Rox and Roll

Who by family

Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club: "Who by Fire" by Diana Spechler

Today, I am participating in the Silicon Valley Moms Group book club.  For today’s club, we read “Who by Fire,” a novel by Diana Spechler.  It doesn’t do the novel justice to summarize it briefly, but, mainly, it’s a book about sibling relationships.  The back cover describes the story as “what happens when people try to rescue one another.”  This post is not a book review; rather, I will sharing my thoughts on that family rescue issue as presented in the story.  First, though, I offer a note on my own reading habits: Often, I read fiction to escape from my real life, and my usual mental vacation involves mystery stories.  Depending on my mood, I pick light mysteries (culinary tales by Joanne Fluke or Diane Mott Davidson) or denser mysteries (like Jane Haddam’s Gregor Demarkian series).  There’s a reason that I don’t like “family issue” novels.  For one, let’s face it – there is no family without its own issues.  I don’t need to read about others’!  As well, I often find the characters extremely messed up and unlikable.  Bluntly, I found this to be the case with “Who by Fire.”  I was rooting for none of the main characters in the book; in fact, I actually strongly disliked the brother-sister pair (Ash and Bits) on whom the story centers.  All that said, the reason that this book made such a strong impression on me is that, throughout the story, I found myself asking the question: for whom would I go to the ends of the earth?   To a mother, the answer to that question is simple: my kids.  In my case, I would also go to the ends of the earth for my husband, my partner since I was 16 years old.  But who else?  My siblings?  My parents?  My grandparents?  What about aunts, uncles, cousins?  Friends?  Beyond that, who constitutes my family, anyway?

The whole concept that we “owe” our “blood kin” a commitment exceeding what we owe to others close to us is one that is difficult for me to grasp – perhaps because I was fortunate to be raised by a loving stepfather who is not my “blood kin” at all, but who is unquestionably as much “family” to me as my own mother.  Conversely, though, because a family member is “blood kin,” do we owe that person a specialy loyalty if they’re someone whose actions we don’t really like – who wouldn’t really be our friend?  In the book, the sibling pair Ash and Bits don’t like each other much and don’t approve of each other’s lifestyles, yet Bits – at her mother’s command – sets off to Israel to try to bring Ash home.  I felt like I was missing something there.  I know that I love much of my immediate family enough to want to help should they ever need it – but if my brother decided that he needed to go halfway around the world and become a different person, would I follow him and drag him back just because my mom wanted me to fetch him?  That’s not rescue, not to me – that’s invalidation, coercion, emotional abuse, or something like it.  I am not my brother’s keeper, though I would always extend a hand if he needed it (but only if he wanted it) – just like he has always extended one to me, flawed as I am.  At the end of the day, I think that our family is made up of those who believe in us as we are, who accept us as we are – not those who we need to change or to rescue no matter what the circumstance.  I don’t know many families who work like that, though – and perhaps that’s why books like “Who by Fire” are so popular in the end.

End note: Other “family issue” books that I’ve read recently and, to some extent, enjoyed are “The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen and “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim” by David Sedaris.

On karma

For me, this new year has dawned full of happiness and exciting possibilities.  I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to be here in California, enjoying a high-quality of family life with healthy children -- things that eluded us during our New Jersey years.  I feel a joy so deep that the little things that used to wreck my days (such as still being awakened every night by a toddler) don't matter so much anymore, as the big things are under control.  And the big things -- having healthy kids, the Guv being happy in his working world, my fulfillment through hobbies and friends -- those are what matter.  We've found some good karma here in CA, and I'd like to keep it coming.

To that end, every single day I stop in my tracks at some point to hear the message of Luke 12:48: "For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required."  Sometimes, when I think of that phrase, it is hard not to crumple to the ground and cry for joy because of how happy and well we all are right now -- much has been given to us, indeed.  I am close enough to the time in my life when things weren't this way -- those endless drives to and from Children's Hospital of Philadelphia to figure out why Dash was so sick and so little, for example -- when it strikes my heart keenly and sharply that we have emerged victorious from a very dark time.  And every time I have that realization, I also realize that not everyone is so fortunate. 

So how, then, can I put my good karma to use to balance out some of the bad karma in the world?  Especially now, when the economy has hit so many so hard, there must be a way for me to reach out my hand to someone who is not in the same, good place and say, "I can help."  Our family has long supported domestic charities like Habitat for Humanity and the Salvation Army, but I find that writing a check -- even to a fabulous organization -- isn't the same as giving a little of myself to a cause.  And here in Silicon Valley, the causes of homelessness and hunger, at least, are very much in my face every day.  I remain shocked, in the land of Jobs/Page/Brin, that the homeless have to be on the streets at all.  Nine churches in Palo Alto spend nine months of each year in rotation, each opening their parish halls in the evenings for homeless meals and night sleeping for one month -- so, aside from summer, there is a relatively safe space for these folks, but they are still here and in increasing numbers.  I'm one of those strange folks that doesn't isn't afraid of or disgusted by the homeless, though; I just feel sad for them.  Perhaps some of these folks need medical or psychiatric treatment that they're not getting.  Perhaps some of these folks served our country and, as vets, are due something greater than an itinerant, uncertain life.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.  At the end of the day, just because I am educated and live in a house doesn't mean that I am more American or more a child of God than someone who has no home; indeed, the lesson of the Christ in whom I believe is that the "least of his brethren" should be cared for as we would care for Him.

It would be highly unacceptable to me for my children to grow up here in this Golden State (and believe me, here in Silicon Valley, sometimes it does indeed feel like the streets are paved with gold!) without being sensitive to the haves and have-nots of this world.  I want them to know how good they have it.  No, I don't want them to feel bad about having a home or "stuff" or food -- but I don't want them thinking that those who lack those things are somehow "less than."  Above all, I want them to have empathy, and I want that empathy to be bias for action.  And If I want that for them, then I had better set a darned good example. 

To that end, the Guv and I are hatching a project to do something about the many needs our own backyard on a larger scale; we plan to answer Obama's call to national service (though, lest anyone should worry, from within the confines of our current jobs and life).  Until then, we're doing some smaller scale things.  We just signed up to sponsor a family living in rural poverty through The Box Project.  Family to family, we can make a difference.

At the end of the day, I hope that someone someday can say about me that I gave more to this world than I took from it.   And hey, maybe by giving, I can keep the good karma coming; indeed, if "to whom much is given, much is required" is not karma, I don't know what is.

Reminder: Rox and Roll is now on Typepad

Please visit my new web site, http://www.roxandroll.com.  At that site, you'll find the same old Rox and Roll blog, just powered by the more feature-rich Typepad blogging platform at my very own URL.  Enjoy!

The weekend that'll make my week

Starting out the weekend, there was a chance it was going to be the weekend from hell.  I braced myself appropriately, apparently, since it turned out to be an absolutely fabulous few days.

Of course (WARNING: EAST COAST FRIENDS, AVERT YOUR EYES!) the weather being around 70 degrees and sunny might have had something to do with it.

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful as I gathered the kids for a neighbor's Laser Quest birthday party.  Truly, the place was insane.  There were four birthday parties going on at once, and the arcade was in the reception hall.  It would've been easy to lose Dash, who was attached to me while Petunia played laser tag, because of the sheer overcrowding, let alone the poor layout.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't my favorite party ever -- but the kids loved it, and that's what mattered.

The laser tag and arcade party was followed by pizza, etc., though, and imagine the surprise I enjoyed when the party hosts whipped out a gluten-free, soy-cheese pizza!  To some people, this would be far from thrilling, but put yourself in my shoes: I don't remember the last time I ate a slice of pizza.  It has been over a year, maybe two, ever since my wheat allergy became severe enough that I can't even cheat and sneak a bite.  To compound things, Dash's recent diagnosis with a mild dairy allergy has complicated things.  This family eats (ate) a lot of pizza.  So when my neighbor introduced me to Amici's (the one they ordered from is in Mountain View), she greatly improved the quality of my life.  We ordered from there tonight: a soy cheese pizza for Dash, a gluten-free Margherita pizza for me, and a half-cheese, half-pepperoni "normal" large pie for Petunia and the Guv.  The downside was the $53 bill (the GF pizza was $24 of that) -- but my first taste of pizza in over a year made that priceless!  (And it was really, really GOOD too!)

After Laser Tag on Saturday, we returned home to prepare for a visit from my college friend Seamus, his lovely wife, and their two year-old daughter.  Sometimes, these type of visits are more trouble than they're worth -- the work of cooking and cleaning up compounded by constant childcare ("refereeing") can be a real drag.  But not this time!  Our Petunia stepped up to the plate without even being asked, taking over the care of her brother and our young visitor.  Plus, the Guv and I made a very low-maintenace menu of chili, quesadillas, veggie and cheese trays -- that, some wine and beer, and it was a very easy, enjoyable evening.  I don't remember the last time I had meaningful adult conversation with kids in the house.  What a special night!

And then this morning, I slept in... which was actually a problem, since I woke up at 8:35 am and was supposed to be at Dash's preschool from 9-3 for a "maintenance day."  For the uninformed, "maintenance day" is code for "wiping boogers off of toys, tables, etc." and it was totally gross.  My son loves this preschool, but it is just not my bag... too much work, too much cleaning that I don't even want to do in my own house, too much dirt... All that said, the Guv recently figured out that to take my son to the drop-off preschool, I'd have to earn about $12g to pay for it... So we stay at the right school for Dash, the wrong school for me (though I have made some great friends there, so someday I'll stop saying that). 

While I attended Booger Day, the Guv took Petunia, her two friends N and Z, and Dash on a super-long bike ride to Stanford's campus, where they launched stomp rockets, dunked in a fountain (did I mention it was 72 today?) and slurped Jamba Juice.  The Guv is exhausted, and I am hugely impressed that he took that on himself.  When I commented to him that this weekend was like one long playdate for our friend Petunia, he chuckled, "yeah -- just like our life was growing up.  This is how it's supposed to be.  Like the good old days!" 

I'm not sure that I'm up for weekends jam-packed with mutiple others' kids yet -- though breaking it up with some friends and wine sure did help!  And the Guv is right about one thing: these are the good old days, made new again through our young 'uns.  What a fun weekend.  I hope that it's just the start of a magnificent new year in our new California home.

Those were different years

Growing up in northern West Virginia, I found most of my big-ticket entertainment in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  I enjoyed Pirates and Steelers games with my grandparents, and my parents took us to the symphony, Buhl Planetarium and the zoo.  With my best childhood friend, I rode a bumper-float behind her parents' speedboat at the intersection of the Three Rivers and attended my first concert: Billy Joel.  As fondly as all of these memories, I recall surviving my early teen angst by tuning into B-94 FM.  Ahhh, those were different years.

These memories came flooding back to me during our recent Vermont vacation, as I had some alone time in our rented Grand Marquis (Style?  We haz it.) and decided to turn on some tunes at 2:30 on a lovely Friday afternoon.  Finding a station with old-skool hair-band music wasn't hard, as I picked up the car in New Hampshire.  After listening to "Nothin' but a Good Time" my jaw hit the very large floorboard as a Trojan condom ad came on.  Did I mention that this was 2:30 in the afternoon?

Aghast as I was, though, I realized that this fairly graphic ad would not have been played during "family hours" back in my day.  Instead, those were the days of Spuds Macenzie and cigarette ads.  I'm not sure if a mid-day Trojan ad means that sex is no longer taboo, just as I'm not sure that the absence of cigarette and beer ads mid-day means that those addictions are either taboo or under control enough not to warrant ads anymore.  I can't read too much into these ad placements in their vastly different times, as I never studied marketing (and never will -- yawn).

What I am a scholar of, though, is parenting.  While my parents never turned on B94 in our car (just not their kind of music), my best friend's very Catholic mother always had it blaring for us.  I wonder if she still listens to it, and if B94 is playing similar ads.  In my car these days, we listen to an I-pod; but, for a few seconds in my "cop car" in New Hampshire, I thought to myself that my kids are missing out on enjoying the radio.  I take that back.  Maybe it makes me an old biddy to want to avoid questions about condoms and sex from my very-perceptive eight year-old before it's time.  2:30 on a Friday afternoon, in a car, prompted by the radio, will never be the right time for me.  So, alas, they'll miss out on the radio, and on the radio ads, at least until they're having their own teen angst and figure out that they can tune in.  By then, they'll know what a condom is anyway, as the Guv and I will have taught them even if the schools haven't.  Yet I can't help feeling that a Trojan ad, played mid-day, means a loss of innocence in our society that I damn sure feel should still be there.   Then again, the song lyrics they'd be hearing aren't exactly clean either.  At least I control what's on my daughter's I-pod, for now anyway.  (As for what she hears at school... well, I'm probably silly to be worried about a radio ad!  But that's a subject for another post...)

The Christmas that Almost Wasn't

 In hindsight, I should have anticipated that traveling to Vermont at Christmastime would be a lot of trouble.  Not only might snow be a factor, but airports and flights would be jam-packed.  Still, we planned to leave San Francisco, connecting through Newark, for Burlington, Vermont on Sunday, December 21; should any troubles arise, Christmas Eve would remain three days away.  Plenty of time, right?

Nerves getting the best of me, I called Continental Airlines about eight hours before our flight; since a Continental plane had just skidded off of a runway in Denver, my sensitivities were heightened.  Assured that they anticipated no delays, I went to sleep, preparing for a 4:30 a.m. wake up.  Kids dressed and ready to go out the door, I suggested that my husband (the Guv) do one last check on the flight status before we leave home.

Our flight, the first Newark-bound flight out of San Francisco that day, was cancelled.

Our angelic children waited patiently as the Guv, the highest level of frequent flier on Continental, called their priority line.  We were offered a rescheduled flight that would get us to Vermont at midnight on Christmas Eve – three, almost four, very long days later.  Stand-by wasn’t even an option; our flight was cancelled due to “weather,” we were told (though the worst of the New England storm had passed, puzzling us).  Nevertheless, a lot of passengers had been stranded in the day before us; we’d simply have to wait, we were told. 

“What if that flight gets cancelled?  Didn’t you tell Santa that we’ll be in Vermont?  And what if we’re delayed and in the air when Santa wants to come?  OUR TREE ISN’T EVEN UP YET!” our eight year-old daughter, who still believes in Santa, began to panic.

A few hours later, the Guv and I agreed that three-four days wasn’t going to work.  We’d rather be stuck in our California home for Christmas and leave yet later than be stuck in the air for the holiday.  I had told the Guv that I really wanted a white Christmas in Vermont, though, and he was hell-bent on making that happen.  Using his thickest charm, he called the priority line again. 

Suddenly, we were on a plane on the 23rd, first class, to Houston.  We could sleep for about six hours at an in-airport Marriott before catching an early flight to Newark on Christmas Eve.  My father-in-law would pick us up at noon, drive us to Hartford, Connecticut (the nearest place from which we could pick up a one-way rental car), and we’d be in Vermont by dinnertime on Christmas Eve, in plenty of time for putting up the tree in advance of Santa’s highly-anticipated arrival.

We’ll forget about the disparaging looks we got boarding our first-class flight to Houston with kids in tow nearly three hours late; the little angels went straight to sleep as instructed.  When we landed at 2:30 a.m., we walked over a quarter of a mile to the “in-airport” hotel, as the tram was shut down for the night.  Three hours of sleep later, the kids still had huge smiles pasted on their faces (and cowboy hats on their heads, accessories they had brought with them out of excitement over visiting Texas) as we sauntered back for our on-time flight to Newark, which was also seamless.  My father-in-law was there, and nearly seven --  SEVEN! – hours later, thanks to some through horrific freezing rain, we picked up our rental car in Hartford at 7 pm, after stopping at a grocery store just before it closed for the night to pick up supplies for a hasty, out-of-the-box Christmas Eve dinner…

Three hours later, just past 10 pm, we pulled into our driveway in Vermont.  We slapped up the artificial tree that we bought years ago for a Christmas in July party.  A very tired, but still smiling, Petunia, slapped on about ten ornaments as her dad wrapped some lights around.  I played Santa as Dad put the kids to bed.  We all woke up late (and still exhausted) on Christmas Day with a Charlie Brown tree, but no one cared.  Our vista was a forest of gorgeous white snow, Santa had come, and we were in for the day…

… until I realized that no grocery stores were open on Christmas Day, and we had almost no food in the house.

Twitter to the rescue!  Several non-Christian friends were tweeting about getting Asian food take-out for dinner, and the Guv remembered that there was a Japanese steakhouse in a nearby town.  A new family tradition, the Japanese Steakhouse Hibachi Christmas Day Dinner, was born.

The drama of our travels didn’t end there, but the memory is blurred by the sheer joy I felt watching my two kids, ages 3 and 8, ski together for the first time.  My lungs are full of fresh Green Mountain air, and my heart is full of happiness, as the Guv found a way to get us to our white Christmas – and, in the end, to one of our best family vacations ever.  I’m writing this post from the first class section of Continental, my favorite airline, on our way home.  The kids are still being angels, and I hope it lasts beyond our touchdown.   We have some thinking to do about next year… while I loved our white Christmas, and while we swore to the kids we’d always have Christmas in our Vermont home, I’m thinking that a white sand beach might serve as a good white Christmas substitute.  California-Hawaii flights aren’t often cancelled for weather, and I wouldn’t have to pack as many bulky things.  Santa can find us on the beach… right?