Well, technically I haven't yet...the DVR'd account of the wedding of Prince William to Kate Middleton is still sitting on the machine. I chose to record the BBC America version, rather than the major American networks. I figured I'd catch enough of their feed through the internet. And well, it is a British wedding, with British royals, and British people...so I figured a British perspective might be more interesting.
And yes, I teared up when I saw the snippet of them at the altar, reciting their vows. The new Duchess of Cambridge, ever so beautiful in her last few moments as just Kate; and the dashing Prince, heir to the throne, respelendent in his military finery. So young, so in love, so patient...and so seemingly well adjusted.
I don't call it a fairy tale wedding - I think it's far from it. And I'm tired of the reports of how Common Kate was just that, and now grew up to marry a Prince and become the Queen of England some day. But she's not reeeeeally common. She may not be royal by blood, but it ain't just any broad that attends St. Andrews. Now, if Wills fell for a dove that he met in some bar in one of his college jaunts that was uneducated but spunky...that might fall into the fairy tale category.
But I think it's just a lovely story for a troubling time. A symbol of hope that love can happen, and outlast the ridiculous media assault that added to the demise of Wills' parents marriage and inevitably, and tragically, his mother's death. A success admist a cacophany of failures in the world; a moment in time when we all weren't concerned with oil, or caves, or weaponry, or despots.
If nothing else, the entire wedding from plan to execution was pulled off in a miraculous amount of time - enough to make you believe that no florist or caterer should ever tell you you have to wait two years to get them. But then again, I guess it's easier to clear calendars when you have the entire monarchy behind you.
So many of us witnessed the marriage of Charles and Diana, and then the consequent births of William and Harry...almost they have become like distant family. To see him grow up to be a respectful and respectable man, one who seems to love life and, like his mother, do what he can with what he has to improve the lives of others, and then make the very prepared and mature step to marriage was moving, to say the least.
I sincerly hope the best for them. And for all of us.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A Seder Of My Own
I finally did it. I got to cross off an item on the bucket list. Not as dangerous as say, skydiving (on my actual list), or as adventurous as summiting Everest (not on my list), or even as bold as publishing a book (yes, on the list too). It was to hold a Passover seder, in my home, with friends and family invited. Simple in concept, way more complex in execution than anticipated, but a gracious challenge I relished for days (as all the preparation literally took that long), an exhausting effort (I crashed for most of the following morning), and a personal inspiration that I hope to replicate year after year.
I recall years of family seders, held at my great-Aunt Harriet's, up in Blauvelt, NY - which at first I didn't understand, but knew them to be fun because all of the family was together. My aunt always opened her table to friends (Mamma Mia was always a hit - though I never learned her real name), and the family grew with each passing year. Wonderful stories were shared of all of our lives, impromptu performances were held in the living room, the annual "debate" over whose matzoh balls were better, and the traditions and rituals shared by those who conduct a Passover seder all of the world became ingrained our memories.
Not having been to Hebrew school myself, this was always my biggest exposure to Jewish custom - and I would venture to say the most impactful (as opposed to the twice yearly sitting at the synagogue, the accompaniments to friend's synagogues or Hebrew school classes, or the weddings and bar/bat mitzvahs that I would attend through my lifetime). The only Hebrew I ever learned was through this night (and I still find it funny that it's the prayer blessing the wine that stuck), and I was grateful for the phonetic accompaniments in the Haggadah, that eventually I didn't need to use.
I learned all about the Exodus from Egypt, I eagerly anticipated the dipping of my finger into the wine for the plagues, and I watched my father and his first cousins, and his father and brother (the great-uncle I've spoken of), and their father helm the table leading us rousing song and through the passages of the book. I searched for the afikomen (even though we always knew Uncle Lowell always put it in the piano bench), I welcomed Elijah at the door and shrieked when cousin Michael showed himself there instead. I collected my silver dollar with all the other "kids" secretly knowing my parents would toss me theirs too at the end of the night. I ate and ate until I couldn't move anymore, and I loved to listen to the many generations together, speaking as one when reciting the various blessings.
Funny that I always refer to it as my Aunt's home, as she was barely visible during the seder, handling all of the fixings in the kitchen, her dog Ginny (no idea if that's how it was spelled, but that was what I heard) always at her heels as she would reel in and out of the kitchen with the next course. My great-Uncle, Lowell, was as kind a man as they come, and the two of them built and created a home that I always felt held a sort of magic that I couldn't quite pin down, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed. But I do always refer to it as her home. Perhaps it was because so much of her artwork and handicraft was all over the house, maybe it was all the smells from the fabulous food that she created, maybe it was her strong personality combined with her distinctive look; her practical haircut, her colorful clothes, her sandals...women where I grew up didn't look like her. They were always trying to be skinnier, fancier, more well-dressed and well-made up than the next one, teetering about in uncomfortable clothing ordering food from restaurants, hiring cleaning ladies and purchasing art from somewhere in Manhattan...trying so hard to be fabulous and interesting...and never quite getting there.
When Harriet and Lowell finally decided to leave the New York area and follow two of their children to Texas (which astounded us all - parents following their children? Unheard of back in the day!) it was never quite the same. No one who was left was willing to take on the responsibility and task (likely seen as a chore, rather than a gift) of the seder, and it was moved to the country club our family belonged to. Lots of Jews, lots of golf, lots of jewelry, and lots of hairspray. Lots of food, and lots of seder particpants, but it was all so sterile and institutional compared with the family tradition, which was never made clearer than during the first rendition of Dayenu and my family barreled through with their usual verve ending with a rousing HEY!, while the rest of the participants droned into line three. With each passing year, the family and table count grew smaller.
After leaving for college, apparently my grandmother hosted a seder (which must have been something else, because in all of my years up until then the only thing I thought she could make was reservations), but I wasn't able to come home, or maybe I just didn't choose to as life takes funny turns. My parents were separating, and it's all kind of a weird blur in those years.
Then nothing.
In the spring of every year, I would recall the fond memories of seders past. I had moved across the country and was involved with a very un-religious group of people...spiritual yes, but not consigning to any particular modern faith and so never thought to seek out another family's seder to sit in on. We all did Thanksgiving in a big way, and solstice celebrations, Halloween was a big one, and New Year's...well, I can't recall a lot about them in particular, but do remember the recoveries on New Year's Day. There was no Passover, no Easter, no holidays at all involving religious observance to speak of and it was all fine with me. Nothing would touch or top the memories of my youthful seders with my extended family in New York.
When I moved to Florida, I landed squarely in a font of Christianity - not the Florida I remember, which was laden with happiness and tears of what seemed like every Jewish retiree from Massachusetts to Delaware and who brought their culture with them kicking and screaming to sit among the palm trees and take in the god-awful humidity. No, I was on the other side of the state, where churches abound like Starbuck's coffee shops, and quite often the first question from a stranger, was not "So what do you do for a living,", but "What church do you go to?". Boca...this was not. A knish was unheard of. People mistook my quest for a nosh as a need to regurgitate.
And now I was in the family way. A husband and two young children, and my entire social network either 3,000 or 1,500 miles away depending on which coast you chose. Whereas many folks immediately seek to find a church or synagogue, which will provide them with a instant community, (whether that was their intention or not), we simply weren't of that ilk. My husband was and is what he calls a recovering Catholic, and at best, I considered myself a Convenient Jew - you know, the kind that can call upon the heritage when needed - like for a day off of work or school, and be able to back it up with some actual information and knowledge.
The thought of a Passover seder was farthest from my mind. It wasn't until a few years into living here, that my grandparents, residing on the coast of the Chosen People in Florida, invited us to their seder - at "the club", a common component of retirment communities. I'm not sure why it took so long, maybe they were waiting for a high sign, the right time, I don't know...but nevertheless it happened. We ferried the kids over the three hours, we sat in the room with 700 people, and ate the bland unseasoned chicken and chopped liver designed for the senior colon that left my husband seriously jonesing for some fast food afterwards...on both nights. But for me, suddenly there was a glimmer. Family was together, food was on the table, and stories and traditions of old were being shared. What was to come next?
The next year, we returned again, my son now able to read (he was a young reader), particpated in the seder, in front of the 700 people, yamacha sliding off his head, holding the microphone that was as big as his arm, reading for the first time in his life the four questions, as if he'd been reading them from birth. I glowed. I felt a transformation come over me as I watched him through the eyes of generations of Jewish mothers, beaming with pride, basking in his confidence, and lovingly accepting the numerous compliments of those we knew and the countless strangers who offered them as well.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't running back to temple to sign up for Hebrew lessons to finally make my Bat Mitzvah (I wrote that off a long time ago - not because I think its not achievable, I just don't think it's necessary for me personally), and I didn't go seeking a congregation to become a part of. But I did reconnect. I reconnected with a culture almost 6,000 years old, that runs through my veins as surely as my eye color, my hair color, and my propensity for the more zaftig of physiques. And I promised myself then and there that I would restart that seder tradition. That I would open my home to family and friends, and create an evening that would be remembered fondly, and that my children would eagerly anticipate each year. That I would figure out how to instill a sense of tradition, by hook or by crook, into my family in a way that makes sense to us, and keeps us connected to each other, to the generations, and to the world.
This year was actually NOT my first hosted seder. Technically, it was last year. I consider it my dress rehearsal. I invited no one (except my grandmother, who I actually knew wouldn't likely make the trip over - not that she wouldn't want to, but she's not much of a traveller these days), as I had no idea if I could pull it off. I wanted to be sure we didn't need to order Chinese take out for sustenance because of a massive kitchen failure. I'm not really a cook, and I'm certainly not a traditional dinner on the table at 6 kind of mom. For years my kids favorite meal that Mommy makes was Outback. And the idea of cooking multiple courses and conducting a ceremony, making sure all the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed - was completely foreign to me. It had always just been done for me. Even back in the days in Blauvelt I was still too young to get into the kitchen - and the one time I did go in - I admit was at once fascinated and terrified - all those women prancing about, stirring, and chopping, and preparing, and rolling, steam rising, and the smells converging...I vowed never to do so again, unless asked to and given a task.
But I pulled it off, much to my own surprise. I think my son was a bit disappointed to read the questions only in front of us - people he sees every day, but we all enjoyed it, I think my daughter most of all - she loves her some traditional Passover foods. I made all different types of food that we never had at my Aunt's, or the country club, or at my grandmother's community club...just to further separate it maybe, and make it more of my own. And at the conclusion of that meal I promised myself it would officially grow every year.
Which brings us to now. Three solid days of preparation, one full day of cooking, and consequently one full day of cleaning for what amounts to a two to three hour meal was worth every single moment. It certainly appeared from the oneset as though I knew what I was doing. The table was set beautifully (and thank you Target, for carrying an affordable seder set available at the last minute), and the food all ready on time and together. As the night wore on, my apprentice-level skills became more evident by the moment. Yes, I overcooked the brisket (glad I added a roast chicken). But I was on a curve, and all of the other pieces turned out okay and considering I was preparing for three times the people, all in all, a culinary fait accompli. We used a new Haggadah that maybe I should have read through in its entirety beforehand (just to get a sense of the rhythm - there were no surprises contained therein), and I should never have planned on actually sitting, but since my husband lost his voice, and as it is has only a few seders under his belt (and all of them the ones from my grandparent's club) with no sense of what happens next I felt I needed to guide things along. Five young children up and down up and down through the meal, participating at different levels (funny to see my son the oldest child at a gathering), all eager to be given tasks and give good college tries to the foods put before them (overall success was found with the matzoh ball soup), and who all had to get up for school the next morning, certainly added a liveliness to the pacing of evening. My friends lending their calmer hands to so many tasks, including the breakdown and clean up and their patience and laughter throughout the ordeal, my mother and stepdad pitching in all day in so many ways...
It was beautiful. Chaotic at times, yes, but we hit all the points: the stories, the songs (okay, we need to brush up on the songs), the food, the ceremony, the friends, the family. My desire to do it again? And again? And again? More than intact. I even put everything away in one place, inlcuding the recipies so as to have a one-stop-shop for years to come. My son now calls it the Passover Pantry- which could not make me happier. And we'll see where this takes us. Will it be as big as my Aunt's? Well, we might need a bigger house for that, but I could reconfigure some things I suppose. Will it be as memorable? I'm sure. Will it be our connection to a culture and world beyond our front door. Absolutely.
Next year, Jerusalem? Likely not. But next year, Definitely.
I recall years of family seders, held at my great-Aunt Harriet's, up in Blauvelt, NY - which at first I didn't understand, but knew them to be fun because all of the family was together. My aunt always opened her table to friends (Mamma Mia was always a hit - though I never learned her real name), and the family grew with each passing year. Wonderful stories were shared of all of our lives, impromptu performances were held in the living room, the annual "debate" over whose matzoh balls were better, and the traditions and rituals shared by those who conduct a Passover seder all of the world became ingrained our memories.
Not having been to Hebrew school myself, this was always my biggest exposure to Jewish custom - and I would venture to say the most impactful (as opposed to the twice yearly sitting at the synagogue, the accompaniments to friend's synagogues or Hebrew school classes, or the weddings and bar/bat mitzvahs that I would attend through my lifetime). The only Hebrew I ever learned was through this night (and I still find it funny that it's the prayer blessing the wine that stuck), and I was grateful for the phonetic accompaniments in the Haggadah, that eventually I didn't need to use.
I learned all about the Exodus from Egypt, I eagerly anticipated the dipping of my finger into the wine for the plagues, and I watched my father and his first cousins, and his father and brother (the great-uncle I've spoken of), and their father helm the table leading us rousing song and through the passages of the book. I searched for the afikomen (even though we always knew Uncle Lowell always put it in the piano bench), I welcomed Elijah at the door and shrieked when cousin Michael showed himself there instead. I collected my silver dollar with all the other "kids" secretly knowing my parents would toss me theirs too at the end of the night. I ate and ate until I couldn't move anymore, and I loved to listen to the many generations together, speaking as one when reciting the various blessings.
Funny that I always refer to it as my Aunt's home, as she was barely visible during the seder, handling all of the fixings in the kitchen, her dog Ginny (no idea if that's how it was spelled, but that was what I heard) always at her heels as she would reel in and out of the kitchen with the next course. My great-Uncle, Lowell, was as kind a man as they come, and the two of them built and created a home that I always felt held a sort of magic that I couldn't quite pin down, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed. But I do always refer to it as her home. Perhaps it was because so much of her artwork and handicraft was all over the house, maybe it was all the smells from the fabulous food that she created, maybe it was her strong personality combined with her distinctive look; her practical haircut, her colorful clothes, her sandals...women where I grew up didn't look like her. They were always trying to be skinnier, fancier, more well-dressed and well-made up than the next one, teetering about in uncomfortable clothing ordering food from restaurants, hiring cleaning ladies and purchasing art from somewhere in Manhattan...trying so hard to be fabulous and interesting...and never quite getting there.
When Harriet and Lowell finally decided to leave the New York area and follow two of their children to Texas (which astounded us all - parents following their children? Unheard of back in the day!) it was never quite the same. No one who was left was willing to take on the responsibility and task (likely seen as a chore, rather than a gift) of the seder, and it was moved to the country club our family belonged to. Lots of Jews, lots of golf, lots of jewelry, and lots of hairspray. Lots of food, and lots of seder particpants, but it was all so sterile and institutional compared with the family tradition, which was never made clearer than during the first rendition of Dayenu and my family barreled through with their usual verve ending with a rousing HEY!, while the rest of the participants droned into line three. With each passing year, the family and table count grew smaller.
After leaving for college, apparently my grandmother hosted a seder (which must have been something else, because in all of my years up until then the only thing I thought she could make was reservations), but I wasn't able to come home, or maybe I just didn't choose to as life takes funny turns. My parents were separating, and it's all kind of a weird blur in those years.
Then nothing.
In the spring of every year, I would recall the fond memories of seders past. I had moved across the country and was involved with a very un-religious group of people...spiritual yes, but not consigning to any particular modern faith and so never thought to seek out another family's seder to sit in on. We all did Thanksgiving in a big way, and solstice celebrations, Halloween was a big one, and New Year's...well, I can't recall a lot about them in particular, but do remember the recoveries on New Year's Day. There was no Passover, no Easter, no holidays at all involving religious observance to speak of and it was all fine with me. Nothing would touch or top the memories of my youthful seders with my extended family in New York.
When I moved to Florida, I landed squarely in a font of Christianity - not the Florida I remember, which was laden with happiness and tears of what seemed like every Jewish retiree from Massachusetts to Delaware and who brought their culture with them kicking and screaming to sit among the palm trees and take in the god-awful humidity. No, I was on the other side of the state, where churches abound like Starbuck's coffee shops, and quite often the first question from a stranger, was not "So what do you do for a living,", but "What church do you go to?". Boca...this was not. A knish was unheard of. People mistook my quest for a nosh as a need to regurgitate.
And now I was in the family way. A husband and two young children, and my entire social network either 3,000 or 1,500 miles away depending on which coast you chose. Whereas many folks immediately seek to find a church or synagogue, which will provide them with a instant community, (whether that was their intention or not), we simply weren't of that ilk. My husband was and is what he calls a recovering Catholic, and at best, I considered myself a Convenient Jew - you know, the kind that can call upon the heritage when needed - like for a day off of work or school, and be able to back it up with some actual information and knowledge.
The thought of a Passover seder was farthest from my mind. It wasn't until a few years into living here, that my grandparents, residing on the coast of the Chosen People in Florida, invited us to their seder - at "the club", a common component of retirment communities. I'm not sure why it took so long, maybe they were waiting for a high sign, the right time, I don't know...but nevertheless it happened. We ferried the kids over the three hours, we sat in the room with 700 people, and ate the bland unseasoned chicken and chopped liver designed for the senior colon that left my husband seriously jonesing for some fast food afterwards...on both nights. But for me, suddenly there was a glimmer. Family was together, food was on the table, and stories and traditions of old were being shared. What was to come next?
The next year, we returned again, my son now able to read (he was a young reader), particpated in the seder, in front of the 700 people, yamacha sliding off his head, holding the microphone that was as big as his arm, reading for the first time in his life the four questions, as if he'd been reading them from birth. I glowed. I felt a transformation come over me as I watched him through the eyes of generations of Jewish mothers, beaming with pride, basking in his confidence, and lovingly accepting the numerous compliments of those we knew and the countless strangers who offered them as well.
Don't get me wrong - I wasn't running back to temple to sign up for Hebrew lessons to finally make my Bat Mitzvah (I wrote that off a long time ago - not because I think its not achievable, I just don't think it's necessary for me personally), and I didn't go seeking a congregation to become a part of. But I did reconnect. I reconnected with a culture almost 6,000 years old, that runs through my veins as surely as my eye color, my hair color, and my propensity for the more zaftig of physiques. And I promised myself then and there that I would restart that seder tradition. That I would open my home to family and friends, and create an evening that would be remembered fondly, and that my children would eagerly anticipate each year. That I would figure out how to instill a sense of tradition, by hook or by crook, into my family in a way that makes sense to us, and keeps us connected to each other, to the generations, and to the world.
This year was actually NOT my first hosted seder. Technically, it was last year. I consider it my dress rehearsal. I invited no one (except my grandmother, who I actually knew wouldn't likely make the trip over - not that she wouldn't want to, but she's not much of a traveller these days), as I had no idea if I could pull it off. I wanted to be sure we didn't need to order Chinese take out for sustenance because of a massive kitchen failure. I'm not really a cook, and I'm certainly not a traditional dinner on the table at 6 kind of mom. For years my kids favorite meal that Mommy makes was Outback. And the idea of cooking multiple courses and conducting a ceremony, making sure all the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed - was completely foreign to me. It had always just been done for me. Even back in the days in Blauvelt I was still too young to get into the kitchen - and the one time I did go in - I admit was at once fascinated and terrified - all those women prancing about, stirring, and chopping, and preparing, and rolling, steam rising, and the smells converging...I vowed never to do so again, unless asked to and given a task.
But I pulled it off, much to my own surprise. I think my son was a bit disappointed to read the questions only in front of us - people he sees every day, but we all enjoyed it, I think my daughter most of all - she loves her some traditional Passover foods. I made all different types of food that we never had at my Aunt's, or the country club, or at my grandmother's community club...just to further separate it maybe, and make it more of my own. And at the conclusion of that meal I promised myself it would officially grow every year.
Which brings us to now. Three solid days of preparation, one full day of cooking, and consequently one full day of cleaning for what amounts to a two to three hour meal was worth every single moment. It certainly appeared from the oneset as though I knew what I was doing. The table was set beautifully (and thank you Target, for carrying an affordable seder set available at the last minute), and the food all ready on time and together. As the night wore on, my apprentice-level skills became more evident by the moment. Yes, I overcooked the brisket (glad I added a roast chicken). But I was on a curve, and all of the other pieces turned out okay and considering I was preparing for three times the people, all in all, a culinary fait accompli. We used a new Haggadah that maybe I should have read through in its entirety beforehand (just to get a sense of the rhythm - there were no surprises contained therein), and I should never have planned on actually sitting, but since my husband lost his voice, and as it is has only a few seders under his belt (and all of them the ones from my grandparent's club) with no sense of what happens next I felt I needed to guide things along. Five young children up and down up and down through the meal, participating at different levels (funny to see my son the oldest child at a gathering), all eager to be given tasks and give good college tries to the foods put before them (overall success was found with the matzoh ball soup), and who all had to get up for school the next morning, certainly added a liveliness to the pacing of evening. My friends lending their calmer hands to so many tasks, including the breakdown and clean up and their patience and laughter throughout the ordeal, my mother and stepdad pitching in all day in so many ways...
It was beautiful. Chaotic at times, yes, but we hit all the points: the stories, the songs (okay, we need to brush up on the songs), the food, the ceremony, the friends, the family. My desire to do it again? And again? And again? More than intact. I even put everything away in one place, inlcuding the recipies so as to have a one-stop-shop for years to come. My son now calls it the Passover Pantry- which could not make me happier. And we'll see where this takes us. Will it be as big as my Aunt's? Well, we might need a bigger house for that, but I could reconfigure some things I suppose. Will it be as memorable? I'm sure. Will it be our connection to a culture and world beyond our front door. Absolutely.
Next year, Jerusalem? Likely not. But next year, Definitely.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Selling at School
Ooh - this won't be pretty, or eloquent, or poetic, or philosophical...I'm just pissed. You would think there might be at least ONE place your kids go to that they aren't subjected to a hard sell/soft sell/anykindofsell.
At my kids' school, they had a writer and illustrator team come in and give a little seminar on how they made their dream (their book) happen. It was quite a good little presentation (as I listened to it a few times over as they brought in a few classes at a time). The women talked about finding something you are good at, practicing it, being patient, working hard, sticking to it, etc., and even a piece about not being jealous because someone is better at something than you are. They read from their book, and explained the background behind it - both the narrative and the artwork...and the kids even responded with a lively question and answer period thereafter.
And the ladies were done. They did say that a flyer was to go home with everyone that explained how they could have their very own book if they wished, and that they should talk it over with Mom and Dad. Okay, I'll give them that.
But then, one of the school staff really let the kids have it. "You could have your very own copy, with your very own name inside, written to you by the author and the illustrator. It would be very special and unique. You can only get that here if you buy the book through us. Wouldn't that be nice to have? Your very own special copy?"
That's not fair. That's just not fair. Of course every kid wants something special. Of course they'll want something personalized from the pretty ladies who talked to them about their dreams coming true. And now, for just under $20 every parent has to make a decision to either avoid the conversation and just send in the money without knowing the actual content of the book (okay, you should be able to trust your school on content - but even that's not a perfect process), or be beleagured by a child or children who now think you don't believe in them or their dreams because you won't buy the book.
Kids are vulnerable. Kids are susceptible to marketing. And as educators, the people we entrust our kids to every day, they should simply know better.
At my kids' school, they had a writer and illustrator team come in and give a little seminar on how they made their dream (their book) happen. It was quite a good little presentation (as I listened to it a few times over as they brought in a few classes at a time). The women talked about finding something you are good at, practicing it, being patient, working hard, sticking to it, etc., and even a piece about not being jealous because someone is better at something than you are. They read from their book, and explained the background behind it - both the narrative and the artwork...and the kids even responded with a lively question and answer period thereafter.
And the ladies were done. They did say that a flyer was to go home with everyone that explained how they could have their very own book if they wished, and that they should talk it over with Mom and Dad. Okay, I'll give them that.
But then, one of the school staff really let the kids have it. "You could have your very own copy, with your very own name inside, written to you by the author and the illustrator. It would be very special and unique. You can only get that here if you buy the book through us. Wouldn't that be nice to have? Your very own special copy?"
That's not fair. That's just not fair. Of course every kid wants something special. Of course they'll want something personalized from the pretty ladies who talked to them about their dreams coming true. And now, for just under $20 every parent has to make a decision to either avoid the conversation and just send in the money without knowing the actual content of the book (okay, you should be able to trust your school on content - but even that's not a perfect process), or be beleagured by a child or children who now think you don't believe in them or their dreams because you won't buy the book.
Kids are vulnerable. Kids are susceptible to marketing. And as educators, the people we entrust our kids to every day, they should simply know better.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Cookie Time
First time selling Girl Scout cookies since I myself was a Girl Scout. Of course, this is my daughter's turn and I was so very impressed by her ease in producing the pitch, remembering the facts, and turning on the charm. What bothered me was how her persona changed when she participated in the sale with a group of other girls.
Very democratically, each girl took a turn at a house, as we went door-to-door in the old traditional style through our neighborhood. Rory had first dibs because she is the youngest, and the first door she knocked on she came out ahead and strong. Then she watched the older girls on their calls, who are not as bold, not as confident, and much more self-aware. And by Rory's next turn she had completely changed her approach to reflect that of the other girls. This disturbed me somewhat. Don't get me wrong, to an extent I understand...I do...and I can remember the need to fit in, the need to NOT want to stand out, the need to connect with peers on their level to receive their compassion, their sympathy, their perceived friendship. What I can't remember is when that changed for me...and thank goodness it did. Though admittedly, I have felt the pull of the comfort of "normalcy" particurlarly in the parenting mode - though I likely know quite a few folks who would say I've never been "normal", and quite a few who would say I'm the most normal person they know...
I pulled her aside and asked what happened to her approach and she shrugged, looked to the ground and mumbled the age-old cop out, "I don't know,". As the evening wore on she did come back around to her usual self for the most part, but slightly...damper. She enjoyed herself and was proud of her end result and was very tired - so I chose to not harp on her assimilation to the crowd.
Interesting to see it all from above, so to speak...as an observer. What I hope most is that I can teach her to find a balance - to be herself in all its glory, and at the same time, not let it blaze out of control.
Very democratically, each girl took a turn at a house, as we went door-to-door in the old traditional style through our neighborhood. Rory had first dibs because she is the youngest, and the first door she knocked on she came out ahead and strong. Then she watched the older girls on their calls, who are not as bold, not as confident, and much more self-aware. And by Rory's next turn she had completely changed her approach to reflect that of the other girls. This disturbed me somewhat. Don't get me wrong, to an extent I understand...I do...and I can remember the need to fit in, the need to NOT want to stand out, the need to connect with peers on their level to receive their compassion, their sympathy, their perceived friendship. What I can't remember is when that changed for me...and thank goodness it did. Though admittedly, I have felt the pull of the comfort of "normalcy" particurlarly in the parenting mode - though I likely know quite a few folks who would say I've never been "normal", and quite a few who would say I'm the most normal person they know...
I pulled her aside and asked what happened to her approach and she shrugged, looked to the ground and mumbled the age-old cop out, "I don't know,". As the evening wore on she did come back around to her usual self for the most part, but slightly...damper. She enjoyed herself and was proud of her end result and was very tired - so I chose to not harp on her assimilation to the crowd.
Interesting to see it all from above, so to speak...as an observer. What I hope most is that I can teach her to find a balance - to be herself in all its glory, and at the same time, not let it blaze out of control.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Move over, June Cleaver
Two days into this domestic engineer mess and I managed to get the kids clean, ensure their homework was done, make dinner (with homemade french fries AND a green vegetable - OK, Rich did handle the steak on the grill) AND a cake (with decoration) for my husband's birthday, all ready at the right time - and we were done BEFORE 8PM. This allowed us to actually play a family game together before bedtime. What the hell is happening to me!?
Monday, January 04, 2010
So much time...
I am really bad at not working an organized job. I always envision myself as good at it, but then, periodically the opportunity arises and I am terrible. Whereas I could get an inhuman number of items done in a ridiculously small window of time, I seem to get nothing done when I have all day. I suppose I should be a bit easier on myself as this is only day one of my new unemployment. I should look at it as a brain break - before having to delve into new adventure. Right? Well, that's how I'm going to look at it. Brain break. Just hope it don't get dun broke!
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Thursday, April 03, 2008
No Better Place
A friend of mine lost her son a few weeks ago. He was 20 years old and there is still is no conclusive reason why he died. She just found him in his room on a Saturday morning, dead on the floor.
The first line of his obituary read that he had gone on to a better place.
That made me angry. I was angry that he was gone. I was angry that she had to go through this. I was angry that for that family nothing would ever be the same. But most of all I was angry at the whole notion of using that ridiculous phrase.
I understand why people do. It makes them feel better. Gives sense of sorts for the senseless passing. Provides solace to breaking heart.
But please, if something were to happen to me...please don't use that phrase in my obituary. There is no better place than right here, with my children, my friends, and all that is around me. No better place than being where I can see the awe in the eyes of my children as they learn something new. No better place than where I can hear their laughter or comfort their fears. No better place than where I can kiss them goodnight, and exchange big sloppy razzleberries with them. No better place than where I can watch them grow and develop into what I hope are healthy adults that will contribute positively to society.
And I can only hope and pray that I am allowed that gift every day for many, many years to come.
The first line of his obituary read that he had gone on to a better place.
That made me angry. I was angry that he was gone. I was angry that she had to go through this. I was angry that for that family nothing would ever be the same. But most of all I was angry at the whole notion of using that ridiculous phrase.
I understand why people do. It makes them feel better. Gives sense of sorts for the senseless passing. Provides solace to breaking heart.
But please, if something were to happen to me...please don't use that phrase in my obituary. There is no better place than right here, with my children, my friends, and all that is around me. No better place than being where I can see the awe in the eyes of my children as they learn something new. No better place than where I can hear their laughter or comfort their fears. No better place than where I can kiss them goodnight, and exchange big sloppy razzleberries with them. No better place than where I can watch them grow and develop into what I hope are healthy adults that will contribute positively to society.
And I can only hope and pray that I am allowed that gift every day for many, many years to come.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Remembering Jim
My friend, Jim, died the other day.
In his sleep.
He was 44.
My friends aren't supposed to be dying yet.
I only knew him for a couple of years, but he'll be with me forever.
My first impressions of Jim could not have been more wrong - and as time passed and we shared stories, and laughter, and sadness, and anger, and friends, and quite a bit of tequila, I grew to admire and adore my neighbor, and was happier and happier about the future that lay in store for our neighborhood, with Jim at the core.
But now things are different.
We're all feeling a bit lost.
But on Saturday, a full week after his death, after the memorial services, and the days of shock and bewilderment, we came together, whether on purpose or not, as we always have here on our street, with food and drink, and children playing together, and stories and laughter, and somehow enjoyed ourselves again.
Even though it was a little bit emptier, a little less loud, and the tequila wasn't there.
And we included him in our stories, and in our laughter.
Even though the Harley didn't come out for a ride.
And we ate and we drank, and we toasted to Jim.
Even though his West Virginian drawl and mutter wasn't heard.
We felt just a little bit back to normal.
Even though we know it won't be, can't be exactly the same again.
We all love you, Jim. You'll always be a part of our neighborhood. We'll all keep an extra set of eyes out for your kids, and your wife. We'll all smile whenever we hear a Harley, or see a 'vette, or line up the Cuervo. We'll feel you at every ball game, whether here on the block or out on the field.
So long, soldier. Ride strong, brother. Save the other half for me, friend. We'll catch up again sometime...
In his sleep.
He was 44.
My friends aren't supposed to be dying yet.
I only knew him for a couple of years, but he'll be with me forever.
My first impressions of Jim could not have been more wrong - and as time passed and we shared stories, and laughter, and sadness, and anger, and friends, and quite a bit of tequila, I grew to admire and adore my neighbor, and was happier and happier about the future that lay in store for our neighborhood, with Jim at the core.
But now things are different.
We're all feeling a bit lost.
But on Saturday, a full week after his death, after the memorial services, and the days of shock and bewilderment, we came together, whether on purpose or not, as we always have here on our street, with food and drink, and children playing together, and stories and laughter, and somehow enjoyed ourselves again.
Even though it was a little bit emptier, a little less loud, and the tequila wasn't there.
And we included him in our stories, and in our laughter.
Even though the Harley didn't come out for a ride.
And we ate and we drank, and we toasted to Jim.
Even though his West Virginian drawl and mutter wasn't heard.
We felt just a little bit back to normal.
Even though we know it won't be, can't be exactly the same again.
We all love you, Jim. You'll always be a part of our neighborhood. We'll all keep an extra set of eyes out for your kids, and your wife. We'll all smile whenever we hear a Harley, or see a 'vette, or line up the Cuervo. We'll feel you at every ball game, whether here on the block or out on the field.
So long, soldier. Ride strong, brother. Save the other half for me, friend. We'll catch up again sometime...
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
To Worship at the Temple of Consumerism
I went to Atlanta the other day. Nice weekend. Great weather. My kids, my husband - it was a great little getaway - all a surprise to me, and some much needed Q-time with the fam. My kids have a future in espionage, I believe - because children under the age of 10 typically do not show such restraint in spreading information that is exciting to them. Kudos to them...they have learned well! Oh, that trait will likely backfire on me as a parent when they are teenagers - but that's a different story.
So, we take the town, hit the aquarium, play in the parks, eat great food, and then spend the day in the city's newest tourist attraction - the NEW World of Coca-Cola. Now, I'd never seen the OLD World of Coca-Cola, however, I can attest to living in it for the past 37 years.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect - I mean, really, the entire facility is really just a gigantic, glorified advertisement for one of the world's most pervasive products...ever. The welcome lobby and waiting room were both completely lost on my children - who have never had more than a few sips of Mommy's Diet Coke in their lives. They've never tasted regular Coca-Cola, and aren't big fans of anything fizzy. People kept asking them what their favorite soda was, and proudly, they stated, "water!" to which the attendants replied, "what flavor water?" and they would reply, "no flavor, just plain water! Or milk." I haven't seen that look of shock since my son said he didn't like french fries. They also haven't quite lived long enough to remember the advertising slogans that made history, or understand the breadth of meaning in seeing the phrases repeated in 50 different languages.
But they did understand "The Happiness Factory", which I guess, is their pet name for the project. The name alone gave me the chills. Into the theater we filed, and I knew something was wrong from the start. The illusion they poured millions in to create was already blown, as the giant screen to display the "documentary" - you'll see why I used quotes later on, was stuck in the up position, already revealing the esophagus into the belly of the beast, which was hosting a spasmodic sphincter that my daughter noted multiple times "Mommy, why does the door keep opening and closing?" . The attendant tried her hardest to calm the crowd, offering random cola history and testing the knowledge of the audience in consumerism. After about 10 minutes, she gave up, apologizing profusely and directing the crowd out - not through the intended entrance, but an alternate one - akin to the back hallways of a mall, if you've ever been privy to them - no magic, bright lights, lots of plaster. We plainly followed her direction, eventually ending up in the main hub of the center, but without the grand greeting and direction that would come later, to the thousands that followed. So the few hundred of us wandered a bit aimlessly, like marbles in a big glass jar. Not so much happiness there. Hmmm.
The next section we found was a bottling simulation. This excited me somewhat as I had visions of Laverne and Shirley watching the thousands of bottles go by...and I really don't know why that excited me, but it did. We looked at the cleaner, and the capper, and the sorter, and the...well, wouldn't you know it. It wasn't working. People clad in flimsy shower caps and surgical gloves kept tapping at computer screens trying to make things go. I kept thinking as hard as I could, "just turn it off and flip it back on, it always works at home." But they didn't hear me. So that was a wash. A friendly Coca-Cola attendant came up to me and asked me if I was enjoying myself. I didn't answer.
So off we went to climb the big stairs, that got smaller as you got higher - very Willy Wonka. And off the the 4-D interactive movie experience - which much to my pleasant surprise was included in your entrance fee. And we got to keep our 3-D glasses - flimsy paper ones, but they did work, and I knew they hadn't sat on anyone else's face before. The preview movie in the waiting area freaked me out as it was a lesson in taste (not the Vanity Fair kind, but actual sense of taste, including your olfactory system). It was an argument between the taste buds and the olfactory sensors in fact, and it just weirded me out. But I did learn something - I was always taught about four taste sensations - sour, sweet, bitter, and salty. Now I've tucked a fifth sense (it's almost as wonderous as learning about the fourth dimension!) - umami. It's apparently my favorite one, and my daughter's - we'll take anything savory over the old tastes anyday. But it also covers "meatiness" - so I don't know how that works with a vegan.
And off to the movie. It was pretty intense - my three year old LOVED it and couldn't wait to do it again, my five year old was glad it was over. The seats moved, lots of wind in your face, and I swear they sprayed you with soda because I know I felt sticky afterwards. But the effects were cool, to say the least.
To be continued! Coming up:
So, we take the town, hit the aquarium, play in the parks, eat great food, and then spend the day in the city's newest tourist attraction - the NEW World of Coca-Cola. Now, I'd never seen the OLD World of Coca-Cola, however, I can attest to living in it for the past 37 years.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect - I mean, really, the entire facility is really just a gigantic, glorified advertisement for one of the world's most pervasive products...ever. The welcome lobby and waiting room were both completely lost on my children - who have never had more than a few sips of Mommy's Diet Coke in their lives. They've never tasted regular Coca-Cola, and aren't big fans of anything fizzy. People kept asking them what their favorite soda was, and proudly, they stated, "water!" to which the attendants replied, "what flavor water?" and they would reply, "no flavor, just plain water! Or milk." I haven't seen that look of shock since my son said he didn't like french fries. They also haven't quite lived long enough to remember the advertising slogans that made history, or understand the breadth of meaning in seeing the phrases repeated in 50 different languages.
But they did understand "The Happiness Factory", which I guess, is their pet name for the project. The name alone gave me the chills. Into the theater we filed, and I knew something was wrong from the start. The illusion they poured millions in to create was already blown, as the giant screen to display the "documentary" - you'll see why I used quotes later on, was stuck in the up position, already revealing the esophagus into the belly of the beast, which was hosting a spasmodic sphincter that my daughter noted multiple times "Mommy, why does the door keep opening and closing?" . The attendant tried her hardest to calm the crowd, offering random cola history and testing the knowledge of the audience in consumerism. After about 10 minutes, she gave up, apologizing profusely and directing the crowd out - not through the intended entrance, but an alternate one - akin to the back hallways of a mall, if you've ever been privy to them - no magic, bright lights, lots of plaster. We plainly followed her direction, eventually ending up in the main hub of the center, but without the grand greeting and direction that would come later, to the thousands that followed. So the few hundred of us wandered a bit aimlessly, like marbles in a big glass jar. Not so much happiness there. Hmmm.
The next section we found was a bottling simulation. This excited me somewhat as I had visions of Laverne and Shirley watching the thousands of bottles go by...and I really don't know why that excited me, but it did. We looked at the cleaner, and the capper, and the sorter, and the...well, wouldn't you know it. It wasn't working. People clad in flimsy shower caps and surgical gloves kept tapping at computer screens trying to make things go. I kept thinking as hard as I could, "just turn it off and flip it back on, it always works at home." But they didn't hear me. So that was a wash. A friendly Coca-Cola attendant came up to me and asked me if I was enjoying myself. I didn't answer.
So off we went to climb the big stairs, that got smaller as you got higher - very Willy Wonka. And off the the 4-D interactive movie experience - which much to my pleasant surprise was included in your entrance fee. And we got to keep our 3-D glasses - flimsy paper ones, but they did work, and I knew they hadn't sat on anyone else's face before. The preview movie in the waiting area freaked me out as it was a lesson in taste (not the Vanity Fair kind, but actual sense of taste, including your olfactory system). It was an argument between the taste buds and the olfactory sensors in fact, and it just weirded me out. But I did learn something - I was always taught about four taste sensations - sour, sweet, bitter, and salty. Now I've tucked a fifth sense (it's almost as wonderous as learning about the fourth dimension!) - umami. It's apparently my favorite one, and my daughter's - we'll take anything savory over the old tastes anyday. But it also covers "meatiness" - so I don't know how that works with a vegan.
And off to the movie. It was pretty intense - my three year old LOVED it and couldn't wait to do it again, my five year old was glad it was over. The seats moved, lots of wind in your face, and I swear they sprayed you with soda because I know I felt sticky afterwards. But the effects were cool, to say the least.
To be continued! Coming up:
- Tastes from the planet - who knew I preferred Incan brew?
- Brandon - not just where we live, but an odd frustrated photography coordinator
- Polar Bears - mmm, soft and cuddly and they'll eat you too!
- Tell us your Coke story! - Too easy - but I'll let you provide the joke
- Phalluses and pierced nipples - oh, that's why they called it the Happiness Factory!
Thursday, August 03, 2006
And so it begins...
My first born child began Kindergarten today. With delightful anticipation he jumped out of bed shouting, "I LOVE kindergarten!" over and over. He brushed his teeth. He brushed his hair. He tucked in his shirt, had his shoes on the right feet, and was ready to go 20 minutes early. All was off to a great start.
And so his day went on. Easy check in. Set right to work. Figured out the ins and outs and managed to "stay green" all day - which in his school-ese means "I was well-behaved all day". He saw kids he knew from the neighborhood, his playgroup, his pre-school. He remembered to bring his homework home, and couldn't wait to go to bed to start tomorrow.
And all of this on top of it also being his birthday.
Then there was Mommy's version.
Mommy parks in a staff parking lot and staff spot (in my defense, there's no signage of any kind on the lot at all) and gets a gentle reprimand from the Assistant Principal first thing in the morning.
Mommy trips a kid in the breakfast line.
At lunchtime, Mommy almost poisons one of her son's classmates with a chocolate chip cookie. (he has peanut allergies). And then attempts to get the kid to cover it up. And then tries to back pedal out of that suggestion. And then tries to get the cookie back. All of it, as you can imagine, not pretty.
Mommy wears the wrong shoes to pick up her kid. On two counts - first, I didn't realize how long the walk really was, so my shins started to hurt because I would have been more comfortable barefoot. Second, as you wait, you're standing in grass. We live in Florida. Florida grass has innumerable ant hills with ants that bite.
Mommy loses one of the balloons from the bouquet she's bringing her birthday boy by it popping on a saw palmetto plant.
Mommy almost strangles another mommy inadvertantly with balloons while attempting to swipe off the ants from my feet, while knocking another almost over who is holding a freaking puppy.
Mommy has lost about 12 pounds of liquid in sweat while standing in the non-shaded area to wait for her child.
Mommy and child are bowled over a minimum of three times on the walk home by rude bicycle riders who don't understand that Mommies really DON'T have eyes in the backs of their heads and seem to be apparently mute.
Mommy again, almost strangles a bike rider who didn't let us know she was coming, with the balloons.
Mommy hits another ant hill dodging the bevy of bicycle riders that is rivaled only by the Tour de France.
Mommy loses another 9 pounds of water weight on the way home and the shins are killing her. And that stabbing pain-behind-the-eye type headache is beginning to show up. And no, we're not home yet.
Mommy and child get into a fight at a fork in the road. He claims we should go his way because it's his birthday. Mommy says her way because it is shaded, and though a bit longer, has less bicyclists and, again is shaded. Mommy tells child to go his own way and almost makes him cry.
Mommy barely misses a pile of dog crap on the side of the trail while dodging another gaggle of bike riders. She continues on thinking maybe she didn't really miss.
And then it ended. We made it home. Thank god for central air conditioning. And little boys who adore their mommies. No matter how sweaty, cranky, bitchy, or just plain stupid we are.
Now we wait for day two.
And so his day went on. Easy check in. Set right to work. Figured out the ins and outs and managed to "stay green" all day - which in his school-ese means "I was well-behaved all day". He saw kids he knew from the neighborhood, his playgroup, his pre-school. He remembered to bring his homework home, and couldn't wait to go to bed to start tomorrow.
And all of this on top of it also being his birthday.
Then there was Mommy's version.
Mommy parks in a staff parking lot and staff spot (in my defense, there's no signage of any kind on the lot at all) and gets a gentle reprimand from the Assistant Principal first thing in the morning.
Mommy trips a kid in the breakfast line.
At lunchtime, Mommy almost poisons one of her son's classmates with a chocolate chip cookie. (he has peanut allergies). And then attempts to get the kid to cover it up. And then tries to back pedal out of that suggestion. And then tries to get the cookie back. All of it, as you can imagine, not pretty.
Mommy wears the wrong shoes to pick up her kid. On two counts - first, I didn't realize how long the walk really was, so my shins started to hurt because I would have been more comfortable barefoot. Second, as you wait, you're standing in grass. We live in Florida. Florida grass has innumerable ant hills with ants that bite.
Mommy loses one of the balloons from the bouquet she's bringing her birthday boy by it popping on a saw palmetto plant.
Mommy almost strangles another mommy inadvertantly with balloons while attempting to swipe off the ants from my feet, while knocking another almost over who is holding a freaking puppy.
Mommy has lost about 12 pounds of liquid in sweat while standing in the non-shaded area to wait for her child.
Mommy and child are bowled over a minimum of three times on the walk home by rude bicycle riders who don't understand that Mommies really DON'T have eyes in the backs of their heads and seem to be apparently mute.
Mommy again, almost strangles a bike rider who didn't let us know she was coming, with the balloons.
Mommy hits another ant hill dodging the bevy of bicycle riders that is rivaled only by the Tour de France.
Mommy loses another 9 pounds of water weight on the way home and the shins are killing her. And that stabbing pain-behind-the-eye type headache is beginning to show up. And no, we're not home yet.
Mommy and child get into a fight at a fork in the road. He claims we should go his way because it's his birthday. Mommy says her way because it is shaded, and though a bit longer, has less bicyclists and, again is shaded. Mommy tells child to go his own way and almost makes him cry.
Mommy barely misses a pile of dog crap on the side of the trail while dodging another gaggle of bike riders. She continues on thinking maybe she didn't really miss.
And then it ended. We made it home. Thank god for central air conditioning. And little boys who adore their mommies. No matter how sweaty, cranky, bitchy, or just plain stupid we are.
Now we wait for day two.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Another four letter word
I've finally reached the penultimate in selfishness. In conducting a Google search for an old friend...I came across a reference in the records that he now has a wife. Like a bullet through my flesh. A WIFE. The burn through the tissue...the searing sensation...the shock - the dismay...and why? I myself am a wife. Married to a good husband. Mother to wonderful children. With a beautiful, full life.
I should be happy for him. As I expected him to be for me. He is my friend, and I am his. And always will be, to some extent, I hope...no matter how many years or miles or relationships separate us.
Am I hurt because he didn't tell me? Am I bothered because I found out in this removed fashion? This feels deeper. I can't even think about it...
I should be happy for him. As I expected him to be for me. He is my friend, and I am his. And always will be, to some extent, I hope...no matter how many years or miles or relationships separate us.
Am I hurt because he didn't tell me? Am I bothered because I found out in this removed fashion? This feels deeper. I can't even think about it...
Friday, September 23, 2005
My son has a knack...
I’ve always felt that my son (my firstborn) has had a particular awareness about him. I know we all cherish our children, and know that they are special and gifted in some way…but something about his presence and how others react to him has always been quite remarkable. The awareness I mentioned, is not only in regards to how he interprets living beings, but I’m pretty convinced that it’s more than that – that he can connect with more than just the visceral world. He is currently 4 years old.
The first set of significant experiences that made me raise an eyebrow or two was when he was about 15 months old. We were living on the west coast, but then were called back east because of a death in our extended family. My husband couldn’t get off of work, so we traveled without him. I wasn’t quite sure how I would handle my baby at a large, conservative, Catholic funeral (the faith and culture of the deceased, but not of our own), but what was important was that we were there. At the funeral home, the tone, was, as expected, somber and silent. But my son seemed to understand that this was not a place for frolicking, and was surprisingly respectful of the situation. Of course, there were a few moments of giggles and laughter – when prompted by others who joined us, but for the most part his behaviour was appropriate for the time. At one point, he approached the casket, stood up on the small kneeling step, and stretched up high on his toes trying to see the deceased. It brought a smile to some faces there and he came back over to me where I sat. He looked at me and said “Okay, Mommy, Okay”. I assumed at the time, it was his method of comfort of some type – he was only 15 months old and perhaps he heard it from around the room. As the mourners approached the casket he watched them, yet seemed to be watching someone else, just behind them all. When my stepmother and the husband of the deceased kneeled at the casket, my son joined them, put his hands on their backs and said, “okay…okay”.
He made it through the funeral at the church with a demeanor impressive of any adult – which took me by surprise and much to my relief. This was a simple church, and the power of the moment, I suppose made an impression on him. He fell asleep on the way to the cemetery, and slept through the internment. The rest of the day went on as usual.
The next day I returned to the cemetery to visit some graves of some other relatives that I had not been to in a very, very long time. The cemetery is absolutely beautiful – so diligently cared for, and a lovely place for repose. It’s quite vast and isolated, so I gave my son the run of the place as I searched for the markers. As he skipped through the grass he would stop sometimes and say “Hi!” and then move on, rolling down a hill, thumping himself down and giggling. He stopped a few times before he finally came upon the marker of my great-grandmother. The grave that I had yet to find. He put his hand on the stone and just smiled at me. I was speechless.
Through the months (as he’s not really old enough yet to refer to time in years), he’s demonstrated some behavior akin to felines…when people joke that they are speaking with fairies. Just little moments few and far between where it seems as though he’s connecting to something – sometimes with words, sometimes not. Then you tap him on the shoulder and he comes back and moves on with life. I spoke with his pediatrician about it, and there seems to be no cause for concern – not that I really was, but it made my mother feel better.
But tonight really made me catch my breath. We went out to dinner at a new restaurant down the road a bit from our home. (We’re in a new development in what was rural Florida, so everything is a “bit down the road”, but development is encroaching bit by bit every day). My husband had come in a separate car and he left as such and took our daughter with him. We needed to pick up some milk so we stopped at the 7-11 which is adjacent, got out, got back in the car and went on our merry way. But before I pulled out of the driveway and into the street he said, “Over there, Mama, over there – look at the ghosts!”,
and I replied, “Where, honey?”
“Over THERE”
As I was driving and he was behind me I couldn’t see to where he was pointing, so I asked, “Outside the car?”
“No, inside the car,”
“In the car?”
“Yes, Mommy, next to you.”
“Is it one ghost or more?”
“Two”
“Can you tell me what they look like? Man? Woman?”
“Both. But they’re little ghosts – a boy and a girl…”
“Are they sad? Are they happy?”
“They’re sad. Both of them are very sad. And they’re right there, Mommy, and sad.”
I continued on down the road. When I turned into the entrance of the development he said, “they’re gone now Mommy. The ghosts are gone. They’re aren’t any ghosts in Florida (he thinks our development is Florida – and hasn’t quite yet grasped the concept that Florida is a state and how big it is).
What made the experience so remarkable was that just last week, our community experienced the loss of a middle-school age boy who shot himself, and a kindergarten age girl who died suddenly of, as yet, unexplained causes…in the parking lot of that 7-11 in her mother’s arms. As far as I am aware, he does not know about these events – he was not with me when I found out about them, nor have I discussed it around him. I suppose it is possible that he may have heard something at pre-school…but the events are so recent…I don’t know, it seems like a stretch. Four-year olds are not that prone to gossip as of yet – though I suppose the teachers may have discussed it just as news among themselves.
So that’s it. There’s my experience as of late, or rather, my son’s. The Splendor of Light…his name means, as it turns out. I didn’t even realize it at the time – it wasn’t part of the process of putting his name together. But coincidentally, my daughter’s name means the same thing. I suppose that’ neither here nor there, but it was a realization I made just a few months ago. And the name of the town we now live in seems derived from Litha, - which I just found out about last week – the whole light and life abundant, the Sun God reaching the peak of his strength. A town that we decided to move to, on a complete lark, in the middle of nowhere (at the time), 3,000 miles away from a place we adored. Again, maybe all of that means nothing…
But there it all is for what it’s worth. I just wanted to put it all out there – to perhaps someone of an open mind who might at least respect the story…thanks for your time.
The first set of significant experiences that made me raise an eyebrow or two was when he was about 15 months old. We were living on the west coast, but then were called back east because of a death in our extended family. My husband couldn’t get off of work, so we traveled without him. I wasn’t quite sure how I would handle my baby at a large, conservative, Catholic funeral (the faith and culture of the deceased, but not of our own), but what was important was that we were there. At the funeral home, the tone, was, as expected, somber and silent. But my son seemed to understand that this was not a place for frolicking, and was surprisingly respectful of the situation. Of course, there were a few moments of giggles and laughter – when prompted by others who joined us, but for the most part his behaviour was appropriate for the time. At one point, he approached the casket, stood up on the small kneeling step, and stretched up high on his toes trying to see the deceased. It brought a smile to some faces there and he came back over to me where I sat. He looked at me and said “Okay, Mommy, Okay”. I assumed at the time, it was his method of comfort of some type – he was only 15 months old and perhaps he heard it from around the room. As the mourners approached the casket he watched them, yet seemed to be watching someone else, just behind them all. When my stepmother and the husband of the deceased kneeled at the casket, my son joined them, put his hands on their backs and said, “okay…okay”.
He made it through the funeral at the church with a demeanor impressive of any adult – which took me by surprise and much to my relief. This was a simple church, and the power of the moment, I suppose made an impression on him. He fell asleep on the way to the cemetery, and slept through the internment. The rest of the day went on as usual.
The next day I returned to the cemetery to visit some graves of some other relatives that I had not been to in a very, very long time. The cemetery is absolutely beautiful – so diligently cared for, and a lovely place for repose. It’s quite vast and isolated, so I gave my son the run of the place as I searched for the markers. As he skipped through the grass he would stop sometimes and say “Hi!” and then move on, rolling down a hill, thumping himself down and giggling. He stopped a few times before he finally came upon the marker of my great-grandmother. The grave that I had yet to find. He put his hand on the stone and just smiled at me. I was speechless.
Through the months (as he’s not really old enough yet to refer to time in years), he’s demonstrated some behavior akin to felines…when people joke that they are speaking with fairies. Just little moments few and far between where it seems as though he’s connecting to something – sometimes with words, sometimes not. Then you tap him on the shoulder and he comes back and moves on with life. I spoke with his pediatrician about it, and there seems to be no cause for concern – not that I really was, but it made my mother feel better.
But tonight really made me catch my breath. We went out to dinner at a new restaurant down the road a bit from our home. (We’re in a new development in what was rural Florida, so everything is a “bit down the road”, but development is encroaching bit by bit every day). My husband had come in a separate car and he left as such and took our daughter with him. We needed to pick up some milk so we stopped at the 7-11 which is adjacent, got out, got back in the car and went on our merry way. But before I pulled out of the driveway and into the street he said, “Over there, Mama, over there – look at the ghosts!”,
and I replied, “Where, honey?”
“Over THERE”
As I was driving and he was behind me I couldn’t see to where he was pointing, so I asked, “Outside the car?”
“No, inside the car,”
“In the car?”
“Yes, Mommy, next to you.”
“Is it one ghost or more?”
“Two”
“Can you tell me what they look like? Man? Woman?”
“Both. But they’re little ghosts – a boy and a girl…”
“Are they sad? Are they happy?”
“They’re sad. Both of them are very sad. And they’re right there, Mommy, and sad.”
I continued on down the road. When I turned into the entrance of the development he said, “they’re gone now Mommy. The ghosts are gone. They’re aren’t any ghosts in Florida (he thinks our development is Florida – and hasn’t quite yet grasped the concept that Florida is a state and how big it is).
What made the experience so remarkable was that just last week, our community experienced the loss of a middle-school age boy who shot himself, and a kindergarten age girl who died suddenly of, as yet, unexplained causes…in the parking lot of that 7-11 in her mother’s arms. As far as I am aware, he does not know about these events – he was not with me when I found out about them, nor have I discussed it around him. I suppose it is possible that he may have heard something at pre-school…but the events are so recent…I don’t know, it seems like a stretch. Four-year olds are not that prone to gossip as of yet – though I suppose the teachers may have discussed it just as news among themselves.
So that’s it. There’s my experience as of late, or rather, my son’s. The Splendor of Light…his name means, as it turns out. I didn’t even realize it at the time – it wasn’t part of the process of putting his name together. But coincidentally, my daughter’s name means the same thing. I suppose that’ neither here nor there, but it was a realization I made just a few months ago. And the name of the town we now live in seems derived from Litha, - which I just found out about last week – the whole light and life abundant, the Sun God reaching the peak of his strength. A town that we decided to move to, on a complete lark, in the middle of nowhere (at the time), 3,000 miles away from a place we adored. Again, maybe all of that means nothing…
But there it all is for what it’s worth. I just wanted to put it all out there – to perhaps someone of an open mind who might at least respect the story…thanks for your time.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Storms blow.
I've tried to keep this all pretty generic in ideology and concept and all that...but I can't anymore. I never wanted to call anyone out in particular or bring myself down to the level of those I most oppose. But I can't keep quiet about this one anymore...entirely. Well, I'll try to do this as politely as I can, and discreetly...just to ensure that I am not to be included in the ranks and like as this individual.
There is a particular County Commissioner here who has just got to go. She needs to step down and save what's left of her soul and try to find it again. She needs to stop claiming that she represents me in any way, shape, or form, or all of the people of her "constituency". I know, I get it - yeah, yeah, yeah - she's our elected official from this very district - unfortunately.
I'll even admit that I voted for her, and follow with noting that was simply a vote of ignorance on my part. I didn't investigate her, I didn't know much about her opponent, and it was truly a vote of convenience...one less thing to think about. How disappointing I was.
She's a megalomaniac of sorts really, wielding this uber-conservative club in the name of Christ, and swiping down anything that could possibly be construed as controversial, free, democratic, or American.
Her vision of values is so blinded by the right-wing rhetoric (her own included) that she can't even see the gross injustice she inflicts on others personally and politically.
She just needs to go. Back to her homestead and get a hobby. Maybe learn to knit.
Maybe to South Carolina. Join the Christian Exodus movement that's pointing towards there...she'd be quite happy among those folk, among the least truly Christian people I've ever heard of.
And her fellow Commissioners, save one, are her dutiful sheep, following her ridiculous, discriminatory, and immature rants and elevating them into "law". I think they fear her wrath more than anything else. I find it hard to believe that they all honestly agree with her on everything. But I do believe she'd crack your jaw with a sound wallop. I wouldn't put it past her.
I can't even go on anymore. I just get too upset. And I'm not one to rattle easily. Really, I'm not. But please, Ronda, just go away...silently, peacefully, with whatever little scrap of respect and/or dignity you might possibly have left.
I'll even put it in prayer form, so you can appreciate it better. Oh, God...please let Ronda realize the err of her ways and let her set her sights on something more appropriate for her skills and personality, like amateur wrestling.
Was that petty? Sorry, I meant that.
There is a particular County Commissioner here who has just got to go. She needs to step down and save what's left of her soul and try to find it again. She needs to stop claiming that she represents me in any way, shape, or form, or all of the people of her "constituency". I know, I get it - yeah, yeah, yeah - she's our elected official from this very district - unfortunately.
I'll even admit that I voted for her, and follow with noting that was simply a vote of ignorance on my part. I didn't investigate her, I didn't know much about her opponent, and it was truly a vote of convenience...one less thing to think about. How disappointing I was.
She's a megalomaniac of sorts really, wielding this uber-conservative club in the name of Christ, and swiping down anything that could possibly be construed as controversial, free, democratic, or American.
Her vision of values is so blinded by the right-wing rhetoric (her own included) that she can't even see the gross injustice she inflicts on others personally and politically.
She just needs to go. Back to her homestead and get a hobby. Maybe learn to knit.
Maybe to South Carolina. Join the Christian Exodus movement that's pointing towards there...she'd be quite happy among those folk, among the least truly Christian people I've ever heard of.
And her fellow Commissioners, save one, are her dutiful sheep, following her ridiculous, discriminatory, and immature rants and elevating them into "law". I think they fear her wrath more than anything else. I find it hard to believe that they all honestly agree with her on everything. But I do believe she'd crack your jaw with a sound wallop. I wouldn't put it past her.
I can't even go on anymore. I just get too upset. And I'm not one to rattle easily. Really, I'm not. But please, Ronda, just go away...silently, peacefully, with whatever little scrap of respect and/or dignity you might possibly have left.
I'll even put it in prayer form, so you can appreciate it better. Oh, God...please let Ronda realize the err of her ways and let her set her sights on something more appropriate for her skills and personality, like amateur wrestling.
Was that petty? Sorry, I meant that.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Why is this so difficult?
People really don't listen. They don't want to listen. It drives me crazy. People can't seem to understand how one can be anti-war and pro-troops. Like the logic is wrong. They get all crazy trying to reconcile the situation. And they get so flustered you can't even explain it to them. So here goes...
I hate the war. I hate war. I won't go into why or how, I think that's abundantly clear. No one likes war. Except maybe Lockheed Martin, but that's another story.
I love humankind. Troops are people too. Responsible people (for the most part) who are doing the job they committed to do. They don't necessarily like it, or agree with it, but they know it's their duty - it's their part of the deal, and they won't reneg even at "this juncture".
Why are those two things incompatible? I support our troops, of course I do. I don't support what they're doing. I don't support the decisions that their employers have made. But I support and respect my fellow citizens on principle.
I'd rather they be home - with their husbands, their wives, their children, their parents, their lovers, their friends.
I'd rather they be home - helping America out as productive and responsible citizens.
I'd rather they be home - alive and well.
I hate the war. I hate war. I won't go into why or how, I think that's abundantly clear. No one likes war. Except maybe Lockheed Martin, but that's another story.
I love humankind. Troops are people too. Responsible people (for the most part) who are doing the job they committed to do. They don't necessarily like it, or agree with it, but they know it's their duty - it's their part of the deal, and they won't reneg even at "this juncture".
Why are those two things incompatible? I support our troops, of course I do. I don't support what they're doing. I don't support the decisions that their employers have made. But I support and respect my fellow citizens on principle.
I'd rather they be home - with their husbands, their wives, their children, their parents, their lovers, their friends.
I'd rather they be home - helping America out as productive and responsible citizens.
I'd rather they be home - alive and well.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
A Prayer
Don’t discount my faith, brother.
I’ve probably got more faith in the human spirit than you’ve got in your whole book.
And it’s far less conditional.
Don’t threaten my faith, sister.
I know at the end of my life I will have tried my best to be my best.
And I didn’t have to rely on anyone to teach me that.
Don’t pity my faith, father.
My strength comes from deep down inside me.
And I take full responsibility for my choices, both good and bad.
Don’t belittle my faith, mother.
My membership is to the congregation of the world.
And its house of worship is both simple and magnificent.
Please understand my faith, child.
But if you don’t agree, I won’t expect you to follow.
I just hope I’ve given you the confidence to find your own.
I’ve probably got more faith in the human spirit than you’ve got in your whole book.
And it’s far less conditional.
Don’t threaten my faith, sister.
I know at the end of my life I will have tried my best to be my best.
And I didn’t have to rely on anyone to teach me that.
Don’t pity my faith, father.
My strength comes from deep down inside me.
And I take full responsibility for my choices, both good and bad.
Don’t belittle my faith, mother.
My membership is to the congregation of the world.
And its house of worship is both simple and magnificent.
Please understand my faith, child.
But if you don’t agree, I won’t expect you to follow.
I just hope I’ve given you the confidence to find your own.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
The Fork Fiasco
My son and daughter were eating dinner yesterday, sitting side by side at the kitchen table. My son is three years old and is sitting on the left, mind you now sitting in a regular chair, since he has deemed the booster seat too juvenile for him, and my little girl, all of 15 months old, perched on the booster seat, thrilled with herself to be out of the high chair, as they eagerly awaited their spaghetti.
Each child had a green plate. Supposedly, unbreakable, however, my wee one managed to shatter a bowl made of the same material, but its better than my china, and sturdier than paper. Each child had a fork. My son, the green handled one that matches the plates, and my daughter, a regular cake fork from my everyday flatware set.
Boy, she really wanted the green handled one.
But she didn’t grab it away, or holler, or whine, or lunge at her brother. She had other plans.
After quite a few bites of spaghetti, my son tired of his fork wrangling and decided it would be much easier to eat with his hands. My daughter watched as he placed his fork next to his plate, on her side, but not too far away from his setting. He picked up a piece of pasta and put to his mouth. Then another and another. She waited for her moment...patiently.
And then it came.
My son grabbed a large handful of spaghetti and shoved it into his mouth, but needed both hands to manage the spilling pasta. My daughter made her move. But not in haste; she was entirely calculated. She slowly moved her left hand toward the prize, while at the same time, began moving her right hand over, whilst holding her existing fork. Her unsuspecting brother looked over once and she paused, long enough to laugh at and with him. When he resumed his pasta frenzy, she continued on her quest. That left hand, on a sure path to success, found its prey and her tiny fingers wrapped around the handle, and she quickly darted her old fork over to replace her new found utensil.
Her pride was immense. But short-lived.
My son realized what had happened, and before his sister could plunge the fork into her spaghetti, he swiftly moved to right the situation, and brusquely grabbed the green handled jewel back from her.
She looked so sad, even if only for a moment. She worked so hard, and was so cunning. She was calculated. She was keen. I was proud. My baby girl had, for a moment, won. There will be more wins for her in the future. You can count on it.
Each child had a green plate. Supposedly, unbreakable, however, my wee one managed to shatter a bowl made of the same material, but its better than my china, and sturdier than paper. Each child had a fork. My son, the green handled one that matches the plates, and my daughter, a regular cake fork from my everyday flatware set.
Boy, she really wanted the green handled one.
But she didn’t grab it away, or holler, or whine, or lunge at her brother. She had other plans.
After quite a few bites of spaghetti, my son tired of his fork wrangling and decided it would be much easier to eat with his hands. My daughter watched as he placed his fork next to his plate, on her side, but not too far away from his setting. He picked up a piece of pasta and put to his mouth. Then another and another. She waited for her moment...patiently.
And then it came.
My son grabbed a large handful of spaghetti and shoved it into his mouth, but needed both hands to manage the spilling pasta. My daughter made her move. But not in haste; she was entirely calculated. She slowly moved her left hand toward the prize, while at the same time, began moving her right hand over, whilst holding her existing fork. Her unsuspecting brother looked over once and she paused, long enough to laugh at and with him. When he resumed his pasta frenzy, she continued on her quest. That left hand, on a sure path to success, found its prey and her tiny fingers wrapped around the handle, and she quickly darted her old fork over to replace her new found utensil.
Her pride was immense. But short-lived.
My son realized what had happened, and before his sister could plunge the fork into her spaghetti, he swiftly moved to right the situation, and brusquely grabbed the green handled jewel back from her.
She looked so sad, even if only for a moment. She worked so hard, and was so cunning. She was calculated. She was keen. I was proud. My baby girl had, for a moment, won. There will be more wins for her in the future. You can count on it.
Monday, November 08, 2004
America, my apologies
I'm so sorry, America.
I'm so sorry so many are so stupid.
I'm so sorry the people have, yet again, put you deliberately in harms way.
I'm so sorry so many are so easily duped by propaganda - for an agenda so flawed yet, I suppose, in some way, artfully crafted.
I'm sorry the contempt for you will grow throughout the world because of a misguided cowboy with a cross to bear.
I'm sorry so many of your sons and daughters will die or be injured supposedly in "your" name, in vain, for a war that should not be ours.
I'm sorry that it will be you that will be held responsible for more pain, more poverty, more problems - on our own streets as well as the rest of the world because some people don't understand that we have to fix and love ourselves first before we can help anyone else.
I'm sorry that your daughters will have to fight again for their freedoms, from men who have nothing better to do than to pretend they have the best interests of America's women in mind, but haven't a clue what that really means.
I'm sorry that your people will have their civil liberties taken away, one by one, by an administration who claims to believe in less government, but can't seem to keep their hands out of the very places government should least be.
I'm sorry that your orphanages and your streets will become filled with more unwanted children, with less money to serve them.
I'm sorry that your seniors will have to choose shelter and food over extending their lives through health care.
I'm sorry that your young people will continue to lose their ability to take care of themselves medically.
I'm sorry that your beauty may be cut down, drilled into, polluted, and destroyed in the name of progress, leaving nothing for our children to appreciate, enjoy, and learn from.
I'm sorry that your people are so divided. A divided house can never stand.
I'm sorry I have to add caveats to the phrase "I'm proud to be an American."
Because I still am, though it gets harder every day. But I still cling to hope.
I'm so sorry so many are so stupid.
I'm so sorry the people have, yet again, put you deliberately in harms way.
I'm so sorry so many are so easily duped by propaganda - for an agenda so flawed yet, I suppose, in some way, artfully crafted.
I'm sorry the contempt for you will grow throughout the world because of a misguided cowboy with a cross to bear.
I'm sorry so many of your sons and daughters will die or be injured supposedly in "your" name, in vain, for a war that should not be ours.
I'm sorry that it will be you that will be held responsible for more pain, more poverty, more problems - on our own streets as well as the rest of the world because some people don't understand that we have to fix and love ourselves first before we can help anyone else.
I'm sorry that your daughters will have to fight again for their freedoms, from men who have nothing better to do than to pretend they have the best interests of America's women in mind, but haven't a clue what that really means.
I'm sorry that your people will have their civil liberties taken away, one by one, by an administration who claims to believe in less government, but can't seem to keep their hands out of the very places government should least be.
I'm sorry that your orphanages and your streets will become filled with more unwanted children, with less money to serve them.
I'm sorry that your seniors will have to choose shelter and food over extending their lives through health care.
I'm sorry that your young people will continue to lose their ability to take care of themselves medically.
I'm sorry that your beauty may be cut down, drilled into, polluted, and destroyed in the name of progress, leaving nothing for our children to appreciate, enjoy, and learn from.
I'm sorry that your people are so divided. A divided house can never stand.
I'm sorry I have to add caveats to the phrase "I'm proud to be an American."
Because I still am, though it gets harder every day. But I still cling to hope.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Reconciling Parenting - Can it Happen For Us?
Okay, so I am a first generation suburbanite. My parents decided when I was a wee one to move out of the city in search of "greener pastures" as it were, (though I wouldn't call our 1/4 acre lot a pasture, nor very green as neither of my parents had any clue as to what gardening meant, which apparently is in the genes and is dominant, as I now myself have a larger lot of land that I am equally clueless about and unwilling, as they were, to shell out the bucks to pay someone else to make it pretty - but ah, I digress), to make a wonderful, nifty life for the three of us as they raised me to be the child they, perhaps, themselves always wanted to be.
I was to be independent, creative, a free-thinker, who chased after my dreams with passion and verve, and would achieve the dream of so many - to indeed, have it all, fulfilling career and life purpose (which where I grew up were one and the same - thank god I moved to the west coast for a while and got some other perspective on that one), phenomenal wealth, enduring health, get married, have an adoring family that was stable, happy, and successful in all their endeavours, and maybe become a whole and happy person, satisfied with all of my choices in life.
And that was all well and good. The key to a lot of that it seemed, was to put myself first, satisfy my needs, my desires, not sacrificing my goals and wants for anyone else's - as perhaps, they felt they did, and certainly, their parents did before them They didn't want for me to have to do that. That was an integral part of the suburban dream.
And they were not alone. My friends and I - we had it all when were kids, really. Some might even have called us spoiled (though the spoiled kids really lived in the next town over - when they turned 16 they got new cars, as we all got the hand me downs because our parents wanted new cars). We didn't really want for anything. Sometimes we had to plead a bit, and maybe do an extra chore or two, but our parents thought a lot of happiness came in a box, and maybe to some extent it did, at least when you're 12, it works for a short time, and well, that's all we knew. Until our therapists told us differently.
But don't get me wrong - our parents were there too. They came to our plays and our games and our meets and our ceremonies - that was important to them, because their parents couldn't do it for them. And that was part of the package as well. And to us, that was a given. Our moms and dads, even if they were divorced - which started becoming pretty popular when I was a kid, showed up when and where they were supposed to, generally. We rarely doubted that.
And for the most part, I like to think, they were successful in their plan. I'm a pretty happy person, an independent person, satisfied with most of my choices, relatively stable emotionally, have a beautiful family, home, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda. As are most of my peers - in the relative grand scheme of things.
At least on the surface. Here's where the reconciling issue begins to become evident.
Per the plan, we all became parents. Older, wiser, parents, having experienced some more of what the world has to offer than the previous generation before settling down. The most educated, aware, informed, and responsible (sometimes to a fault) parents of any generation.
Most of my peers can rattle off any given Conusmer Reports list on the safest car seat, stroller, or portable swing. We know our babyproofing checklists and poison control numbers by heart. We introduce new foods one at a time, days apart, and take copious notes of our children's reactions to them. We shake our heads at the mere suggestion of riding a bicycle without a helmet (though we didn't even know what one was besides for either playing football or for the epileptic kid down the block when were kids). We are diligent to an extreme. At least for our first children, that is - but that's a whole other story.
But what doesn't come in a book, or a checklist, or a manual, or baby prep class is this - and it's no great revelation, and seems like a big "duh", but is surprisingly easy to forget or to misinterpret - being a parent, essentially, is about putting someone else's needs before yours.
I'm not talking about the seniors at the home who can't see any more and need someone to read to them weekly. Nor the homeless folk waiting for their turn at the food line, but have to wait because there's not enough staff.
I'm talking about needs of basic survival on a minute-by-minute basis. Someone's very existence, at least for the first few years, depends entirely on you and your ability to meet (and hopefully exceed), at least, their basic needs of food, water, sleep, and shelter.
This selflessness does not fit in so well with the "me first" attitude we were raised with.
Each generation is more aware than the prior, and that's what's caused this glitch. Our parents, as they came into adulthood, realized the sacrifices their parents made, often putting themselves last, giving up their hopes and dreams, and sadly, often becoming bitter about it. And they feared it for themselves and with foresight, didn't want their children to grow up with that destiny ahead of them.
And that's not such a bad thing, really. But in their earnest, the equation got unbalanced, and we became a test generation of sorts. A group of people raised on untested beliefs. Beta testers, so to speak, running a new program with no template, no proven variables: Be everything you can be and more, do whatever you can to follow your dreams, let nothing stop you from your bliss.
So here we are:
Me first + perserverance = having it "all" - we'll call this Subset A
Me maybe not always so first + patience = having a family - Subset B
Subset A + Subset B = What the hell happened to my life and can I find the place between and truly be happy?
I don't have the answer yet. But I'm working on it.
I was to be independent, creative, a free-thinker, who chased after my dreams with passion and verve, and would achieve the dream of so many - to indeed, have it all, fulfilling career and life purpose (which where I grew up were one and the same - thank god I moved to the west coast for a while and got some other perspective on that one), phenomenal wealth, enduring health, get married, have an adoring family that was stable, happy, and successful in all their endeavours, and maybe become a whole and happy person, satisfied with all of my choices in life.
And that was all well and good. The key to a lot of that it seemed, was to put myself first, satisfy my needs, my desires, not sacrificing my goals and wants for anyone else's - as perhaps, they felt they did, and certainly, their parents did before them They didn't want for me to have to do that. That was an integral part of the suburban dream.
And they were not alone. My friends and I - we had it all when were kids, really. Some might even have called us spoiled (though the spoiled kids really lived in the next town over - when they turned 16 they got new cars, as we all got the hand me downs because our parents wanted new cars). We didn't really want for anything. Sometimes we had to plead a bit, and maybe do an extra chore or two, but our parents thought a lot of happiness came in a box, and maybe to some extent it did, at least when you're 12, it works for a short time, and well, that's all we knew. Until our therapists told us differently.
But don't get me wrong - our parents were there too. They came to our plays and our games and our meets and our ceremonies - that was important to them, because their parents couldn't do it for them. And that was part of the package as well. And to us, that was a given. Our moms and dads, even if they were divorced - which started becoming pretty popular when I was a kid, showed up when and where they were supposed to, generally. We rarely doubted that.
And for the most part, I like to think, they were successful in their plan. I'm a pretty happy person, an independent person, satisfied with most of my choices, relatively stable emotionally, have a beautiful family, home, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda. As are most of my peers - in the relative grand scheme of things.
At least on the surface. Here's where the reconciling issue begins to become evident.
Per the plan, we all became parents. Older, wiser, parents, having experienced some more of what the world has to offer than the previous generation before settling down. The most educated, aware, informed, and responsible (sometimes to a fault) parents of any generation.
Most of my peers can rattle off any given Conusmer Reports list on the safest car seat, stroller, or portable swing. We know our babyproofing checklists and poison control numbers by heart. We introduce new foods one at a time, days apart, and take copious notes of our children's reactions to them. We shake our heads at the mere suggestion of riding a bicycle without a helmet (though we didn't even know what one was besides for either playing football or for the epileptic kid down the block when were kids). We are diligent to an extreme. At least for our first children, that is - but that's a whole other story.
But what doesn't come in a book, or a checklist, or a manual, or baby prep class is this - and it's no great revelation, and seems like a big "duh", but is surprisingly easy to forget or to misinterpret - being a parent, essentially, is about putting someone else's needs before yours.
I'm not talking about the seniors at the home who can't see any more and need someone to read to them weekly. Nor the homeless folk waiting for their turn at the food line, but have to wait because there's not enough staff.
I'm talking about needs of basic survival on a minute-by-minute basis. Someone's very existence, at least for the first few years, depends entirely on you and your ability to meet (and hopefully exceed), at least, their basic needs of food, water, sleep, and shelter.
If you're on your way to get that slice of pizza you've been craving for two
weeks and someone decides it's nap time, no matter how hungry you are - you turn around and go home.If you finally get a pair of those sold-out-for-months tickets to the
farewell tour of your all time favorite band, and someone begins projectile
vomiting and needs to be held for endless hours of seemingly inconsolable
crying, you give those tickets away.If "no" is not being understood or heard no matter how loud or sternly or
logically you express it, instead of resorting to more severe means, or
ending the relationship, you say it again, take a time out for yourself, and
regroup.
This selflessness does not fit in so well with the "me first" attitude we were raised with.
Each generation is more aware than the prior, and that's what's caused this glitch. Our parents, as they came into adulthood, realized the sacrifices their parents made, often putting themselves last, giving up their hopes and dreams, and sadly, often becoming bitter about it. And they feared it for themselves and with foresight, didn't want their children to grow up with that destiny ahead of them.
And that's not such a bad thing, really. But in their earnest, the equation got unbalanced, and we became a test generation of sorts. A group of people raised on untested beliefs. Beta testers, so to speak, running a new program with no template, no proven variables: Be everything you can be and more, do whatever you can to follow your dreams, let nothing stop you from your bliss.
So here we are:
Me first + perserverance = having it "all" - we'll call this Subset A
Me maybe not always so first + patience = having a family - Subset B
Subset A + Subset B = What the hell happened to my life and can I find the place between and truly be happy?
I don't have the answer yet. But I'm working on it.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Thank You, Universe
Thank you for diverting that storm. Thank you for us being prepared for the worst and experincing the least, relatively. Thank you for keeping everyone we know safe. Thank you for keeping those that we don't know alive, although they lost so much. Thank you giving us a pass on that one. Thank you for the reminder of what is important. Thank you for all that news coverage. Thank you for storm trackers. Thank you for hurricane flyers. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to help others, though I wish the circumstances were not as dire. Thank you for new hurricane building codes. Thank you for having the opportunity to see people who don't know each other lending hands without question or expectation, before, during, and after the storm, though I wish that humanity could be more evident on a regular basis.
But maybe it will be. This time forward. Thank you.
But maybe it will be. This time forward. Thank you.
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