about and are developmentally able to, and chuck the rest, only realizing what was really going on sometime about the age of 20.

Eve has been pressuring me to let her watch "Glee" since most of her friends and classmates watch it and love it. It's not that I won't let her, but it isn't a show I watch, so it doesn't occur to me to record it and even see if it is okay. And then there is the logistical issue of how to let Eve watch something that Lola isn't allowed to. Don't get me started on that.

I suppose the worst that could happen is that they bump up against a concept they are unfamiliar with or one that makes them uncomfortable and we have to talk about it. I'm more than happy to do that, although Lola has been teasing me lately about giving her "too much information." In my defense, the questions she asks are getting more complex. "What's a foster home?" "Why are there so many homeless people?" "Why is Eve so cranky all the time?"

Or maybe none of these things is that complicated. Maybe I'm just seeing it that way through my complicated-colored glasses.

Pro-Life Politicians More Concerned With Controlling Women's Health and Forcing Their Own Morality Than Anything Else.

2011-08-21T10:51:00.001-07:00

Yup, that's right. And I'm hopping mad. This past week, all but two of the Planned Parenthood offices in Arizona were forced to stop providing abortion services. The two that remain are in the biggest urban areas in the state, leaving the majority of women in Arizona out of possibilities that are safe and convenient.

The Arizona Court of Appeals has upheld a 2009 pro-life state law that, in part, requires the mother to be informed of abortion risks and alternatives at an in-person doctor visit the day before getting an abortion, requires notarized parental consent for abortion on a minor child, and includes right of conscience religious provisions.

You can bet that this sort of law would never apply to, say, vasectomies, or a prescription for Viagra. No flipping way. The reason that the rural PP offices were forced to stop offering abortion was because their services were provided by nurse practitioners and, thus, don't fulfill the "in-person doctor visit" portion of the law. I call bullsh*t.

The reason this law was enacted was to force women into other alternatives besides abortion. There has been much debate, and I think we can all agree that abortion is not a desired outcome for anyone, pro-life or pro-choice. But if our true intention is to decrease the number of abortions, than we ought to be aiming our arrows at preventing unwanted pregnancies and offering early prenatal care to avoid life-threatening conditions that could prompt abortions in desired pregnancies. Instead, lawmakers are defunding one of the best-known agencies that provides both of those services - Planned Parenthood. This law was aimed directly and unyeildingly at abortion service providers and the women who access them.

Some politicians say they are simply trying to make abortions safer. Bullsh*t again. Abortions are as safe as any other in-office surgical procedure. Most of them occur without any sort of intravenous or general anesthesia, which cannot be said for other surgeries such as many plastic surgeries, tubal ligations, and trauma repair that occur in-office these days. As with any other procedure, getting an abortion requires informed consent. Clearly, the woman seeking those services has to speak with her provider and get the information necessary to agree to this procedure. So what's the deal?

Here is where abortion is different. It is a decision that must be made within a certain, specific time period or the decision is effectively made for you. A man seeking a vasectomy can wait a few weeks after seeing a physician to make his decision. He can either abstain from sexual activity or use some form of birth control in the meantime. A woman seeking an abortion is already pregnant. She doesn't have much time to consider her options.

The man is also not subjected to picketers judging him and showing him graphic photos of his surgery. I'm willing to bet that most men, should they see 11x14 full-color posters of their testicles exposed, painted with Betadine, and a surgeon's hand with the scalpel at the ready, would run for the nearest bush, vomit violently, and pass out.

These laws are not aimed at preventing unwanted or risky pregnancies. They are not aimed at protecting women. They are not aimed at improving the quality of the healthcare that women receive. They are designed to limit access to a safe, viable, legal surgical procedure that some lawmakers disagree with morally. The fact that they feel the need to lie about their intentions is a warning bell. Like I tell my kids, "If you feel like you need to hide what you're doing, it's probably not the right thing to do."

Books. Beautiful Books.

2011-08-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know about Michelle O'Neil, let me introduce you. She is a beautiful soul, mother of two children, wife to a darling man, and brilliant writer. She is many more things than that, but I'll let you find her blog if you so desire. The purpose of this particular post is to draw your attention to her new book. She has written a deeply touching, funny memoir that anyone who enjoys memoir ought to read. Just in case you're looking for a book to wind down the dog days of summer, I suggest you head right to Amazon via the link above and buy this book.

The other link I found today, completely by accident, will be of great interest to those of you who love photography. Especially if you take gorgeous pictures and aren't much of a Crafty McScrapbooker (like me - I'm hopeless at it). If this sounds like you, or if you just have a few minutes on your hands, please go check out Blurb. They will help you put together a book (yes, actually bound) of your photos or artwork, add some text, and ship as many copies to you as you want for less than $3 each. You can sell them, give them away, line the chicken coop with them - whatever you want. What a cool gift that would be for a wedding party or a sweet sixteen or a 50th anniversary....Wait! Hmmm, I've got one of those coming up. Gotta go!

That's Why This Song Has Been Rattling Around in My Head for Days...

2011-08-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

"All this time believing love meant someone's leaving..." Edie Carey in Easy Now from her album Bring the Sea

I have abandonment issues. Not the ones you might think, though. I would actually prefer to be abandoned a hundred times over than think that I might be the one responsible for leaving someone else high and dry. The truth is, while the notion of being left behind is sad and a little lonely, I've been there before and I know I can handle it. There is a strong sense of power and control and core competency that shows itself when I imagine being abandoned. Almost a righteousness - "See? I don't need you. You weren't smart enough to recognize how much I add to your life and how much you ought to be here with me. Your loss."

No, I am afraid of being the abandoner. From the day my dear Eva was born and I realized the magnitude of my responsibility for her, I have been plagued with occasional moments of panic when I thought I might not be able to rise to the occasion. When Lola came along and Bubba started getting sick, I insulated the ties with my girls by adding layers of steel. Something might happen to him, but I would be damned if I was leaving my girls all alone. No way! I wasn't going to go away and let them grow up thinking I had abandoned them.

Even in the midst of my greatest depression, it was the stark reality of caring for the girls that kept me going day after day. The knowledge of what a sudden loss can do to a child. How they internalize the reasons, rational or not, and come to believe that they somehow caused this person to leave.

Two days ago Bubba and I drove the girls two hours away to a sleepover camp where they will stay for a week. They were excited, if a little nervous since this marks the first time either of them has been away from home for that long. Each of them invited a close friend to join them, and I know that Eve and Lola will take comfort in knowing that the other is there (although not sharing the same cabin, "Thank goodness!") and our good-byes were blessedly free of tears or clinging.

Three months ago when I signed the girls up for this camp I was thrilled. The notion of having both girls away in a safe place for a week in the summertime left me with all sorts of possibilities for ways Bubba and I could enjoy time alone together. I threatened him with a thorough neck-wringing if he scheduled a business trip during this one, precious week.

He did.

In his defense, it is a very necessary trip to visit a very important client.

In his defense, it is only for two nights and he invited me to come along.

So I am.

And I sailed over the first hurdle quite cleanly, thank you. When Bubba asked me what our contingency plan was should the camp call with news that someone is sick or Lola has broken a(nother) bone, I replied that we would have their aunt go pick them up and I would immediately fly home and everything would be fine.

This second hurdle is a bitch. Last night it occurred to me that it was possible that something might happen to Bubba and I. I chose not to tell the girls that we would be away for two nights while they were gone because I knew it would only stress them out. (Who will take care of the animals? What if I need you?) So, whether it is that karma coming back to bite me in the ass, or simply the imaginings of an over-enmeshed mother, I don't know, but images of plane crashes and earthquakes kept slicing through my thoughts last night.

I grabbed Bubba and made him promise to call his sister this morning and tell her to get the kids and bring them home if something happened to us. I contemplated writing them long letters full of love and hope and promise "just in case." I began envisioning their utter confusion giving way to hurt as they realized we had lied to them and left home.

And the friendly angel on my other shoulder keeps whispering in my ear that I am no more likely to get hurt away from home than I am at home. She strokes my head and says that there is no law or moral code that says I have to stay home alone and hold down the fort just because they are away. It is really no different than them being at school all day or on an overnight at a friend's house. Why should I have to stay here?

Logically, that makes sense and I love this little sweetie for telling me. But what I keep bumping up against is this: I was okay when the girls left because I don't mind being left, but the thought that I might be the one doing the leaving is nearly unbearable. If I stay home, I'm not "leaving" anyone behind. If I go with Bubba, especially without telling the girls, I'm the one doing the leaving. And if I don't come back for some reason, it's my fault. I have abandoned them. And if there is anything I have ever been more frightened of in my life, I can't name it. I cannot abide the thought that I might be responsible for abandoning someone who needs me. Period.

Clearly, I have more work to do here. And, fortunately or unfortunately, I think the first step is to pack my stuff, get on that airplane and head out with Bubba, if only to prove to myself that my fears are mere clouds of black smoke. There is some small kernel inside that truly believes everything will be fine and I will arrive home well before the girls, relaxed and happy to have had this time with my husband. 'Scuse me while I go nurture that seed...

Do I Deserve This?

2011-08-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Aquino, a fellow blogger, lit a fire under my butt today with her blog post. You can read her post by clicking on her name, or I can give you the Cliff Notes version. Open-minded, open-hearted person that she is, she occasionally checks out blog posts from folks whose political leanings are vastly different from her own. In doing so recently, she came across one blogger who presented the notion that individuals who rely on social assistance for food, money, healthcare, etc. ought to be ashamed to do so as well as humble and thankful for the assistance. There was clearly some judgment about whether certain individuals deserve public assistance or if it is simply an enormous scam that a large portion of the population is taking advantage of.

Elizabeth had her own (very gracious) thoughts and ponderings on the subject and she asked for input from her readers. I started to comment and then realized this was going to be a looooong reply, so I had probably better put it on my blog instead. Here goes:

The notion of taxes was created in order to centralize a way to pay for things that we all, as citizens of a country or city or state, utilize to some degree. There have been many discussions about how to make this fair over the centuries, but ultimately, I think we can all agree that, even though we grumble about the amount of taxes we pay, we all enjoy some benefits from this system. I certainly sleep better at night knowing that if my smoke alarm goes off at 2AM, all I have to do is get my family out of the house and call 911. Ditto for the police officers in my neighborhood and the roads I use to get to school and work and the grocery store. I am grateful for the state employees that manage the public library and the DMV and the ones who maintain the sewer lines, among others. I don't feel as though I need to apologize to them for using these services. Nor do I feel as though I ought to sneak around and pretend I don't use them.

Sure, there are folks who use various services more often than I - the ones who drive everywhere all the time or sit at the library for hours on end job hunting or using the computers. I'm certain there are also those people who use them less often than I do, and I'm okay with that. Social services are the same as far as I am concerned. By the grace of God, may I never have to apply for food stamps or Medicaid. But if I do, it is a comfort knowing that they exist. And I don't begrudge those folks who do use these services. I am certain that there are individuals who abuse these systems, but do I believe that everyone does? Nope. Do I think that just because there are some scammers playing the system, we should brand everyone using the system with the same iron? Nope.

I honestly believe that until we, as citizens, can shift our mindset away from our "individual freedoms" and toward a "collective consciousness," we will remain separate from each other and some of the best solutions available. As Americans, this notion of individuality is centrally important to our identity but it only goes so far. And when it begins to damage our notion of what it means to be part of a team, acknowledging everyone's strengths and weaknesses and working with them to create a better whole, rather than shaming individuals for things that are largely out of their control, we are all harmed.

I no more believe that it is shameful to access and utilize social services than to ride my Trek down the local paved bike path. Those things exist as a testament to what we can do together and for equal use by those who need it when they need it. So the next time you need a police officer or a firefighter, by all means, thank them, and then remember that these things, these lifesaving things, are a gift to us all from us all.

Family Gathering

2011-08-08T09:37:00.000-07:00

Family is such fertile ground. I feel as though, even though the same crops are grown there over and over again, generation by generation, there is enough rotation to keep the soil rich enough to produce hearty stock.

I grew up knowing that my mother's side of the family was a matriarchy. Yes, there were boys and men, but their numbers were far fewer (and their voices much less boisterous) than the women and girls. I suppose there were times when we females abused our power, but more often we reveled in it - celebrated it. We cooked and laughed and played hard. We spent summers on the beach, kicking up sand and surf, playing volleyball and scraping the tar from the soles of our feet with turpentine-soaked rags. We collapsed in heaps at the end of the day, our bellies full of barbecued chicken and baked beans, and snickered as we listened to the adults pour more wine and raise their voices to be heard over each other.

Returning to this nest for my cousin's wedding last weekend, I was excited for another generation to experience what I knew as a kid: this family is all about family. Eve and Lola found their second and third cousins and, within minutes were devising games and giggling and chasing each other around the room. Now that my mom and her siblings are the oldest generation, they have slowed down a bit and from time to time they seemed acutely aware of their status as the elders. They have tightened their ranks around each other a little more as the vulnerabilities of age creep in, leaving no doubt that this is one group that will look out for each other.

With all fertile ground, some weeds creep in. There are decades-old hurts that rub like sandpaper on tender flesh and some new issues that require a delicate touch. There are stories that have grown with each re-telling and some of them have thin walls that bulge out like aneurisms ready to burst. On the flight home, I was reading "Waiting for Snow in Heaven" and when I came to the following quote, I had to catch my breath, "Loss and gain are Siamese twins, joined at the heart. So are death and life, hell and paradise." And so, in this family, on this special occasion when one of us was getting married and the rest were coming together in celebration, we felt the losses as acutely as the love. My grandfather, a larger-than-life personality if there ever was one, was sorely missed, but attached to that sadness (joined at the heart) is the gratitude that comes from being among these people who know us so well and love us anyway.

I wrote once before about the notion that the abrasive nature of emotional pain, while uncomfortable, may be simply a way to open up more space for love and joy. I may decide I like that metaphor better than Carlos Eire's metaphor of Siamese twins. But for now, I am content to acknowledge that the two are part and parcel of each other and turn my face more toward the light.

Seeing in a Different Light

2011-08-01T17:51:00.000-07:00

I was helping out a friend. And, if I’m being totally honest, I have to say I was intrigued. I can’t imagine being able to justify hiring a Life Coach, either to myself or Bubba. It seems like such a frivolous, privileged thing to do, and my life is pretty damn good. But the notion that someone could look at my life objectively and help me figure out where to go from here is pretty tempting. I am a person who likes a road map. Give me some expectations and I will deliver the goods. Give me some vague idea of a goal and trust me to figure out the details by myself and I’m scared. What if I don’t do it right? What if I make a mistake along the way? What if I waste precious time mucking about and learning things other people already know?

So when my yoga instructor announced that she needed to complete ten hours of Life Coaching in order to get her certification, I leaped at the chance. You know, to help her out and all….

At our first meeting she explained that she was there to help me with whatever I wanted – solidifying career objectives, clarifying personal relationships, creating emotional health, maintaining a healthy lifestyle, etc. And so I began by talking about what is nearest and dearest to my heart – writing. I talked about my need to create balance in my life so that I can have time to write consistently in the midst of parenting and managing the household. I talked about my first book project and how the research and writing lit me absolutely on fire but the agent-querying/selling/marketing portion gave me the creeps.

It took her all of five minutes to break it down. She asked some insightful questions, many of which I have answered before for prospective agents and publishers. She wanted to know why I wrote the book and what my ultimate goal was for it. I explained that I write primarily to create dialogue around difficult issues. My purpose is to offer the reader a perspective that seems unique at first but becomes universal. I want to get people thinking about their own lives and how they relate to others and prompt them to talk to others about those situations. Being able to make money is so far down the list of priorities (Bubba is cringing right now, poor guy). It makes me feel almost dirty to look at creative ways to convince people that they ought to pay me to write like this.

I know that money is how we express worth in this culture and, if I’m being pragmatic, I spend a lot of my valuable time writing and thinking about writing and engaging in dialogue with others. The thing is, doing so is part of what makes my life so full. I believe that, in this currency of worth, I deserve to be paid for my time and efforts. It is just that asking for that feels skeevy. I was the girl who felt bad hawking Girl Scout Cookies to my neighbors. I felt as though I was intruding on their lives in order to make money (even if the money didn’t necessarily go to me, personally). If they came to me and asked, I’d gladly sell them as many boxes as they wanted. But going to them always made me wonder if they truly wanted the cookies or if they felt coerced. This could be part and parcel of the fact that I have a tremendously difficult time saying no to little entrepreneurs attempting to sell me things.

In any case, Jen was able to re-frame the entire situation for me. She fully accepted my discomfort with “selling” the book to an agent or publisher. She asked how committed I was to “sharing” my work with the world and I assured her I was. I fervently believe that this subject is one that desperately needs the spotlight of dialogue in American society and would be thrilled if my book could help spark that.

“What if you changed the focus from ‘selling’ to ‘sharing’?”

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, it was like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water. The notion spread out and filled up the space. Yeah. In effect, selling my manuscript would achieve the goal of sharing the message. If I hone in on my desire to spread the word and see selling the book as a means to that end, it suddenly feels much less smarmy. And even, dare I say it, exciting.

I’m so glad I could help her out.

Give It a Rest!

2011-07-30T11:40:00.000-07:00

Nearly fifteen years ago, before I had children, when I was working at a job I truly loved but wasn't sure I was smart enough to have, I had a bout of anxiety. I didn't recognize it for what it was, maybe because of its benign beginnings.

I had an hour commute to work that I didn't really mind. I had recently purchased my blue-collar dream car - a cherry red Ford Ranger pickup truck with a king cab and a manual transmission. I felt invincible in that thing as I sat high above all of the compact cars and listened to NPR's Morning Edition on my way into the city. About two-thirds of the way to work I had the sinking feeling that I had left the iron on as I went out the door. I knew, despite the long round trip home, that I had to go back and check. We didn't have any neighbors I could ask to pop in and have a look and Bubba was on a business trip. I got to work, explained the situation to my boss, and took off for home. The iron was off.

A week later, I had the same moment of panic about the toaster oven that I had used to make my breakfast. Luckily, Bubba was in town and only fifteen minutes' drive from home so this time he could go check it out. The oven was off.

Nearly a week later again, I had the same anxious feeling as I climbed into the truck to back out of the garage. This time it caused me to stop and wonder what was going on. I was struck with the notion that I was becoming OCD. And then I realized that what I really wanted was an excuse to just stay home. Despite loving my job, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I was "faking it" to get by and even when my co-workers and my boss praised my efforts and abilities, I felt as though I was fooling them all. I was also lonely. Bubba had begun traveling a lot for his job and I didn't have many close friends. What I really wanted was to stay home with my cats and work in the garden and feel safe in my own space.

Since that revelation, I have had many more opportunities to understand that the things I am often afraid of are also the things I am most fervently wishing for. Not really, of course. I was relieved each and every time that the iron or the oven were off and I didn't truly want the house to burn down, but if it had, it would have been an accident and people would have rallied around me in support.

When Bubba was sick for so many years, a horrible fantasy used to creep into my mind before I could slam the door against it that he would die on one of his business trips and not come home. I hated that thought. I hated that I was capable of thinking it and that my mind could go there. It wasn't superstition - that if I thought it it might come true. It was the knowledge that, if he died, my fears would be validated and everyone would come to see that I hadn't been crying, "Wolf!" when there was none there. I would have a reason to feel anxious and upset that nobody could dispute.

While I still shun those dark thoughts as quickly as they pop into my brain, I have also come to realize that they serve a vital purpose for me. Whenever I conjure up some terrible scenario of doom and gloom in secret, it is a cry for help. It is the way that my psyche lets me know that I'm feeling unsure of myself and frightened and alone. During one such time when my anxiety overwhelmed me to the point that I crawled beneath the covers and sobbed, Bubba asked me what I wanted. What I needed. The answer that came to my lips before it reached my brain was this, "I want someone to take care of me." Nobody was more shocked than I was to discover the truth of that statement. I wanted to be cared for. I didn't want to have to run the house, parent the children, make any important decisions. I just wanted to be. And I wanted to know that someone else was making sure things were okay in my absence. I didn't want to have to justify it with a major illness (I fantasized about contracting horrible diseases from time to time) or a family member's death or some other excuse for incapacitation. I just wanted to take a break from being "in charge" and "responsible" and "strong." But I didn't think I could.

It is still difficult for me to admit that these thoughts crop up in my brain. I'm beginning to work on allowing myself to feel overwhelmed and anxious without needing to justify it to anyone. And it's not as though anyone has asked. Or accused me of histrionics. I think that as I become more realistic about my limits and how hard I really do work, I can prevent the need for these periodic alarm bells in my brain. It's okay to take a day or two off. And I am not faking it. I am the real McCoy.

That New Car Smell

2011-07-27T08:35:00.000-07:00

Most people I know avoid change. Those people who thrive on it, seek it, relish it, are usually known as nuts or thrill-seekers or drama queens. The rest of us like our comfy chairs, revel in our routines and predictable scenarios of day-to-day life, right?

Until it comes to buying something new. That new car? We love it when a friend gets one - we want to ride in it, sit in it, push all the buttons and listen to the engine. When someone gets a new house we all crowd around for the tour and bring housewarming gifts. Even better when it's us who gets something new, isn't it? Even though it's primarily functional and meant for some concrete purpose, we still feel that grin creeping across our faces when we walk out to the parking lot and spot that sexy new car sitting there or open the closet and see those gorgeous new boots.

We get compliments on changes like new jobs and new relationships and can't wait to share the news, so why do other changes freak us out so much? Is it only those changes we didn't choose that are scary?

Losing your job is scary. Moving is scary, whether you choose it or not. Being in a situation where you can't predict or control the variables puts most of us in a state of panic. The loss of something important to us is also stressful - for a child it can be moving on from their favorite teacher or having a friend leave town. Changes are usually complicated, but so often bring as many new opportunities as they do questions, and, honestly, the majority of changes in our lives are gradual.

Personally, then opportunity to have some level of predictability and control over any change gives me a much better chance of adapting to it positively. Maybe the trick is to remember that 'control' is an illusion except when it comes to my own actions and that change is inevitable. Nah, that's too big a lesson for today. Maybe if scary changes came complete with that "new car smell" we might be a little less averse to them. Although, all things considered, I prefer the scent of dark chocolate...just sayin'.

Summertime with SPD

2011-07-23T11:19:00.000-07:00

That is, Sensory Processing Disorder. (Don't get me started on the name. That's another rant/post.)

Suffice it to say that Lola deals with SPD - much of the time graciously and with a large measure of acceptance, other times not so much. And much of her life is structured so that she doesn't have to head butt the enormous invisible beast that taunts her. She has teachers who "get it" and encourage her to work in the way that suits her best. She has pared her wardrobe down to several choice items that, while they don't allow for much variety, enable her to move through the world without feeling constantly stimulated and irritated. She has plenty of opportunities for physical activity - playing sports and riding bikes and wrestling with Bubba. Her routine, during the school year, is predictable and, when it isn't, we are sure to accommodate with extra down time and soothing routines.

And then summer hits. And the first few days are bliss. It's like a long weekend and so long as I make sure she eats every couple of hours to keep her blood sugar up, she is enthusiastic and cheerful.

Go beyond a few days without structure, add in a week-long trip to the mountains, follow that up with a morning sports camp and a sister with an entirely different agenda than her and we've got a perfect storm of SPD triggers. She starts to assert that she ISN'T HUNGRY and asks to stay up late reading and slowly begins to disintegrate into someone who turns to mush for no reason at all. The last few days have brought more tears and hysterical outbursts and agitation than we've had in the last nine months put together.

And there is a twin crumbling going on inside my head. The small but hopeful, insulated, pretty-in-pink place where I had harbored a hope I was afraid to admit to myself. The hope that she had "outgrown" SPD or that we had been hasty in diagnosing it. The hope that she had come to manage it so well that she had folded those "quirks" inside of her personality the way a tree grows around a wire over time. That SPD had just become part of who she is and she could either wall it off as a separate but alien piece of herself or make friends with it and entirely disarm it.

Instead, summer is here, stripping away my denial. And so the next few days will require me to steel my resolve and re-engineer some boundaries that have fallen away with the end of the school year. Lola admitted to me last night that she is raw, over-reactive, edgy. She is apologetic and contrite in moments of calm, but utterly inconsolable and manic when agitated. I know that it is impossible for me to predict and systematically eradicate everything that could possibly set her off, and I'm not even sure it is wise to try. I do want to allow her to let her true personality shine through, though. This Lola, who is so funny and compassionate and possesses such wisdom about herself and others deserves to shine.

Let Them Have The Pill!

2011-07-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

Thank goodness for email! Two days ago I saw an email in my inbox from Planned Parenthood asking me to participate in their blog carnival. They have teamed up with the National Women's Law Center to increase momentum for passage of a healthcare bill that would allow American women free birth control as part of a comprehensive package of preventative healthcare. Count me in.

The link to the list of bloggers participating is here in case you want to see what others are saying. Read on for my two cents.

Pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing are all things that, like it or not, disproportionately affect women around the world. I'm not denying that there are some very stand-up guys who choose to be intimately involved in these activities, but ultimately the life-altering issue of unplanned or unwanted pregnancies falls to women to deal with. Culturally speaking, this amounts to some degree of gender discrimination, given the time, effort and expense necessary to deal with such pregnancies.

If we are to offer women equal opportunities to participate in society, we need to afford them the opportunity to plan their pregnancies. Birth control methods in this country are effective, safe, and inexpensive and to exclude them from insurance coverage ends up costing us all more in the long run. Many of the children born to women who weren't planning for pregnancies end up taxing families financially, potentially putting them in a position to utilize social services they wouldn't otherwise need. Others are born to single mothers who don't possess the resources to care for them.

There are a great deal of women for whom regular access to birth control is not an option. For many of them, continuing a pregnancy is financially unthinkable as well. Women who cannot afford preventative health care such as birth control are even less likely to be able to secure low-cost obstetrical care during a pregnancy. Many of these women choose abortion as the best way to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. It is my sincere belief that providing free birth control would eliminate the need for scores of abortions annually.

Women who choose to continue unplanned pregnancies find their lives forever altered. Pregnancy is hard on a woman's body and, even if they ultimately choose to give the child up for adoption, the physical toll pregnancy and childbirth take on a woman can be significant. In the meantime, they may find themselves unable to perform tasks that their job requires, paying for healthcare they cannot afford, and dealing with difficult emotions about giving up their child. Those who decide to keep the child face decades of hard work, not to mention the expense of raising a child.

In a country that espouses freedom, justice and liberty to pursue happiness, it seems like a no-brainer to provide birth control at no cost. Beyond the obvious benefits of reducing the number of unwanted/unplanned pregnancies and saving on healthcare costs for the entire country, it offers American women the same opportunity to pursue their livelihoods that American men have. The birth control pill is not used for frivolous reasons. It is not as though American women are asking for insurance companies to pay for botox injections. This is a safe, inexpensive way to ensure that more women and their partners are able to plan their families reliably in order to fit their own needs.

Excavation and Forgiveness

2011-07-19T09:21:00.001-07:00

Big doin's around here. At least in my head. I'm back to working on forgiveness . And this time it is a little closer to home. This person is someone who is still in my life and is likely to be for a good, long time. And, while I knew somewhere deep in my ugly innards that I hadn't forgiven her, I didn't honestly think about it much, or acknowledge that this might be a problem. But I've bumped up against it hard lately and it is causing a swirling ball of heartburn in my gut.

What I know about myself is that when emotions cause me physical pain it is time to go to work. So I pondered as I ran on the treadmill the other day. What is it that I am so angry about? Why does it matter again so much right now in my life? And as I flitted around the edges, testing the water with a toe now and then, I had to admit that this is a big pool.

And, since Lake Mead (and Hoover Dam) weren't built in a day, I decided that flitting around the edges is good for now as long as I remain receptive to the messages that come my way. Didn't take long. As I was flipping through old magazines looking for articles to preserve before recycling the rest, the first page I came to sported an essay called "Lighten your load: Cleaning out your attic - and your mind." The very first paragraph references the Buddhist practice of nekkhamma, letting go of "ideas to which we may have been clinging for years, things that cause us stress."* I don't even remember reading this article when I first bought the magazine.

Later in the same issue there is an article about blaming and judgment. It's fairly lengthy, but since I was in "open-mind mode," I decided I'd better settle in and at least skim the entire thing. About halfway through, something jumped out. "...it's good to ask what I am afraid of being or becoming or what I am not tolerating in myself....It's also good to notice the speed with which blame happens. It's as if I have to get rid of something so fast that I don't even have time to look at it."**

Good thing I was sitting down.

I am quick to judge this particular person, all the while silently accusing her of being too critical of others.

I am afraid (and have been for years) that I am too much like her.

But what I'm beginning to realize is that my biggest problem is with my expectations of her and how she always falls short. I'm setting her up (at least in my mind) to fail. Because I get some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing that she is repeating the pattern of not being who I want her to be. Even though there is a part of me that desperately wants her to rise to the occasion.

When I'm being brutally honest with myself, I have to admit that even if she could, by some miracle, read my mind, assess my goals for her, and achieve them, it wouldn't be enough. I would mark it as a fluke, or raise the stakes next time, or just be pissed off that she hadn't done that years before now, if she was capable of it.

Turns out that the problem lies within me.

Back to work.

*This article can be found in the Winter 2010 issue of Tricycle Magazine and was written by Allan Lokos

**Same issue of Tricycle Magazine. The article is The Seventh Zen Precept: Not Elevating Oneself and Blaming Others, written by Nancy Baker

Is There a Better Way to Talk This Out?

2011-07-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

"Use your words."

"Can't we discuss this?"

"How does that make you feel?"

If I had a nickel for every time I have used one of these phrases...

And of course, those phrases are pulled out of my bag when there is conflict in the house. When things are threatening to explode or have begun exploding already. But I am convinced that, as human beings, we are afraid of differing opinions and potential conflict so much that by the time we get to this point, discussion is like trying to cut a frozen cake with a plastic knife. Merely surface.

Color me guilty.

For a while now, something has been bugging me. Something about Bubba. I'll talk to my girlfriends about it. I'll mention it in some slight, round-the-bend, cloaked in humor or false nonchalance to him, hoping he gets the hint and suddenly decides to change his behavior. What I haven't chosen to do is say it outright.

And all the while, I wonder. I create dialogue in my head, imagining what he would say if I said "X." I feel like I know him pretty well after twenty-some years, so I can fill in the blanks, right? And the thing is, I am a native Idealist from the land of Idealism, which means that I want him to change because it is the Right Thing to Do, not to appease me. I want him to feel it in his heart. But I'm afraid. Afraid that he won't care as much as I do or that he'll somehow mock me or that he will think the entire conversation is a waste of his time, and so I keep the dialogue in my head. And the more I pretend I'm talking to him about it, the more scared I get to actually have the conversation. Because by now, I have done a lot of assuming.

So by the time I found an opportunity to have the conversation with him, I couldn't look at him. We had gone to bed with our books, him lying on his stomach and me sitting up against the headboard, pillows propping my head and shoulders up. I looked straight forward and dove in. And I didn't meet his eyes the entire time we talked. Even when he gave me a perfectly Bubba, absolutely authentic, thoughtful reason for behaving the way he had that caused every cell in my body to soften and round itself in recognition that this was the man I love. This compassionate, loving person who had been missing in my imaginary discussions was, in fact, here next to me, offering a scenario I couldn't have predicted. And while he wouldn't have prompted the conversation, he was more than willing to engage in it.

Nearly an hour later, I was left with the solid reminder that these discussions always go better in real life than they do in my head. In real life, Bubba doesn't belittle me or mock me or refuse to deal with difficult situations. It is my fear and anticipation that creates those stumbling blocks for me.

I wonder if there is a simpler way to learn to talk about difficult issues. Talking it out is something I encourage my kids to do all the time, but I am not sure I have properly taught them how to do that. Perhaps that ought to be the next item on my to-do list.

Some Alchemy I Could Get Behind

2011-07-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

"Fear is excitement without breath." Robert Heller

When I first heard the quote, I had to chew on it for a while. I wanted it to be true because it seems such a magical way to flip something awful into something much more desirable. If I'm fearful, all I have to do is breathe. Or remember that, with breath, this situation would be merely exciting. And exciting is good, right?

It has been several days now and I can say honestly that I see glimpses of it. Like lucid flashes of last night's dream, I have moments where I feel like I can grasp the wisdom of Heller's words, but as soon as I pursue the thought it vanishes.

After some frustration, I decided maybe it would help to come at it from a different angle. I love words and wordplay and I kicked butt on the portion of the SAT where you have to compare groups of words (bird is to nest as dog is to __________). I love analogies. So maybe if fear + breath = excitement, then anger + breath =

equals...sarcasm? Wry humor? Generally if I'm given time to take a breath when I'm royally pissed off I can come up with some witty remark that makes my point without screaming. Although, I'm not certain that sarcasm is all that much better than anger.

This led me to wonder just how much breath we're talking about. Because I can see that (staying with the analogy) say, 15 minutes of slow, meditative breathing when I'm angry could lead to a much better assessment of the situation. In this case, anyway, it seems that more breath is better. So maybe it's the same with fear.

I still wasn't getting there. Not all the way, anyway.

My third try involved coming up with a scenario. So I conjured up something to be afraid of. And, because this was only an exercise and I tend to do things in a big way in my imagination, I went for one of the biggies. I hearkened back to the days when Bubba was sick with some mysterious illness that nearly killed him more than once. The days (three and a half years of which) before we had a diagnosis and I was never sure when he left on a business trip if he was going to be coming home again or not. That was pure, naked fear, that was. And even if I take out my mental measuring cup and add six cups of breath, I don't see how that gets me to excitement. Granted, the dictionary definition of "excite" is "to arouse or stir up the emotions of," but I generally think of excitement as a positive thing. By this definition, my emotions were certainly excited, but not in a good way - in a bleeding-ulcer-causing way.

After all of the logical labyrinths of the last week, I still can't find my way around the sense of this quote. And it's too damn bad because I really would have liked a simple recipe for turning fear to excitement.

Finding a Wider Audience

2011-07-07T12:32:00.000-07:00

In a (rare) quiet moment last weekend, while the girls were otherwise occupied throwing rocks into the lake, I admitted to Bubba that I'm feeling a bit scattered, writing-wise. Following the Writer's Boot Camp I took with Lisa Romeo in January, I was energized to work on my travel memoir. And then life crept in, slowly at the edges, and then more rapidly as water does when it finds a void, rushing to fill up every available space with carpools, after-school activities, and random, small writing projects.

Since then, I have submitted a few small pieces here and there for consideration, renewed my efforts to sell my original manuscript and all but abandoned the travel memoir to attract dust and yellow in the corner. A few rejections later, and I found myself questioning my path. Am I working on a larger project like the travel memoir or content to write blog posts and submit essays to magazines and writing contests? Can I do both?

I can't say that I have a definitive answer, but I am reminded to be cautious of what I ask the Universe for because wishes are powerful. All of this is to say that upon returning home from our holiday at the lake, I found an email in my inbox requesting submissions to a website called BuddhaChick . I quickly located what I thought was the perfect essay for their upcoming issue and fired it off. Within hours I had confirmation that the editor liked the essay and will include it in their July 18 issue. My first instinct after hollering a mental "yahoo" was to spin into other writing opportunities - find more places to submit! And then I reminded myself to sit with this triumph and absorb how good it feels. Much more satisfying than rushing off, I must say (although harder to do).

This morning, I awoke, made my latte and sat down to check my email. The first message in line was one from the editor of BlogHer's family section, letting me know that they will be featuring my previous blog post on the front page of that section starting this evening.

Abundance.

Again, I asked myself to just be in this moment. Bask in the feeling that my writing is being acknowledged on a new level and appreciated. Be grateful that my words will reach new and different audiences and create dialogue that ripples out farther than this blog.

If you haven't checked out either of these sites, please do. They are rich in content and driven by women who believe in the power of the written word and harnessing the positive energy of women to make change and create awareness.

Of Storms and Love

2011-07-05T12:04:00.000-07:00

The most hateful hate I have ever known erupts like lava from the volcano that is Eve. Accelerated by the steam of fear and frustration inside this eleven-year-old body it destroys all in its path indiscriminately. It is not about chores or homework or curfew, although that is the story. As her mother, I want to know what lies at the core, what is driving this fear and sadness.

“I hate you!”

“You don’t get it! Nobody understands me!”

The sneer of derision. She looks down on me for my ignorance, but beneath that is the stark terror that I might not "get it." That it may be that nobody will ever understand how she feels.

I am nearly jealous. At her age, such a volatile, emotional display was acceptable only within the walls of my head. Never to be uttered aloud.

I can remember wishing for confrontation to appear in my daily life. Any situation where I would be clearly justified in getting angry – an explosion that everyone would condone and agree with. I worked through scripts in my head, Dad or Mom or random strangers in the store doing me Wrong and eliciting rage like they never anticipated. I would stop them in their tracks with cold, calculating comebacks, catching their breath in their throats as sudden illumination flooded their brains – they were Wrong. I was Right.

As a teenager, I was quick to anger in the driver’s seat, honking, flashing lights, raising my middle finger. I was courageous within the steel frame of my Datsun 310, stomping on the gas as I passed little old ladies holding up traffic on Highway 101.

On sick days I would lounge on the couch watching “Days of Our Lives.” Inhabiting the diva, wishing for a chance to become indignant and furious, clever barbs and speeches designed to wound sitting lightly on my tongue.

I never imagined being the recipient of such anger. And I’m sure she feels justified, or if she doesn’t, she would never let on. And now I know that her bravado is surely false, its roots deep in fear and uncertainty and an overwhelming rush of emotion that is too much to contain. When I ask her to sit with this anger and fear and frustration, her body sheds kinetic energy – her feet stamp the ground like a wild stallion and she twists in her chair as if being wrung out to dry. Her teeth grind and she begs to be let go. This emotion is too much to bear. "Please let me go!" she screams.

It is all I can do to deflect the energy instead of letting it penetrate. This lovely, perfect creature, flesh arisen from mine, whose heart beats with a measure of my blood, is in such pain and to take it on would only destroy us both. My gift to her lies in attempting to shed this incredible energy and replace the void with love and light.

I wish it were easier.

Who Am I Today?

2011-06-27T19:28:00.000-07:00

I know that I am many things to many people: mother to my daughters, daughter to my mother, sister to my siblings, wife to my dear Bubba...I could go on, but you know the drill. And, I suppose to some extent, I rely on that. I appreciate the ability to use those personality traits that fit best in any given situation in order to accomplish certain tasks, and then change when necessary. But I always assumed that I was only one person to me, and that, even if others saw vastly different sides of my personality, at least I always knew who I was at my core.

I have recently realized, however, that it is possible to really dislike who I am when I am in the company of certain people. And I thought I was done with that. Like most people, I tried out different personas in my teen years; I was a smoker with the rebellious girls, a goody-two-shoes with those who eschewed rebellion for a while, and, depending on the stage or year of high school, I could be known as prudish or outlandishly flirtatious. During those times, I often found myself feeling distinctly uncomfortable in my own skin. Asking hard questions of myself when I was all alone in the dark at night. And actively choosing to change my actions or distance myself from certain people. But as an adult, I thought I had all of that figured out. I was pretty sure I had solidified my personality like that cup of bacon grease that sits out on the counter until mid-afternoon. Not so.

There is a group of people in my life whom I love dearly and with whom I imagine I will be associated for the rest of my life. And I decided that I don't really like who I am when I am with them. While they don't call me on it (either because they are lovely, compassionate people or because they don't know any different), I noticed that I am often whiny or defensive or something-not-quite-me when I hang out with them, and that makes me decidedly uncomfortable.

It turns out that when I first met this particular set of people, I put them all up on some sort of pedestal. Although, at the time, I wouldn't have been caught dead admitting that, I was certain that they were certain I wasn't good enough for them. And, truly, we couldn't have been more different. But I was determined to justify my existence and show them just why they needed me in their lives. And I felt righteous about it. Sometimes. Often I felt judged and that made me angry and all the more determined to show them.

And so I established this pattern of behavior that led to me proving in subtle but varied ways that I am intelligent and witty and caring and good enough. Because if they were going to judge me, I was going to prove that I was worthy of a good verdict. And now, over a decade later, when I know they love me and I love them all for their quirks and imperfections (turns out we started out very different but are really much more alike than we all thought), I am still armoring up with my good enough suit and slathering on my 50 SPF judge-screen before meeting up with them. Once begun, it seems that the habit of being "something special" in their presence is a difficult one to break. Only the motivation is that this armor is beginning to feel more like something I'm using to conceal the authentic me than something I need for protection from these people who may or may not hurt me, but who deserve my trust. And so I have decided that it is time to feel good about who I am all the time, no matter who I am with. I know it won't be easy, but having left a gathering of us all where I felt as though I worked harder at crafting a persona than I ever did in high school, I felt as though I didn't know the woman I saw in the mirror and that made me sad.

A Softer Side of Me

2011-06-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

Two years ago we moved out of the house for a few weeks while my brother-in-law ripped up all of the carpet on the main floor and replaced it with hardwoods. Two children under the age of ten, an 80-pound dog, one cat and two and a half acres had led me to the conclusion that clean-up would be a darn sight easier with hard surfaces. True, the dog hair sashayed in tumbleweeds across the wood floor to settle in the corners, but when the kids slopped chocolate milk over the sides of their cups or flung a handful of rice or pasta to the floor, spot-cleaning was a breeze.

This morning as I dragged my Dyson around by the extension, sucking up fluffs of fur and dust, crumbs and dirt from everyone's shoes, I ran up against the carpet square in front of the kitchen sink and groaned. The swath of hardwood behind me was clean, suctioned bare by the vacuum, but this rough, nubby throw rug was knotted with black dog hair, stained by food coloring and pasta sauce and food crumbs were pushed down into the texture and weave. Ugh.

It is so much less satisfying to clean the various rugs scattered around the house than it is to simply swoop the vacuum cleaner around the hardwood once a week. To truly get these clean, I am often forced to toss them into the washing machine and confront just how much I miss them when they're gone. As someone who avoids wearing shoes and socks whenever possible, I have been teased about my odd dance steps across the cold wood floor in search of a soft warm haven by my family members. But the truth is, they prefer them, too. And so does the dog.

The soft fluffy areas are more forgiving when I am standing to do laundry or cook or wash dishes. They are more comfortable on my bare feet when it's cold and I like to squish my toes down in the fibers and feel the softness brush against the skin between my toes. They are more pliable and just feel good. They do pick up more crumbs and fur and spills and hold on to them longer. They are higher maintenance and won't last nearly as long as the hardwood floors. But there are more important things than being clean and shiny. So I've decided to take down some of my "hardwood" barriers and make a concerted effort to show more of my soft, fluffy side. Maybe people will start doing funny little dance steps in my direction just to experience some of my warmth and accommodation. Maybe I'll become more attractive to those who are seeking some pliable support. And I'm certain I'll get a little dirt and muck on me, but maybe someone will spill some good, dark chocolate on me, too. That might be worth it...

Is Anyone Else Pissed Off at Justin Timberlake?

2011-06-14T16:40:00.001-07:00

I am. And my kids don't even really listen to his music. But I'm pissed off for the kids that do. And their parents.

One of the headlines on MSNBC today announced that, in an interview with Playboy Magazine, the boy band wonder turned actor admitted he regularly smokes marijuana and justified it by saying, "...it gets me to stop thinking....Sometimes I have a brain that needs to be turned off. Some people are just better high." Huh. You know, there are other ways to accomplish the same thing. More challenging ways, I admit, but other ways. Fully legal, free ways to clear your mind. Like physical exercise. Yoga. Meditation.

Just last week I saw a special on television produced by our local NBC affiliate that featured a panel of pediatric specialists fielding questions from parents of teenagers. Not surprisingly, one of the topics that came up was drug use. The doctors unanimously agreed that marijuana is known as a "gateway" drug - one that has seemingly few negative consequences and is cheap enough that most kids feel okay trying it. The 'gateway' connotation comes from the known fact that many of these kids are emboldened by their experimentation with pot and begin using other, more dangerous drugs as a result. For a number of reasons, pot seems fairly innocuous to many teens. It comes from a naturally occurring substance versus being manufactured in a lab, it is relatively inexpensive and easy to acquire, and doesn't require needles or fancy equipment to get high. Even kids who don't want to smoke it can simply ingest it in baked goods and get high.

Unfortunately, these physicians also universally agreed that marijuana has been shown to affect the brains of teenagers by impairing their brain development. "Studies of normal brain development reveal critical areas of the brain that develop during late adolescence, and our study shows that heavy cannabis use is associated with damage in those brain regions," says one brain researcher whose findings were published in the Journal of Psychiatric Research. Some of the functions that could potentially be damaged by marijuana use? Memory. Attention. Decision-making. Language. Executive functions. (You can find the report on this study here). These are fairly important, no?

So I'm pissed off. At someone who, while getting publicity for himself, would say something so irresponsible. Something that could prove so harmful to so many of his fans. I don't care if he smokes pot. I don't care if he shoots up. I don't care if he engages in any other kind of illegal activities so long as they only cause harm to himself. But I do resent him justifying his immature behavior with such a lame excuse when it could provide just the justification a teenager needs to either begin or continue using drugs, "to clear my mind." Do what you want in your own time, JT, but don't pretend that your desire to get high stems from some Zen-like need for clarity. And don't give my kid an excuse to follow in your footsteps.

Yoga Wisdom

2011-06-10T12:14:00.000-07:00

Camel terrifies me. The yoga pose, not the cleft-footed, cleft-mouthed desert beast.

The first time I ever tried it was about eighteen months ago in my favorite yoga class. I was feeling pretty jazzed because I had been coming two to three times a week for about a month and was beginning to notice some subtle changes in my body shape. I was also pleased that I seemed to be able to hold some poses longer or get into them easier and deeper. Camel hadn't been a part of this class, but I had seen it demonstrated and illustrated in yoga magazines, and I was pretty sure I could do it without looking silly.

I moved my knees to the top of my yoga mat, shins flush against the floor along with the tops of my feet. Knees bent, I faced the instructor at the front of the room as he asked us to sit up straight and tall. So far, this was good.

"Rise up through the crown of your head and expand your lungs, shining the beacon of your heart to the front of the room. Now, pull your shoulder blades down and together, letting your chest rise up even more. Gradually begin to reach your hands back to the small of your back and arch into it. If you can, reach your hands to your heels and rest them there, shining your heart up to the ceiling."

I had my palms to the small of my back for less than a millisecond before I had the sensation of not being able to breathe. My esophagus slammed shut and I literally flung my upper body forward into a neutral position. What the heck? I shook it off and tried again. It took three attempts like this for me to accept that if I pushed myself into this pose I was going to have a full-blown panic attack right here in front of everyone. Tears knotted in my throat and I slid into child's pose.

Back at home, I did a little research. Camel pose is aimed at opening up the heart. Nearly everyone gets an endorphin rush after being in camel pose and it is supposed to help with lymph drainage, massage the internal organs, and strengthen the spine. I am apparently not the only person who gets emotional or experiences difficulty performing camel. According to one site, LexiYoga, camel pose, "represents the ability to accomplish the impossible and to go through life's challenges with ease. If you feel disconnected from the world, family/relationships or are struggling with forgiveness, practicing camel pose can help you express your feelings and find compassion towards others."

Oh.

The thing is, I don't feel disconnected. In fact, I feel more self-aware and compassionate than I ever have. Even without my antidepressant (woohoo - going on three months, now!!), I feel centered and grounded and pretty joyful. So WTF?

I began to think about the poses I do enjoy. The ones that feel effortless. The ones I feel strong and accomplished at. Like Happy Baby and Pigeon and Warrior 4. Oh. Those are all hip-openers. Happy Baby is great because it releases any tension in my sacrum. Oh. What about that?

As someone who has been molested, I personally find it a little disturbing that, despite the years of therapy and the absolutely honest belief that I have forgiven the boy who perpetrated the abuse, I prefer a hip opener to a heart opener. Poses that, while not remotely sexual, have the potential to open up my hips and "offer" that part of my body more readily.

At yoga today, I was dreading the possibility that the instructor might have the class do Camel Pose. I had my excuse ready, "It scares the sh*t out of me." 'Nuff said. Only she didn't include it in today's class. And I was relieved. I got into Full Pigeon Pose and reveled in it. Imagining the tendons and muscle tissue in my hips releasing with the breath and relaxing into extension.

And when I got home, I decided to try Camel Pose on my own. In my bedroom. With the door closed. As always, just before my hands settled on top of my heels, the bile rose in my throat and I began to hyperventilate. I quickly pulled out of the pose, breathing heavily, and felt tears build just above the notch in my throat. A tingle in my nose was all it took for them to begin falling in a torrent. I feel utterly out of control in Camel. Utterly helpless. Utterly useless and worthless.

I am beginning to wonder whether my issue with this pose has less to do with my connection with others than my connection to myself. Perhaps my heart can't shine that way because I don't feel as though it is worthy of letting its light out into the Universe. I don't know for sure. But, once again, I am grateful to my yoga practice for showing me the way to the next hurdle.

Go, Fight, Win!

2011-06-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

Eve is a stubborn girl. Has been from the moment she was conceived, I'm certain. And yet, she is loathsome of conflict and confrontation. As a toddler, she didn't like to be touched or hugged by those other two-year-olds who long for physical contact. You know - the ones who hug every other kid they see? Eve hated that and would often see them coming a mile away and make her way to me as fast as her chubby, drunken little legs could carry her to hide behind my legs in fear. She had one friend in particular - her dearest, most cherished friend - who was very physical. And from time to time, as kids of that age are prone to, they would both covet the same toy. Miss Flower would see Eve playing with something she wanted and head on over. Eve, anticipating the conflict, would close her eyes, stretch her arm out in Miss Flower's direction and turn her head away in mute acceptance. You want what I've got and it's just not worth it to me to fight for it. Here, take it.

Now, that's not to say that Eve can't put up a fight if there's something she wants. But if something isn't going her way in a social situation, it is pretty rare for her to speak up. I'm trying to change that.

A few weeks ago I had coffee with a friend who was talking about her distaste for confrontation of any kind. She described a housemate who never does her own dishes and, while it was clear that it makes her crazy, she doesn't feel that it is worth it to have the difficult conversation it would take to change the situation. So she goes on doing this person's dishes and fuming about it, looking forward to the day when her housemate moves out. Since then, I've been noticing so many other instances like this in the lives of people around me.

Why are we all so afraid of conflict?

There are times when we all just lose our ability to contain our frustration and an argument or nasty fight ensues. But how often could those major issues have been avoided if we had spoken up sooner?

As a child of the 70s, I was taught not to make waves. Be polite. Accept what you're given. If you don't have anything nice to say, keep your trap shut. Don't hurt anyone else's feelings. I took it all to heart. It got me into a lot of trouble. I found myself in places I ought not to be, in relationships with people I didn't want to be with, all because I was too shy or fearful to speak up. And I wonder, looking at both sides of the equation, if I didn't do more harm than good.

A few weeks ago, Eve was having trouble sleeping. She had been working hard on her final project for school and was stressed that she wouldn't be able to finish in time. She tiptoed downstairs when she should have been fast asleep to snuggle in my lap and tell me that she felt like she was doing more than her share of the work on this project. That some of the others in her group were letting her take all the responsibility and it was weighing heavily on her shoulders. She agreed to talk to her teacher about it if I came with her. And, to her credit, she did. In front of the other members of her group. Not in a mean, spiteful way that accused others. Not with tears or whining. She simply said that she felt overwhelmed with the amount of work she was doing and wanted the others to pitch in some more. A few of the other girls acknowledged that they were letting Eve do most of the work and the teacher agreed to sit down with them and outline equal responsibilities for the remainder of the work.

Last week, after the girls presented their final project to their peers and family members, I pulled the teacher aside and thanked her. Since that discussion, Eve had not said a word about the issue, and had clearly been able to relax and complete the project without further anxiety. I was thrilled that the girls had been able to have this conversation without anger or hurt feelings.

"I think Eve learned a little something about herself, too," her teacher confided. "One of the girls spoke up to say that the reason they let her take over was because she seems to want to be in control. She is vocal, has good ideas, and volunteers to take on a lot of responsibility. When confronted with that, Eve responded that she feels panicky if she isn't in control and we were able to talk about how she can deal with that without it becoming a problem."

Hmmm. That apple didn't fall far from the tree. Maybe with examples of frank, honest discourse like this under her belt, Eve will begin to get more comfortable with confronting difficult issues. My suspicion is that, had she let this simmer a bit, she would have ended up feeling resentful and angry with her group members instead of relieved that the problem had a good resolution. In the end, the girls did some amazing work and Eve was able to articulate out loud her need to be in control.

I know that it was hard for her to talk to her teacher and her group members. I imagine her heart was racing and her palms were sweaty. But, for all of them, this was the best possible outcome, and I hope that the lesson here is that sometimes you've gotta make a few waves to rinse some of the junk off.

The One That Got Away

2011-06-03T10:30:00.001-07:00

I knew it was a stretch. But I didn't think that rubber band was going to snap.

By the time I was a junior in high school, I had been to a ton of rock concerts: Foreigner, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Yes, Rush, ZZ Top, Depeche Mode, 10,000 Maniacs, OMD, and Tom Petty, to name a few. I was lucky to be the younger sister of a completely devoted music fan and an indulgent mother. We lived on the Oregon Coast, less than two hours' drive from Portland, and for some reason, my mom figured that my brother would get into less trouble (ie. refrain from smoking pot) if he was accompanied to concerts by his little sister. Drugs were not my brother's scene, but I wasn't about to disabuse my mother of the notion if it meant I got to tag along to such cool shows.

So when U2 announced a concert and my boyfriend's older brother managed to get a block of ten tickets, I figured I was golden. Asking was simply a formality. Oh, did I neglect to mention that the concert was in Vancouver, BC? Roughly an eight-hour drive and requiring an overnight stay? But my boyfriend's brother (who was at the Naval Academy and, by all accounts, a very responsible semi-adult) was going to drive and chaperone. It all seemed perfectly innocuous to me. They were my favorite band at the time - idealistic, with powerful lyrics and songs that were also fun to dance to. They were also my boyfriend's favorite band and that would probably have been enough on its own, but I was desperate to go. This was the closest U2 had ever come to Portland and, with the intense conviction that this was probably going to be the ONLY chance I would ever have to see them LIVE in CONCERT, my mom had to say yes.

Only she said no. I was stunned. But not for long. I quickly went into negotiation mode, followed by anger, pleading, more negotiation, utter breakdown, and hatred. I'm pretty sure those are the seven stages of teenage angst: stun, negotiate, anger, plead, negotiate again, tearful breakdown, hate your parents. Yup, that's it.

For some reason, she thought the drive across the border into another country to see a rock concert attended by tens of thousands, followed by an overnight stay in a hotel chaperoned only by my boyfriend's college-age brother was a bad idea. Huh. I can't say I saw her point. In fact, I don't think I spoke to her for a week. And when my place got taken by another of our friends and I had to suffer through the description of the entire weekend they had all together without me I was certain I would dissolve in my own churning stomach acids. And my only consolation was that my mother would feel really bad if I did.

I held that grudge for about a decade. Honestly. I am certain that until the moment I first held my newborn baby girl on my chest at the hospital, feeling that fierce mother-love slip its tentacles into my every morsel, I still hated my mother for not letting me go. And now I look at Eve and get it. What the h*%# was I thinking even asking? What the h*%# was my mother thinking letting me and my brother drive to Portland alone together to go see KISS in concert? There were people sitting in the row in front of me whose gallon-sized popcorn bucket held both the salty treat and their drug stash, tucked inside a plastic baggie. They had purchased said baggie just outside the coliseum, along with several dozen others in the crowd. Am I likely to let my girls go to concerts alone? Insert snorting laughter here. Not. Bloody. Likely. I'll drive them, drop them, and pick them up right outside, yes I will. And I won't give a damn if they hate me for it.

But I digress. Last year, U2 announced another concert tour and, having heard this story several times before I forgave my mother, Bubba rushed out and spent a fortune on tickets for the two of us. Ahh, sweet redemption. And a sweet husband. And then, one month before they were to be in Seattle, Bono threw out his back and they cancelled the rest of the tour. WTF? Was I destined to be denied U2?

Until tomorrow, anyway. Tomorrow night, barring any magnificent horror the Universe throws at me or the band, I will be sitting outside at Qwest Field in Seattle grinning from ear to ear and soaking it all in. I'm sure there are more devoted fans. I'm certain I'm not the most fanatical U2 groupie (nor do I aspire to that). But I will finally get to see U2 live in concert, more than 20 years later. And, Mom? I forgive you.

Heartfelt Assignment

2011-05-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I cried over my dad. Well, since the anniversary of his death, May 2nd. But, before that, I had gotten to the point where I mostly just felt his presence every once in a while and acknowledged it gratefully.

Time to start the countdown over again for number of days since I cried about Dad.

Lola is finishing up her final novel study for school this year. Her group has been reading a book about a girl who gets a magic pen. Whenever she writes short stories with this pen, they eventually come true. It takes her a while to figure it out, and once she thinks she knows what is going on, she tests it out by writing things she fervently wishes would come true. When they don't happen immediately, she tosses the pen away in disgust. Unfortunately, her wish eventually does come true and, by then, she has lost the pen forever.

Anyway, Lola's teacher asked each of the kids to pretend they had this magical pen and write their own wish. After dinner last night, Lola showed me hers:

"Dear Papa,

I wish you would come back alive VERY SOON. I will have dreams about seeing you

soon. I have gotten very lonely without you and I miss when you and I can sit together

and look at the chickens sitting in your kitchen. You probably miss your cats. I LOVE you

and I'll see you soon (I Hope).

Much Love,

Lola"

It brought me to my knees. They did used to sit together at my dad's kitchen table and catalog the different kinds of chickens and roosters my dad's wife had collected and displayed throughout the kitchen. They used to crack each other up. When I remember the way my father used to look at my girls, I absolutely cave in. A giant sinkhole opens up in the middle of me and swallows everything from the inside out. He had this amused, tender, perfectly whole love for them plastered all over his face. I know that it is this that Lola misses the most. Me, too.

Why FAIL is a Dirty Word

2011-05-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

There are few words that slam into my gut with such force as FAIL.

I don't mind tripping up, making a mistake, having to say, "Oops!" or even (gasp!) screwing something up. But I don't like to FAIL.

Failing seems so final. So irretrievable. So...well, all-encompassing. It is a short leap from FAIL to FAILURE. There is no corresponding descriptor for someone who makes mistakes. They are not a "mistaker." You can describe someone as a screw up, but at least in my mind, that conjures up teenage boys shoplifting cigarettes from the mini-mart or shooting spitballs in class and getting caught. There is redemption available from that, even if it takes a while or a move out of town to college where nobody knows your delinquent teenage history.

I went to a new yoga studio last week. There was this collective group coupon thing and the studio was near my house and, normally it is prohibitively expensive, but with this deal I could try it out ten times for pretty cheap. And my girlfriend was going, too, so I thought I'd try it. And at this point, I'm pretty sure that unless I can avoid taking a class with the owner of the studio, I won't use the remaining classes I paid for. Because he likes the word FAIL. A lot.

Despite his admonitions to not think too much, be in the moment, respect our bodies' limitations, and remember that yoga is primarily an exercise in training the mind and not the body, he quickly went all Marine-Corps-boot-camp-break-'em-down-to-build-'em-up on me. At one point he polled the class to see if we wanted to do some "ab work" (although I'm pretty sure he was going to do it no matter what anyone said). He then proceeded to have us to 200 crunches. In a room heated to 104 degrees. After already doing nearly an hour of intense yoga. And did I mention that even the floor is heated? So lying down to do crunches feels like as much relief as a slab of bacon feels when you flip it from one side to the other in a hot skillet.

We didn't know we were doing 200 crunches. Thankfully. I am pretty sure I would have set my mind to cheating from the start had I known. Instead, he had us lie on our backs, extend one leg up into the air at a 90 degree angle to our torso, and put the other one straight out in front of us, hovering above the floor about two inches. And then do crunches. And he counted. And at about 40, I took a break. I rallied again from 60-80 and then took another break. And at 100, his booming voice filled every nook and cranny of the room.

"For those of you who haven't FAILED (for the record, I'm not exaggerating his use of the word here - he put a lot of emphasis on that hateful set of letters), hang in there. Those of you who FAILED, forget it. But for those who didn't FAIL, go ahead and hold it there for a moment. If you FAILED, I already know. This room has mirrors everywhere. You can't fool your instructor."

Ouch.

And after those stellar performers who are somehow motivated by NOT FAILING held their quivering abs in flexion for another ten seconds or so, we switched legs. And after the next 100 crunches, he repeated the same speech, just in case those of us who felt so badly about our inability to do each and every crunch on one side had already forgotten how much we had FAILED.

Yeah, I won't be back. At one time in my life, the avoidance of the appearance of FAILURE would have motivated me. But only if I knew it might be an issue before I started something. Like a test at school or a race at the track meet or peeing my pants onstage during the ballet recital. But after the fact, it just feels mean. And, now that I'm not a kid anymore, it pisses me off.

So when I turned on my local NPR station yesterday to discover Tim Harford talking about why failing is so important to our learning processes, I was intrigued. His new book, "Adapt: Why Success Always Starts With Failure" sounds like something I want on my bookshelf. As the interview progressed, I had that feeling you get when something happens just the way you expect it to. Like when you come home to see your cat lying quietly in the sunspot on the living room carpet and, as you reach out your hand to stroke her back, that delicious warm, silky feeling shivers into your palm just like you knew it would. That's how my brain felt listening to Tim Harford talk. We know this stuff. We know that making mistakes is vital to gaining knowledge. We know that for every success story, there are underwater-icebergs full of Whoops! moments. But we still push each other to be infallible. To avoid looking silly or miscalculating. Or FAILING. And I suspect that, often the words we use in situations like this have so much more impact than we know. Like I said, I don't mind making a mistake or even screwing up.

I don't honestly know whether I could have sucked it up and forced my body to do 200 crunches under the cracking whip of Mr. Yoga Ego. I do know that the 100 or so I actually did made my stomach muscles sore the next day. A good sore. A sore that meant I did some. And maybe it means that next time I'll try for 150. Or not. Regardless, it doesn't speak to my worth as a human being. Or a yogi. And it doesn't mean I FAILED.

Divorce is Not a Dirty Word

2011-05-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

In the last year, several of the women I know - some as acquaintances and others as close friends - have either separated from their husbands or begun divorce proceedings. One night as I snuggled up to Bubba on the couch after he beat me (again) at Scrabble, I said, "Seems like everyone we know is getting divorced." I was trying to sound casual, but really, I was shocked. Bubba and I have been married for 17 years. Most of our friends have been married as long and have kids, stable jobs, and own houses. Every time I heard of someone in our social circle having relationship challenges, my mind would begin firing from all corners, desperately trying to make connections that would convince me Bubba and I are immune to similar issues. It was very much the same process I went through as a teenager when a parent or teacher would tell the story of someone my age who got pregnant/overdosed on illegal drugs/wrecked their car. "Not me, and here's why," my brain would assure me with as many bullet points as it took to bring my heart rate and hyperventilation under control.

As a child of divorced parents, I always wanted to make it about the Worst Case Scenario. Well, they got divorced because there was abuse or someone cheated. I'll never marry someone who could do that to me, right? Of course, that forced me to confront all sorts of things about my parents that I didn't particularly want to think about, such as: how could they not know what the other person was like when they got married, or how could one of them treat the other one so poorly, etc.

A few months ago I was having lunch with a friend who was getting divorced after 17 years of marriage. The couple has three children and she and her husband are bending over backwards to make sure that the kids remain front and center in their lives. Theirs will be an amicable divorce. But that doesn't spare either of them from the stigma and judgment offered from friends, family, and society-at-large. Those who think they are intimate enough ask for details - why? I suspect that it is less out of some sense of voyeurism than a desire to then perform the mental machinations that result in, "Whew! That's why this couldn't be me." Those who don't outright ask for details either assume answers or sneak about to discover them. This friend of mine said that one of her closest girlfriends, upon learning that the couple was divorcing, said to her, "Congratulations on 17 years of marriage. You guys had a good run and produced some damn fine kids."

Whoa. Cool. She's absolutely right.

It's none of my damn business why anyone else's relationship ends. Unless one party is a victim of the other one and is asking for my help, I don't even want to know. Honestly, when I look back at my own life and realize what a completely different person I am now as compared to when I got married, it's a wonder I haven't had to change my name to reflect the metamorphosis I've gone through. And it's the same for everyone.

How many of us knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what we wanted to be "when we grew up" at the age of 10? I did. A pediatrician. Or a teacher. Am I either of those things? Not remotely. Who knew what they wanted to be when they declared a college major? I did. A family practitioner in some small, rural podunk town on the West Coast. Am I there yet? No, thank goodness.

There are some fundamental things that have remained steady in my life since I was young; my love for animals and nature, my sense of justice, my idealism, and my constant search for knowledge. But my taste in food, clothing (thank God - I had the 80s rocker-chick hair and parachute pants), books, and nearly everything else has evolved. When I married Bubba, I was certain of a few, core things - I was going to medical school, I was never going to have children, and we would be married until the day we died. Didn't make it to medical school after spending a few years working as a surgical assistant. That was a game-changer during the first days of healthcare reform a la HMOs. Lasted six years of marriage before waking up one day and feeling a yearning to be a mother so strongly that I couldn't think of anything else. As for my marriage, it is strong and healthy and I still hope that we will stay together forever, but I'm not making any bets.

People change. There is no such thing as "grown up." The reasons we fall in love with someone and get married are often perfectly "right" at the time. And over time we learn and evolve and grow. And our partners do, too. But we don't always do this in syncronicity.

The divorce rates in the United States went up sharply from the mid 1960s to the early 1980s. They have since leveled off some, and even dropped a bit after 2000. I don't claim to know the reasons for this, but I do know that as long as marriage is around, divorce will be around, too. According to a website called Divorce Guide, these are the top 10 reasons people get divorced:

1. Infidelity
2. Lack of communication
3. Abuse (emotional/physical/sexual)
4. Money issues
5. Sexual incompatibility
6. Religious/cultural differences
7. Boredom
8. Parenting issues
9. Addiction issues
10. Priority differences

I'm pretty sure that the entire list could be boiled down to two things - communication issues and priority differences. And the fact is, those are the things that change most within individuals over time. When we are in our 20s, most of us are beginning to figure out how to communicate effectively with others. Introduce children to the mix and you start all over again. As for priorities, mine shift slightly with every new life experience I have. When I think about it this way, I begin to understand fully why my friend's girlfriend said what she did. It is hard work to maintain relationships with people. And choosing to end a relationship is always hard, regardless of whether it is a co-worker, close friend or partner. But sometimes it is necessary. So instead of feeling sad for my friends who are getting divorced, I choose to compliment them on their success in navigating the tricky waters of marriage for as long as they were able, and support them in their efforts to find happiness in their lives as they move forward.

How to Have a House Concert

2011-05-16T15:32:00.000-07:00

1. Find yourself an incredibly talented singer/songwriter like Edie Carey who is coming to your area and is willing to do a house concert.

2. Send out a "Save the Date" notification to all your friends and family.

3. Two weeks before the concert, send out reminders and begin panicking that things won't go as well as you want them to.

4. One week prior to the date, ratchet up the panic as a few people cancel and send out emails to the rest, telling them to invite their friends.

5. Get a friend to put together a lovely case of wine for your guests and count your wine glasses.

6. Have Bubba prep the smoker, make his famous rub and BBQ sauce and buy two enormous slabs o' pork shoulder.

7. Pick up your oldest, dearest friend from the train station the day before the concert and confide your fears (the "I'm having a party and nobody's going to come" variety) to her while she commiserates and helps you set everything up.

8. The night before the concert, massage Bubba's rub into the pork and smoke it for twelve hours over some hickory chips.

9. The day of the concert, spend hours catching up with your friend, sporadically setting up chairs and furniture and utensils and wine glasses.

10. As your guests stream in the door, realize that this night is going to ROCK!

11. Pour yourself a glass of wine, watch everyone congregate around the spread of food and listen to the conversation fill up the kitchen.

12. Call everyone to the living room where you introduce Edie and watch her captivate everyone, young and old, male and female, with her humor, her musical talent, and her genuine-ness. Revel in the fact that you are getting to share your love of her music with an entire group of people you care about. Hear them laugh at her jokes, sing along in perfect harmony, and enthusiastically cheer her performance while outside, the dogs and some kids are playing in the yard (except when your dog peeks in the window to whine along with the music.)

13. Say goodnight to your guests, secure in the knowledge that each and every one of them had a terrific time.

14. Make a cursory effort to tidy up but end up leaving most of it for the next morning.

15. Collapse into bed and feel incredibly blessed to have shared such a wonderful evening with some really special people.

If you haven't listened to Edie Carey's music, I can't say enough about it. Her songs grab me because they are so real, the themes so universal. Her voice has an incredible tone and she is a whiz on that guitar! I have seen her perform live three times and each time I am struck at her ability to perform. She speaks to the audience as an honest, genuine human being. She tells stories, both in and around her songs, and she is engaging and connected to the people she is singing for. Go visit her website and look up her tour schedule. Find her somewhere near you and go listen. You will be enchanted. I promise.

Sweeping Without a Broom

2011-05-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

"Let everyone sweep in front of his own door, and the whole world will be clean.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“It is easy to dodge our responsibilities, but we cannot dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities.” Josiah Charles Stamp

Ahh, personal responsibility. We are a nation enamored with the concept. We are also enamored with the notion of individuality; individual freedoms (to a certain extent), individual rights, individual responsibility. We expect people to clean up their messes if, for some reason they haven't managed to avoid making them in the first place. Unfortunately, we don't always provide them with the tools they need to do either of these things. And therein lies the rub.

We are a nation that loves instant gratification and thrives on the ability to "keep up with the Joneses." Hallelujah for credit! Visa and MasterCard give us the opportunity to spend money we don't have on things we want now. Sub-prime mortgages and "zero down" financing offer us chances to spend money we won't likely ever have. Our children and grandchildren see the economy collapsing under the weight of such ridiculousness, and hear every day on the news that the economy would rebound more quickly if we just went out and spent more money. Huh? Is it any wonder they're confused? And how many of them will learn about money management in school? How many of their classes will educate them about saving money and contingency planning? If these classes aren't available, how many of their parents will be able to talk to them about these things? I remember two of the "life skills" classes I took in high school: Personal Finance and home economics. We talked about calculating interest rates and were taught the proper way to write a personal check in Personal Finance class. In Home Ec, we did a little sewing, a little meal preparation, and one very memorable day, a cosmetics expert came in to teach us the proper way to apply our makeup without creating wrinkles around our eyes. I didn't feel precisely qualified to manage the finances of a household upon graduation. I'm certain I'm not qualified to teach my kids money management skills based on those two "practical life" classes.

Yesterday, the House of Representatives passed yet another bill that is aimed at blocking access to reproductive healthcare for millions of American women. They claim that their intent is to reduce the number of abortions (hopefully to zero) in our nation. If this is an attempt to force women to live up to the consequences of their mistakes (ie. premarital or unprotected sexual activity?), I fear that they are asking women to sweep up a mess without providing them a broom or proper instruction on its use. Defunding Planned Parenthood and making access to other facilities where women can get objective, non-biased information about their own bodies is worse than that. It is actively denying them access to the broom and the class on sweeping. How can we expect people to avoid mistakes or learn from them when we don't offer them information? If we fight against sexual education classes in our schools and rail against birth control, we are expecting people to gain this vital education by what, osmosis? If we don't teach each other what we know about the more difficult things in life, we can't expect any change. You can't hold someone responsible for making a mistake they had no way of preventing.

Individuality is important. Differences are often what creates color and vibrancy in life. But not enough can be made of the power of tapping into a collective base of information. There will always be people who learn best by making mistakes over and over again, but for those who could benefit from the wisdom of others, isn't it our responsibility to pass that information on?

Albert Einstein once characterized insanity as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." This applies to entire cultures as much as it does to individuals. We can't keep telling generation after generation that we expect them to clean up their own messes if we don't provide them with the tools to either do so, or avoid those messes in the first place. Rebuilding our economy by asking people to spend more money only props it up for the next generation to overspend again. We will find ourselves right back in the same position, just as we have so many times before. And telling women and girls that they ought not to get pregnant without giving them ways to prevent pregnancy won't affect the rate of unwanted pregnancy in our country. Personal responsibility is a good thing, but it is impossible to sustain without knowledge.

“Today, more than ever before, life must be characterized by a sense of Universal responsibility, not only nation to nation and human to human, but also human to other forms of life.” Dalai Lama

2011-05-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

Lola is making a scarf for one of her teachers. She found some thick, alpaca yarn in our craft box one day and remembered that, once upon a time during a quiet moment in class, this teacher taught her how to finger crochet. She decided it would be cool if she put those skills to use and, after polling everyone in the house to see who could help her, she settled on me, whose yarn-craft skills are limited to, well, scarves.

She set about crocheting a long chain of warm, fuzzy wool and when she figured it was long enough, she came to me and asked how to turn the corner and double back. Tough to do when finger-crocheting. Even tougher when this seemed like good idea because it wouldn't take long and now you're realizing that the days are getting longer and sunnier and what you really want to do is go outside and shoot baskets instead of picking at yarn until your fingers cramp. She stuck to it for several days, though, and I was pretty excited.

This morning, she discovered a knot in her yarn. The scarf is nearly done and Lola was looking forward to being free of this task that has taken on a life of its own, so her frustration tolerance was pretty low to begin with. Monday mornings are not her strong suit, either, given that they require lots of transitions - weekend to weekday, getting dressed and eating on a schedule, deciding what to pack for lunch, ensuring that all the homework you did way back on Friday is actually complete and in your backpack, etc. So this knot was a problem. She pulled and tugged, gently at first so as not to rip out all of the stitches she has done up to this point, and then with more gusto as she realized this knot was stubborn.

In the beginning it wasn't much of a knot and I tried to step in and caution her not to pull it tighter, but she brushed me off, determined to do it herself. I watched with mounting frustration, my bottom lip thrusting up and the corners of my mouth pulling down in that universal look of, "Oh, no!" as the knot itself became smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter. By the time she had reached the end of her patience it was in there good.

The last time I got really mad at Bubba I did the same thing. Instead of treading lightly and reaching in gently to unravel the issue, I pulled. Without yelling or screaming, I moved away from the knot because it made me uncomfortable. At the same time, I mortared my resolve to be mad by justifying my anger in my head, ticking off all of the reasons I was "right" to be upset. Tugging, tugging away at that knot. Even though I know that moving toward the issue and looking at it from all sides was the only way to undo it, I pulled away. Instead of trying to get those two opposing ends to come together and work around, under and through the problem, I cemented that knot in there.

Try it. Get a piece of string or ribbon about ten inches long and tie a loose knot in it. There is no way you're getting that knot out by pulling the ends in opposite directions. But if you gently reach your fingers in there, between the strands, and loosen them, all the while pulling the disparate ends closer to each other, you'll soon have your string back. Now, I know there are all types of different knots, some much more complicated than others, but I tend to think that the vast majority of trouble we get ourselves into with each other is of the garden-variety, regular old knot type. No matter how complex it seems, the best way I know to get that knot out is to move toward it with the intention of using our wits to unravel it. I've never met a simple knot I can undo with brute strength.

2011-05-05T13:16:00.000-07:00

I love Charles Darwin. Ever since we had to pair up and do experiments on pea plants in high school biology, I have been fascinated by evolutionary science. It makes so much sense to me and I love the predictability of putting together different scenarios and knowing what you'll get. I use it to my advantage a lot, too, telling Eve that she's lucky she got my eyesight and not her father's (all the while overlooking the fact that she definitely got my teeth which, so far, has cost Bubba and I over $6,000.00 in oral surgery and orthodontia and we're not done yet!). I also like to point out that Lola's cowlick's are her father's fault.

Often, when there is some cultural phenomenon that bothers me, I go into what I consider my "Caveman Reverie." Just this morning when Eve and Lola were bickering about the placement of the car's garbage bag in the back seat and why it ought not to sit closer to one of them than the other (I swear, the only thing in it were gum wrappers and the label from Lola's pink lemonade - not vomit or anything), I began wondering why they fight so much.

"You know, girls, I suppose back in Caveman Days when siblings had to compete, this snarky behavior was probably necessary. You know, they had to make sure that they were the preferred kid so that when there wasn't enough brontosaurus meat to go around, Mom and Dad would choose the kid they liked the best to give dinner to. But, honestly, now? No evolutionary reason for you two to fight like this. So knock it off."

I'm pretty sure they shut off all listening capabilities as soon as I said the words, "you know."

I Just Want to Write!

2011-05-05T12:42:00.000-07:00

The table around my laptop is a nest of magazines I want to submit essays to and books about editing and finding agents. The digital bookmarks on my laptop are peppered with "submission guidelines" and "editorial submissions" and "writing contest entries." Every day after I drop Lola and Eve at school and find myself with at least four empty hours stretched out before me, I race home to...to...

Write? Not exactly. You see, I've done a lot of that. And I hesitate to do more without some direction. I have a small pile of rejection letters to show for my completed manuscript, none of which add up to one piece of advice on how to make it better. Despite email responses to each of the people who read it asking them if there were specific things they didn't like about it, I have no feedback. I got no answers.

A few months ago I got excited about writing an essay for an anthology. The idea for the essay had actually occurred to me independent of any publication - it was just a story I wanted to tell and I thought it was compelling. So I kicked it around in my head for a few days and then stumbled upon an anthology seeking submissions that were Right In Line with my idea. I took it as a sign. I wrote the piece, polished it, let it sit for a few days or a week, and then worked it over again. I sent it in with one day to spare and waited. Last week I got a lovely, apologetic email from the editor saying that they had had so many submissions...not enough room in the book...went with a particular theme that my essay didn't quite fit...if they found some extra room, they would be sure to let me know....

Last week I spent some time soul-searching about whether or not my manuscript ought to be published. So many people I talk to about it are enthusiastic and encouraging. They seem to want to read it. But I have to go back to the reasons I wrote it. And every time I do, I get that same old fire in my belly. That electric sensation in the soles of my feet that spur me on. Yes, I still have passion for this project.

Ultimately, it's that part of me that needs boundaries and expectations that is holding me back. The part of me that thrived under my Marine-Corps-father's clear-cut rules because I knew, knew, knew what was Right. That little girl is casting about for an authority figure. An agent or editor or publisher to say, "Here is how this needs to go. This many pages, this is your thesis, we need it by Wednesday." I could do that. Instead, I send out sample chapters and query letters and CVs in hopes that I can convey to someone, anyone, what this book is really about. And, in the meantime, I'm losing my perspective. I find myself slowly beginning to wonder whether the manuscript is really crap and people are just afraid to tell me honestly. And I wish for someone to say that, if only so I could rise up and fight. Or go back and make it better.

What I think I know is that I won't be able to put the manuscript away and never think about it again. Not because of the time invested in it, but because the reasons I wrote it were so important. Throughout my life, this one thread runs strong and clear, of understanding others from the inside out, an attempt to shine light on our human-ness and our similarities and the importance of connection. A new way of talking to each other, engaging with each other, comprehending each other - that is what this project is about, and I can't abandon it. But I honestly don't know what direction to take it in, so it sits. Occasionally I will rework the query letter and send it off to someone else. Each time I get fired up again and think, "This is the agent/publisher/editor. This is the one and once he/she accepts the project, I'll know why it couldn't be any of the others." And I think that's how it is supposed to be, but the question keeps coming up: then what? Am I expecting some nirvana moment where the clouds part to allow the sunshine in and the birds sing in perfect harmony and butterflies erupt from the daphne bush next to me?

What I know I know is that I can't not write. Regardless of whether or not anything of mine ever gets published in a traditional sense, I won't stop writing. I believe that each of us has a unique way of relating to the world and ourselves. Writing is mine. It is what smoothes the wrinkles in the cloth of my psyche and illuminates my understanding of the people and events around me. It is what connects me to my own roots in time and space and allows me to reach ever higher and stretch forward into a hopeful future. And maybe that is where the problem lies. It is writing that I enjoy, that stokes my inner fire. The marketing bit only stirs my stomach acids. I am convinced of my message; its importance and relevance. But I felt that way about Thin Mints, too, and I was never really all that comfortable knocking on my neighbors' doors to proclaim their virtues. I was not that elementary student who won prizes for selling the most magazine subscriptions. I was the one who begged her father to take the order form to work and put it in the lunchroom for a week and wasn't surprised when he brought it home completely devoid of any writing at all.

I am coming to the conclusion, however, that unless I dig deep and find some way to convey my passion about this project, it is not likely to be published. I need to stop being the Girl Scout selling someone else's cookies and become the recipe-master, chest-bustingly proud of herself for this unique invention, off to share it with the world. In that way, it becomes less about foisting it on some hapless neighbor who answers the door to a child and more about offering a new perspective, a gift of writing. Somehow, I need to stop apologizing for what might be wrong about the book and start singing its praises. I need to come to a place where I'm not justifying or defending my work, simply holding it up to the light and proclaiming that I like what I see.

Why I Can't Be Happy About Osama's Death

2011-05-02T12:36:00.000-07:00

It's the same reason I chose not to spank my kids. Fear is a powerful motivator, yes. But the only thing I've ever seen it motivate anyone to do is hide. Hide their intentions. Hide their actions. Hide their plans. And in my house, growing up, spanking was used as a tool for control because it inspired fear. "Do you want a spanking?" Heck, no! So we learned to lie. We learned to behave a little better, too, but it certainly didn't teach us right from wrong. We learned avoidance.

When Bubba and I decided, very intentionally, to get pregnant, I voiced my very strong opinion against spanking. At the time, it was naive and optimistic and borne out of my pacifist ideals. Later, when Eve would get willful or fight against napping, and when she was two and her favorite philosophical position was, "NO!" it became a question. Why can't I spank her? Why did I think this was a bad idea? And it prompted some mental exploration on my part.

My knee-jerk reaction was that hitting another being was wrong. Period. Wrong with a capital-W. Why? Recalling my experiences with spanking, for myself and my siblings flooded my senses with fear. I don't want my child to be afraid of me. But it was more than that. Each and every time I was spanked, it came from a place of anger. My parents were furious with me and they showed it. In some cases, that anger was nearly out of control, and it was always palpable. As a child, I vowed (for many reasons) never to be out of control. Responding to my child, or anyone else for that matter, in extreme anger, rage, or frustration was frightening to me.

I learned to step back. I learned that it is perfectly acceptable to take a time-out and breathe and consider my options. I learned that automatic consequences that were borne of rage tended to be overblown and out of proportion and they generally were incapable of being carried out: "No TV until you're 16, young lady!" I also learned that as I took time to consider my options, I could learn a little bit about the situation and gain insights that I hadn't noted previously. Unless I chose to hang on to the anger and let it simmer. In which case it turned to score-settling and revenge-seeking.

I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. I awoke to the phone ringing and answered to hear my father-in-law's voice telling me to turn on the television. He was rattled and I sat riveted to the news reports all morning, eighteen-month-old Eve strapped into the Baby Bjorn on my chest. I was overwhelmed with sadness. I was also confused and a little bit frightened. And since that day, our lives have changed a lot as Americans. And I completely understand the anger and hatred and rage directed at Al-Qaida and Osama bin Laden. But I don't think his death will change anything.

Watching the news coverage last night, I took in the sight of the growing crowd in front of the White House as they chanted and held up signs. I acknowledged the notion that this provides closure for a lot of people. And I was saddened that, for many individuals, the over-riding sense was that a score had been settled. I can honestly say that I don't think acts based in anger or rage or vengeance can ever "end" a feud. I have never seen an argument settled when the last word spoken was out of hatred. Osama bin Laden may have masterminded some atrocious acts in his life, but his death will only add fuel to the fire for those who believed in his brand of terrorism. This is not a game of Chess. Osama was not the opponent's king who, once cleared from the board, signals the end of the match. There are no "fair" rulings here. I am not saying that a just punishment for Osama bin Laden is not warranted. I am simply saying that to take joy in the death of someone else cannot provide any sort of healing for anyone.

I am certain that my parents don't wish they had spanked us more as children or reacted in anger more often. I know that, these days, when Eve and Lola ask my mother if she really used to spank us with a wooden spoon, she cringes. I'm pretty sure I know what that means.

Culmination

2011-04-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

At Eve's school, they have Culmination ceremonies instead of mid-terms or finals. The purpose of these gatherings is to demonstrate their proficiency with the material they have been studying to their peers, teachers, and families. The school very much has a "stand and deliver" philosophy that encourages the girls to truly achieve mastery of each subject and understand it in a way that they can then teach it. The point is to ensure that they aren't simply cramming their heads full of facts that will promptly be forgotten once they lay their pencils down.

Last night, we went to the second such ceremony and, just as I was the first time, I was struck speechless. The theme last night was "Literary Salon." The girls have been studying fairy tales, both modern and ancient, and their impact on culture and were tasked to create their own books, complete with illustrations. In addition, they have been talking about personal identity and were asked to create what Eve's teacher calls a "river" poem, honoring many of the tributaries that flow into them to make each girl a whole. Finally, they have been studying music (guitar, keyboards, singing, and music theory) individually and as a group. The girls performed in groups, recited their poems individually, and read their stories aloud to the family and friends gathered in the room. Not only were they asked to memorize poems and music, they were asked to find their voices and their courage to speak publicly and showcase their talents and creativity.

The grand finale came as each and every girl in the class sat down with her guitar and they played and sang "Lean On Me."

"Sometimes in our lives

We all have pain

We all have sorrow.

But if we are wise

We know that there's

Always tomorrow.

Lean on me

When you're not strong

And I'll be your friend.

I'll help you carry on.

For it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need

Somebody to lean on.

Please swallow your pride

If I have things

You need to borrow.

For no one can fill

Those of your needs

That you don't let show.

Lean on me

When you're not strong

And I'll be your friend.

I'll help you carry on.

For it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need

Somebody to lean on.

If there's a load

You have to bear

That you can't carry

I'm right up the road

I'll share your load

If you just call me.

So just call on me, sister

When you need a hand.

We all need somebody to lean on.

I just might have a problem

That you'd understand.

We all need somebody to lean on."

I was absolutely (to the intense mortification of Bubba and Lola) brought to tears. These girls, each of them so different, were really singing this song to each other. There are girls who come from broken homes, lesbian homes, girls being raised by extended family, African American girls, girls from Cambodia and those of Latina descent. There are girls on scholarship, a girl whose father was recently killed in Afghanistan, girls with learning disabilities and one who is repeating fifth grade. There is a girl adopted from China, another who has never met her birth father, and others who wish they hadn't. There are girls who are proficient in mathematics and others who are great with music or art. There is a girl with a debilitating anxiety disorder and one whose mother recently battled breast cancer. These girls know all of these things and more about each other and yet they banded together when everyone was cleaning up last night after Culmination to ask their teacher to let them perform an impromptu song for us all. They have spent evenings together camping on the beach in the cold, wet Pacific Northwest, cooking meals together and pitching tents and holding each others' hands and heads as they got seasick on a boat. Despite their differences, they are united in their accomplishments as young women of passion and humor, ideas and love for life that literally brought me to my knees. This is not a group that is concerned with gossip or fashion, boys or competition for the spotlight. This is a group of young women who are well on their way to finding out who they are as individuals and recognizing their strengths as a group. And I, for one, am honored to be a spectator of it all.

Make Love, Not War

2011-04-27T16:37:00.000-07:00

I am a pacifist. It started when I was a freshman in high school and I read Thoreau's "Civil Disobedience." I was so captivated by it that I convinced my English teacher to add it to the semester's teachings, much to the chagrin of the rest of the students.

On beyond the idealistic years, (several of which I spent as a vegetarian, as well) of high school and college, while I protested the death penalty and marched in pro-choice rallies, I still believe that war is never the answer to a nation's problems. I am not naive enough to think that there are simple solutions, and I don't intend to get into a political or moral discourse here, and as a realist and a citizen of today's world, I fully accept the reality of war in our human experience.

I have never been much for history, however, and so my understanding of war and other conflicts that have happened in the past is mostly based on what I learned from textbooks in the 1970s and 1980s and what I hear on NPR now. But one thing strikes me over and over again and that is just how easy it has become for nations to wage war on an enormous scale. Notwithstanding the financial cost, thanks to the technologies we have developed, instead of hand-to-hand combat with your 'enemy,' where you might be forced to look him in the eye and acknowledge his existence as a fellow human being, we can now wipe out entire city blocks from miles up in the sky as though this were some ultra-realistic video game. Instead of smelling the metallic tinge of blood on the ground or one's clothing, we simply see smoke and rubble. The depersonalization of conflict seems as though it would make killing less psychologically painful for the soldier. Certainly not for those on the ground who are witnessing the violence, nor for those who are dispatched to clean up the mess, patching up limbs and faces and removing bodies from battlefields, but for the pilots dropping bombs and the generals ordering airstrikes, it seems that they are removed from the acts of violence they are committing.

[Please know that I am not condemning any of those who served in the armed forces. I know that their work is done with conviction and a desire to help. I support their sacrifices in the name of their beliefs without judgment, despite the fact that I fervently wish for a world in which war did not exist.]

Rather than anger, the subject merely prompts sadness on my part. Until yesterday when I was listening to a reporter embedded with the rebel forces in Libya describe the scene there. His report served to bring the listeners close enough to hear the shells explode and get a vivid picture of the loss of life. It occurred to me that, since this phenomenon of sending reporters out with troops began, the tide may have begun to turn. The average citizen who is privileged enough to get honest media coverage is not just a little bit closer to truly understanding the impact of warfare on human beings. Despite the fact that our weapons are still technologically capable of letting us kill masses of other people from afar, there is a human element. Reporters can interview physicians in the battle zone and describe with painful clarity what is happening to individuals, soldiers and civilians alike, real-time. While many of the soldiers involved in the conflict may not be fighting face-to-face, those at home listening or watching the coverage can actually see what we are doing to each other in the name of war/conflict/uprising/substitute other euphemism here. And if there are those who aren't inured to the violence, perhaps we can begin to build some understanding of just exactly the harm we are causing to other human beings. Perhaps this understanding can lead to examination of our goals and, if we can lean into the discomfort of killing other people because they don't agree with us or because they have something we want, maybe we can begin to have a dialogue about whether or not there are other ways to go about living together on the planet.

I can only hope.