Rox and Roll

The last three weeks: seven planes, five states, countless friends, and life, revisited

After a few weeks of mostly blissful rest and relaxation, I returned home today full of a bizarre mix of refreshed energy and utter disquiet.  Having been surrounded by people about whom I care a great deal for weeks on end, my personal gas tank is full of many positive things.  I am determined to hold on to these feelings of gratitude, peace, comfort in my life-stage (even amid a great deal of ambiguity), the love of and for friends and family, and the confidence that I can pull off a life in this world remaining true to who I am while flying solo.  That last part is the source of my disquiet and my greatest hurdle, as I have not found the right balance yet among challenging myself to re-examine not only my priorities but my whole value set, (re)defining myself where necessary, and giving myself permission to have new experiences outside of my (former) comfort zone.  Yet I am getting there the way a start-up enterprise does: first I crawled, now I am walking, and, soon enough, I will be running. 

These last few weeks along that walking journey have been amazing.  After a quick drop-off of a boy and a dog in Florida, the first stop on my journey involved settling Petunia into summer camp at my prep school alma mater.  Wrapped up in concern over getting her and her stuff settled into the space, I had not prepared adequately for an unexpectedly emotionally-difficult journey to this place, my favorite on earth, where I met her father, where we became engaged, and where we married.  It is hard to reclaim space for oneself when so many memories there are shared ones.  Fortunately, a dear friend who also has gone through a difficult life transition had shared with me a Hawaiian ritual called hoʻoponopono, a way of making peace, in a sense -- and I decided to use it with this, my beloved space.  I walked around for a couple of hours in the gloaming, respecting my feelings, thinking about forgiveness, finding gratitude, and remembering the love I feel for this place that engendered in me both deep curiosity and love of learning which remains at the heart of my takeaways from there. 

It always felt like home, and it still does.

Next, I traipsed around Boston and surrounds for a few days, seeing friends here and there, joining one for tea in the courtyard of the Boston Public Library.  I had not seen her in 18 years, and it felt like so little time had passed.  I cherish moments like that -- those reminders of connectedness with friends who have left an imprint on our hearts that time and space does not alter. 

From Boston, I headed North to my favorite place on this earth, the brave little state of Vermont.  Nearly two years ago, Hurricane Irene destroyed part of my beloved Vermont town, including its covered bridge.  It was a pleasure to see it rebuilt:

And to see the beautiful Ottaquechee River raging on:

 I love the reflection of the trees on the glassine water. 

After a quick stop in Hanover, New Hampshire for a coffee at the Dirt Cowboy Cafe, birthplace of the novel that I am working to finish, I headed back to Boston for a flight back to Florida, where I really really really did not want to get out of the Atlantic Ocean.  Noted, the green room is more mud-brown, and there were a scary lot of jellyfish my last day in the surf, but oh!  to have warm water in which to swim, boogie-board, and surf regularly!  While my hair may hate it, my overall opinion of Florida in the summertime has been turned on its head.  Mom, Dad, see you next July, right here:

My adventures wrapped up in Marin with some friends sharing a house in celebration of one's 40th birthday.  Yesterday, we took a two-hour hike that became a four-hour hike, but it was so worth it.  Look:

I am home now.  I am tired.  I am happy.  And I am planning my next adventure already with a full heart and a whole lot of stuff on my mind that I have yet to hike enough to clear out of the way.  My favorite book in graduate school was a conversation between educators Myles Horton and Paulo Freire, titled "We Make the Road by Walking," and that phrase has remained among my personal mantras.  But after spending a weekend with a new friend who is an ultramarathoner, I am thinking that running is not so bad.  One covers more ground that way.  And if I do not take up running, well, flying will work.  Seven planes, five states, and more friends and family than I can count on my fingers and toes ... My gas tank is full, and the open road awaits.

The post wherein Petunia flies away

Tomorrow morning is a big day, one in which I will put Petunia on an airplane by herself for the first leg of a journey that, after a stop to see grandparents, will end with her spending five weeks at my former prep school.  Cue the emergency broadcast system: This is a test.  This is only a test.  Normal life will resume in August with the start of eighth grade.

I am not panicked.  Beginning at age 5, I flew on planes by myself.  (Seriously.  The pilots used to carry me on and off the planes themselves, and I would sit in the cockpit sometimes during flight.  Those were different years!)  And she is heading to a place that I love like none other.  An old schoolmate is her summer dean.  Bunches of friends live in the area.  I can let her go because sending her to my school is akin to sending her to extended family. 

But there is so much more to this moment than my not-panicking and wondering, as my mother did, if she will be able to cross the street sensibly -- for I remember this moment.  I remember the first time I left home to live somewhere else for a summer.  And in my case, it did not go well at first. 

The summer before I left for prep school, when I was 15, I stayed with a family in the Basque region of France as an exchange student.  Rewind with me for a moment: these were the days before Al Gore invented the internet -- or, at least, before its use became widespread.  To prepare for this trip, we located my little town on a map.  We used an encyclopedia.  We knew they had a different language in the region, but the family spoke French.  It said so, right there on the sheets of paper that matched me to my host family.

Two days into my adventure, sleep-deprived and terrified at the height of the Cold War, I snuck into the family's telephone closet and dialed America somehow on a rotary phone.  (Mad skillz, that took.)  Reaching my mother in the middle of the night, I assured her that I had been kidnapped by Russians, because these people sure did not speak French.  And I spoke a little bit of Russian, and I still did not understand what the heck they were saying.  Something was terribly amiss, and I needed help.

I am not sure how she did it, but I am pretty sure that my mother reached the Ambassador himself, for someone came calling for me the next day.  My bags were packed, and I was hopeful to leave for France without further delay since I obviously was not there yet.  Within minutes, though, much laughter ensued.  That funny language?  Basque, of course -- a dying language, and one that actually was their home tongue.  While the family spoke French to me, they did not speak it among themselves.  They course-corrected well, and thank God I stayed -- I was among few Americans the town had seen since World War II.  Elderly Basque would beckon me over, "Venez ici!  J'ai une histoire à vous raconter."  (Come here!  I have a story to tell you.)

Now, sometimes people in the greater Boston area do not sound like they speak our same English -- but I am confident that Petunia will be able to understand them.  I am sure that she will find her way to her classrooms and to the gym and way too often to Dunkin Donuts since we lack those on the Left. 

I am excited for her.  I know what this moment meant to me once upon a time.  And I remember my first days on that glorious campus.  I never got homesick, for I was where I belonged.  Will she feel the same?  Time will tell.  And time will also tell if this is a five week thing, or if I will lose her to the school for good in another year.  Until then, watch me stand back and see my firstborn fly.  As I sung to her as a baby:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night*

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

***

Be free, Petunia.  Spread your wings and fly.  I have raised you so that you would be able to leave the nest, and I know that you can.  I cannot wait to watch your flight path from afar.  xo Mama

(*Even the Basque would know that lyric is from "Blackbird" by the Beatles.)

Growing up West Virginian

Last evening, the first of many small dinner gatherings I hope to have over the summer took place on the deck of my country home.  We talked, laughed, and ate as we watched the sun's golden rays set the native grasses of the Stanford Hills aglow as the distant magical city of San Francisco faded into the purples and pinks and delicate fog of the night sky.  In some ways, it felt about as far from my native home in Appalachia as one could get; and yet, from the vantage point of what passes for a farm in Silicon Valley, the duality of my existence as a well-educated coal miner's daughter sprang to the forefront of the conversation in an unexpected way: over dirt.

Later this summer, some friends and I are going camping in the desert, and there's a real quandary over whether one should rent vehicles to do this sort of camping or take one's own car and gear.  Apparently, the dirt, once it gets into your stuff, may never come out.  The desert dust has a "soapy" feel, one friend described, and, apparently, it sticks to the crevices of everything somewhat permanently.  Nothing new taken there will ever be new again.  There was a general consensus that one does not take new stuff to camp in the desert, for it will be ruined if it gets dirty.  It took my oldest friend at the table piping up with "maybe she doesn't view getting things dirty as a negative" for me to frame the situation, and the solution, in my mind.  He is right; I do not care about getting things dirty -- not my hands, not my car, and not my life.  Out of the greatest messes, the greatest experiences are born.  (Should I invoke the metaphor of childbirth here, where the initial mess is cleaned up but oh, how the scars -- and product -- remain?!)  Knowing myself well, the dust in my camper will bring a smile to my face every time I come across it, for it will remind me that I lived a little.  I will not die wishing that I had not gotten dirt in my car -- but I will certainly die, at least a little inside, if I do not start opening myself to a new mess of experiences.  As yesterday's dinner came on the heels of news that one of my dear friend's other friends had just passed away suddenly at age 51, we are all too aware that life can be a lot different than we planned -- and unfortunately, sometimes that means a lot shorter.  We come from dirt, and we return to it -- ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

As I write this post today, it is West Virginia's 150th birthday -- so the reminder of who I am and who I want to be that was borne from last night's conversation is, in many ways, appropriate.  I am at a point in my life where my present-day identity is changing: I am no longer a wife, still somebody's mother (times two), a worker by contract ... And I am exactly two months away from turning forty years old.  Who am I?  What am I doing here?  What is my purpose?  I started reflecting on this especially hard when my grandfather passed away a couple of months back, and it has occupied a great deal of mindspace ever since.  I am at a juncture where I can redefine myself.  We should all have this luxury -- and that, really, is what it is.  It is so easy to get stuck being who we think we are supposed to be, or, far worse, like I did: being who other people think we should be.  We need to stop from time to time and do a reality-check with ourselves.  And if we are not living as we wish to live, it is never ever too late to push the reset button.

And I am resetting to be a West Virginian again.

What does that mean?  No, wild and wonderful family, it does not mean that I am moving "home." It means that I am returning to the things I learned as a child that I forgot until I needed to remember them -- thinks like getting dirty, literally and metaphorically.

Getting dirty can be an uncomfortable thing.  One way to get dirty is by gathering dust, which happens when one is unmoving.  (The back of my TV is evidence of that.)  That is pretty unexciting.  But another way to get dirty is by taking some risks and trying something out of our comfort zone.  I am not encouraging sullying oneself for no reason -- but for me, one example is that I am thinking of taking up snowboarding again, bruises be damned.  I can live in fear, clean and unbroken, or I can come close to flying and risk defiling myself while becoming more whole than I ever will become while sitting here collecting dust. I harken back to a childhood riding BMX bikes off of auto tire ramps into piles of leaves and think: that was worth it.

The dirt beneath my fingers has become important to me once again as well.  My kids and I have planted a couple of gardens, and last night's dinner ended with lemon cupcakes made from my own tree and lavender truffles made from my own lavender.  As a dinner guest noted, "am I really eating that local, like ten feet away from the plant?"  I love answering "yes" to that.  In the fall, I will invite him back for pumpkin pie from our own patch, several other kinds of squash from my own garden, persimmons and olives from our giving trees. 

The kids and I also are spending more time together off-line, especially taking hikes to animal-spot.  We have both cottontail bunnies and jackrabbits living under the deck of our barn.  Deer sleep on the porch off of my master bedroom.  Foxes, quail, California condors, red-tailed hawks: all here.  Lizards are everywhere, and we see the occasional king snake.  We saw none of these things in the city just seven miles down the road.  It is magical, and it is just like my own childhood.

Yet the biggest difference of all is in my own priorities, especially with regard to connectedness.  I entertained a lot in my old life, but those gatherings were bigger, less personal, and pretty rarely for my own purposes.  Now, I value "visiting," as my grandma would call it, all the more.  I want to have regular summer deck dinners for friends from different circles to meet.  One of the things I feared about divorce was the social shift: would I lose friends over this?  Lo and behold, my circle has grown with more new friendship than I ever could have imagined.  It is nothing short of miraculous, and I am loving integrating the old and the new (or in some cases, the renewed) into my changed life. 

West Virginians do it right, you see, to a fault.  We garden like nobody's business.  We get our hands, and our vehicles, pretty dirty.  Then we go to each other's houses to visit, eating pie made from berries from our gardens and getting to know each other's kids.  We look out for each other.  We do not care if our houses are perfect or who has more or less.  We show up, and we nourish each other inside and outside at the same time.  I doubt I knew a millionaire in my home state, yet we all lived with an abundance that is absent from Silicon Valley.  Being a West Virginian involves a richness and depth of the soul that one cannot imagine if one grew up in a big, clean house with professionally-organized stuff and Whole Foods and rental campers and maids to clean it all up after us.  Being West Virginian is far messier and, thus, far more real in the best possible way.

I have spent more of my life running from being a West Virginian than I have embracing that I am who I am because of the very place in which I took my first steps, played with cousins daily, swam in a creek, hopped in the back of a pick-up truck for a hay ride, planted a seed, and saw the stars in a country sky unblemished by the ruinous lights of a business life. 

That running stops now, and I will remember who I am as my new car tows my new camper to the desert, where we will all get a little bit dirty this summer.  The desert dirt may be quite different from that of my farm, but that primal connection that I feel toward the earth I was born to appreciate will be quite the same, for we come from that dirt, and it is to that dirt we will one day return...

... but not yet.  I have some lovely messes to embrace, and I will bask in every glorious one.

Happy Birthday, West Virginia, my Mountain Mama, my truest home.

 

 

What if there is no finish line?

I had no idea that there were such things as ultramarathons until I made a friend who runs them.  We're talking 50+ miles at a time and on purpose!  Dude ran 31 miles last weekend for fun.  I am in awe, and tired, and eating dark chocolate and pretzels and sipping wine just to recover my aching muscles from even thinking about running at all.  Sometimes, I am amazed at what we humans can will ourselves to do. 

The end of the school year is kind of like an ultramarathon, isn't it?  Suddenly, we have to pack it all in: the last concerts, plays, awards ceremonies, science fairs ... For some reason, they pile up at the end of a year that seems otherwise well thought-out and balanced.  But all of the sudden May Happens, and parents are at loose ends.  It's not the kids who are losing it, nor the teachers; they are still in school, and they have work to do.  It's us, especially the at-home parents, who are suddenly thrust into the fray of getting to The End.  We have teacher gifts to buy, and lots of people to thank, and we have to get to all of these events, making sure that our kids have the appropriate costumed attire or whatever is required.  We prepare so that they show up ready.  It is, at times, exhausting.

But ... we run the PTAs.  We come back year after year, and we know that we don't like May -- but we do little to change it.  We don't say to the head of school "why was the spring concert the night before the science expo?  Two major events in the evening per week doesn't work for our family!"  And we look at next year's calendar and groan, for it is planned the same way.  And we roll with it, swearing under our breath the next May, and the next one, and so on, for not doing things differently.  We fear repercussions, perhaps, so we say nothing.  We not only show up every stinking time -- we show up and out-do the last time.  No wonder our lives never get easier while we're so busy making them harder!

C'mon.  Really?  Is this where we are?  When Jan Hatmaker posted "Worst End of School Year Mom Ever," a whole host of friends linked to it.  It's a riotously funny piece on its face.  But is it funny, really?  Or is there something very, very wrong here?  I think that there is, and I don't think it's the absence of humor.  I think it's the expectations that parents are placing on ourselves and the positions we're putting ourselves in -- and I think our kids are suffering for it.  I don't think we need to slack off with regard to what our kids are doing at the end of their school year (which is part of what rubbed me wrong about Hatmaker's piece); I think it's the rest of the stuff that we need to let go.

In my book, we owe our kids one major thing: our presence.  And it is on this front that I believe many parents fail.  We sign our kids up for soccer, kung fun, language school, chess club ... We send them to school from 8-2:30, then to an activity, then we're rushed to get dinner on the table, then there might be a spare hour before bedtime.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  At what point during that schedule do we let them just be kids -- and play with them as such?

One mom approached me this year, concerned that her son had ADHD.  She said that the teachers aren't complaining, but she volunteered in class one time (literally ONE time) and thought her son squirmed more than most other boys.  And she said that it's even worse in the  language school to which he goes daily after school.  When I told her: "Gee, your son is in school from 8-2:30, and then he's in another school for a couple of hours afterward ... and he's 8?  I'd squirm too.  Have you thought that maybe that's too much for him?" her reply was "I don't think you understand my culture."

Honey, this issue transcends culture, for I understand children.  I understand that they don't sit still, and sometimes, they wiggle.  They need good food and good sleep and yes, a good education -- but more than anything, they. need. to. play.  They need to get their hands dirty.  They need to run outside, and throw balls, and fail to catch them, and make kites out of sticks and paper and string.  They need to build Roxaboxens every year.  They need to stay in their PJs all day, and have ice cream for breakfast or breakfast for dinner sometimes, and feel like they have a little bit of control over their world.  Moreover, they need us there with them, pointing out why certain mudcakes stick while others don't, teaching them how to catch and release lizards safely, encouraging them to experiment and teaching them all of those wonderful things they don't learn in any classroom, like how to check each other and the dog for ticks.  Mudcakes and lizards and ticks are the stuff of real life, for, as kids grow, those lessons transform into those of chemical solutions and behavioral science and epidemiology.  The stuff of lazy spring afternoons can grow their little minds easily, casually, and exponentially if we just make the time to play with them.

But instead, we outsource that.  We often don't have or make the time, yet we treat them like they are on schedule to be future Harvard prodigies if they just pack enough in each day from our hired guns -- and then, the ultimate indignity: we expect them to behave like little old men at age 8.  Sit still, fold your hands, and listen.  Have something intelligent (and RIGHT!) to say.  FOCUS!  Don't be silly.  There is no time for that.  And don't you dare make a mistake, young man, or we will tutor you into perfection with yet more school.  Forget failure -- mere mistakes are not an option. 

Why are we doing this to ourselves and to our children?  When do they get to be kids, and us, just parents?  For what if we do all of these things, and our kids fail to get into Harvard?  What if there is no finish line to this race?  What, then, shall we do? 

I don't purport to have an answer to that, but I do know what works for me: saying no. 

No, when we partner for a class party, and you, SuperMom, bring me a project that you found on Pinterest that may hold the attention of exactly 2 little girls but not the rest of them nor the 13 little boys in the class, I am not okay with that.  Give them a sheet of paper and stickers and crayons and have at it.  There are no bonus points for Pinterest.

No, when you ask me to do something for, say, staff appreciation that my child does not see nor care about, I will not do it.  Staff appreciation should not be a week.  It should be a day.  More days inconveniences parents, and teachers do not feel five times as special as they do at other schools where it's only a day.  I show my appreciation to my kids' good teachers all year long.  When they are exceptional, I let the principal, the superintendent, and, in one case, the entire school board know.  Trust me: that is of more value to teachers than another tote bag. 

No, when you tell me your kid can't have a playdate because they're doing soccerswimmingchessclubflagfootballballet, I won't make my Sunday available.  If your kid has no free time after school, you are doing it wrong.  Seriously.  There is no exception to that statement.  If your kid lacks a single afternoon/evening of free time (daycare excepted) because you have overscheduled him/her, you have a problem as well as a likely-overtired child.  There is no age limit to this platitude.  Whether 6 or 16, kiddo needs downtime. Period.  The kid needs family time, too, so follow my lead and put a blockade around one weekend day.  What, your kid's soccer team practices on Sunday?  Quit.  If God rested on the seventh day, so, too, should your child.

No, when you comment that my kid's handwriting leaves much to be desired, I do not need the name of a tutor.  No thank you.  It's called Second Grade, and also Kiss My Ass.  I don't comment on how your second grader seems so tightly-wound I mistook her for a slinky.  My kid's busy inventing things in his head and has no time for making the a b c's line up in perfect order.  So. Friggin'. What.

No, I am not concerned about my child's ability to get into HarvardYalePrincetonStanfordMIT.  Shh, don't tell anybody, but I do higher education stuff for a living.  If I don't overschedule my kids -- as in, they have one sport and maybe one other activity (e.g. scouts) at a time after school -- what does that tell you?  Might it indicate that you don't have to check a bunch of boxes to get into a good school?  Hmm, I wonder...

But I don't want to end this blog post on a negative note.  I want to end it on a big summer YES, for school is out, and summer is the time to say YES to a whole lot of fun stuff -- unless you've scheduled your kid for camp every damned minute of the summer, in which case, I feel sorry for your kid -- yes, even if you work.  They need a break from changing out of their PJs every day, even if it's only for one week.  Probably you do, too.  As Ghandi said, be the change you wish to see in the world!   Say yes!

Yes to coming up with creative projects, whether from the God-forsaken Pinterest site or from instructables.com.  Dash and I are building some sort of go-cart this summer, likely self-propelled.  He, Petunia, and I have also planted a garden.  Since we're living in the country now, we'll do some other fun stuff, like a scat scavenger hunt.  I know -- I'm a shitty mom.  (Ba dum bum ching!)

Yes to PJs all day, ice cream waffle sandwiches for breakfast, a movie marathon, and flashlight tag at night every so often.

Yes to interminable hikes in 90+ degree heat followed by jumping into the pool in our clothes.

Yes to long conversations about crazy ideas, like flying cars and what if we made up our own language. 

Yes to kids cooking dinner, and yes, I'll eat it even if it's stir fry that somehow accidentally involved chocolate chips.  Yes to doing dishes all together afterward, even if it does make a huge mess.

Yes to dirty feet and showering tomorrow and sleepovers in Mama's big bed anyway.

Yes to all of these good memories we're building and the good lessons being learned that life is for living, not for outdoing each other, competition, and some kind of endgame with no rules and, as far as I can tell, no point other than bragging rights.

Yes to running for no special reason, and no to the race, because, ultimately, we are our own best and worst competition.  And at my finish line, I want to look back and say "I did right by my children" -- not "I won."

 

What I Want for Mother's Day: A Letter to My Kids

Dear Petunia and Dash,

Someday you will learn how babies are made, and it will not match with my theory, which is that life-creation involves the removal of a piece of a mother's heart, the attachment of arms and legs to it, the performance of some real abracadabra-type magic, and then the turning lose of one's offspring to roam about the world.  Tah-dah!  And at the center of it all is still your mama's heart, pulsing blood through your own veins.  The very primal bond between mother and child is one that nothing can break -- nothing, as in no matter what tantrum you throw, Dash, over your ice cream cone falling on the floor, or your tween mumblings, Petunia, over how late friends can stay up when I still make you go to bed far too early.  All of the eye-rolling and foot-stomping in the world cannot change that my heart beats in your bodies and will long after I am gone.

Fortunately, we have so very little of those tough moments.  I have been blessed with two children who, by the grace of God, actually get along with each other and with me.  Your relationship with each other, especially, is something that my own friends comment on regularly.  I feel a bit sad when folks act like it is a surprise for siblings to love each other above all else.  I think it happened because I expected you to love each other -- nothing more, nothing less.  And since you both share pieces of that same heart, how could you not?  It beats in rhythm.  You will always have each other.

Last week, a friend asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day, and I realized that I had no clue -- no wish list, no plans, no idea.  Perhaps it is because of this grueling move, but I really did not want to plan an adventure of the usual magnitude.  I thought of how important natural beauty has been to me this past year, so we will spend my day surrounded by it oceanside.  I am sure it will be a lovely day.

But what I really want from you this year has nothing to do with location, or what we eat, or gifts, or how late I get to sleep in tomorrow (which, judging by Dash's presence in my bed, might not be late at all).  What I want is for you to know, deep in your hearts, that you are surrounded by love -- that you came from a place of great love and desire for you to exist and that no matter how that place has changed, the love that everyone from that place has for you has not changed at all.  And when you look at each other tomorrow and the next day and the next year, and then the time years from now when you are aunt and uncle to each other's kids, I want you to see a connection that time nor space nor family changes can break -- a connection that is so much bigger than your individual selves.  Always, always, always see each other as blessings, confidantes, and pieces of a much bigger whole.  Know that bedrock of family is always there in the hearts of all of its members and especially in the bond between you siblings that no shape-shifting ever will force apart.  You are part of each other, connected heart to heart.  Love each other fiercely and forever.  That love will never let you down.

I am far from a perfect mother, but, when I look at the two of you, I get a bit self-congratulatory.  Hooray!  I did something exactly right.  Twice.  And then I see you look at each other, and I know exactly what love is, and so do you.  Take good care of that heart that I gave you and use it as well as you can not only for each other but to love our magnificent world and all of its people with all of their flaws in spite of it all. 

That is your mama's heart right there: believing so hard that the world is a good place full of good people that I was willing to turn you loose in it.  Use those hearts now to perpetuate the belief in the goodness and worth in all of us, having each other's back all along the way.  That is the mother's day gift I seek this year.

Love,

Mama xo xo

 

 

Grandpa Was Here

A couple of months ago, I lost the greatest man I have ever known, my grandfather, Dick Rossy.  Pap would have been 88 on April 25th.  Had I to pick but one word to describe Pap, it would be "servant."  First and foremost, Pap viewed himself as Christ's hands on earth.  He served as my junior- and senior-high Sunday school teacher and as our church camp counselor and director.  He served as a missionary in India and in Mexico as well as throughout these United States.  He served as a reading teacher, even after long days serving as a breadman.  He served as a Navy SeaBee, helping to rebuild Midway after WWII.  He served as the church's lawn mower, as a deacon, as an elder, as a lector.  He served and he served and he served, and never once did I hear my grandfather complain of fatigue.  Never once did I hear him say "I cannot help."  He gave of himself completely and selflessly in a way that I have never seen another human being do.

Every Sunday, I think of my grandpa a little extra, especially on the Sundays when, as he did, I lead a teen Sunday school class.  This Sunday, I woke up in a barely-unpacked rental home that is in pretty horrible shape because of our interrupted move -- as in, "Hoarders" could have multiple episodes divided among the home and its outbuildings.  Today, it is no longer my bum lung that is suffocating me: it is my stuff -- a lot of stuff that I can, and will, give and/or throw away.  I loved leaving it all in my rearview mirror as I drove to church to talk with kids about homelessness and social responsibility.  Talk about contrasts! 

We held our somewhat-somber class discussion and headed into church in time for communion, as always.  After communion comes a prayer, some announcements, and a final song before "agape," a snack and social time after services.  My kids and I were the first ones out of the church door to head for agape today, and standing before us was a mother holding a sign that I did not read next to a son squatting on the ground.  We all know what those signs say, something like "hungry, please help."  But this was in our church space, literally tucked into a nook of the small, separate chapel building.

And we all just walked by.

And I had just given a lesson on homelessness.

And one of the kids had said that when she met someone homeless on Skid Row in LA, that person had told her that the most important thing people could give was a smile and eye contact.

And I had not even read her sign much less met her eyes.

I stewed from a distance, and I watched, and, at that point, the area had become quite crowded, and she was a bit out-of-the-way and easy to overlook with our snacking and chatting crowd.  But I knew she was there -- and suddenly, I felt my grandpa teaching me again. 

Walking with his guidance from years of his classes, I made a plate of food and asked me kids to join me as I walked it over to that mom -- and watched as she insisted that her boy take it, and noticed that she is so very thin, and breathed relief when another teen mom saw what I was doing and went to grab drinks, and tucked a couple of bucks into her hand, and left.

That ten or twenty minutes after church simply overwhelmed me.  It was as if all of my grandpa's lessons about service and what it means to be a Christian flooded over me at once.  Jesus as a homeless man.  Loving our neighbors as ourselves.  "Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of these the least of my breathren, you have done it unto me..." or something like that.  That very day's lesson on homelessness in which we had made a "scattergram" of words used to describe it. 

"In front of our church being ignored" was not among those.

I stared at my hands for a while this afternoon -- hands usually clean and neatly manicured that now have broken nails made sloppy from too many moving boxes and gardening while I should have been unpacking.  Hands that are small like my mom's and cracked like my grandpa's. Hands that forgot that they are servant's hands.  Jesus himself more or less stood before me today, and I spent ten minutes figuratively sitting on my hands about it before I did anything at all -- and it still was not enough, because I did not gather the teens from my class and say, "see!" because I suddenly forgot that I was supposed to be a teacher.  I did not plan this lesson.  I still have so much to learn.

So Grandpa -- for it is through him that my faith is becoming restored -- taught me another lesson today, this time in Home Depot as I picked up yet more moving boxes.  This time, a woman was standing beside me looking at these foam tiles that I have in my former basement, talking with the sales clerk about alternate solutions because they are too expensive.  She had bought her son, who looked about three, a baby pool for his birthday, and the only place she had to set it was on concrete -- and she worried that he might slip and hurt himself.  She was trying to choose between her son's safety and money.  I overheard and intervened, and, to make a long story short, she picked up some of my foam tiles half an hour later.  The Home Depot saleslady cried.  "It's not every day you see that happen," she said.

Oh, but it should be everyday, I thought.  We all have so much to give.  Sometimes, it is in the form of recognizing dignity: reading a sign, making eye contact, and offering a smile.  Sometimes, it is in the form of a plate of food when we have more than we need.  Sometimes, it is a couple of bucks and going without a planned Starbucks run that afternoon.  And sometimes, it is in the form of giving away something we do not need anymore to someone who needs it.

Sometimes, it is using our hands to do that most basic Christian act: folding them in prayer for all of those in need.

I am so lucky that I lived my grandpa's teachings alongside him for so very many years, hearing him say before every delicious Sunday dinner my grandmother cooked "bless this food to our use and us to thy service."  I am so blessed that I am not alone -- that I have a family, and dear friends, and my faith to prop me up when I am so very tired and beyond overwhelmed.  And I am so grateful to feel called to walk in love and service as my grandpa did, looking at my hands after typing this lengthy missive and asking, "how can I put you to use tomorrow?" -- and knowing that I will find a way.

 

Distraction from drowning

So, about that move ... it is still happening, as in: we moved in, and then we moved partway out, and now we are about to move back in again.  If I told you all of the reasons for that, you would call me a liar.  So I am going to skip the unbelievably tawdry details and simply share that I seriously love the new place.  There are awesome neighbors, even with each of us having what passes for serious acreage around here; they come out when they see our car pull in, and, suddenly, the kids have some surrogate grandparents, bonus dogs, and more new friends.  I know the mailman's name (Cruz).  I also know two gas men, a plumber, a contractor, a pool guy, a pool leak guy, a cable guy, four Task Rabbits, and seven pest control guys who really should be cast in a film all together, 'cause they are straight outta Jersey even though they are from NorCal, yo.

In any event, while this move practically put me underwater, I am finding life rafts, such as:

- My daughter Petunia is suddenly looking straight into my eyes.  At two shoe sizes bigger than mine, she was bound to reach and pass up my height, but not at twelve.  Ah, well -- if I can't be statuesque, she may as well be.

- My son Dash is fascinated with cars.  All he wants to talk about every single minute of every single day is cars.  What is the first car I ever wanted, did I have it, why or why not, what might have been better, what cars did my parents/grandparents/friends' parents have, what car would I buy if I were a billionaire, why do I think the neighbors drive the cars they drive ... But I drew the line when he told me he would become a NASCAR driver when he grew up, telling him he was welcome to do that after he became a mechanical engineer who designed new cars.  His reply?  "I'm going to ask Elon Musk to talk Tesla coils with me before I commit."  No, I am not kidding.

- One of my friends is starting a spreadsheet with things I have never done and should do after I admitted that I had never eaten sushi until three weeks ago.  This could be lots of fun.  What should I add? 

- Another childhood friend has proposed a summer child-free cruise from Florida to the Bahamas.  I do not believe she has heard about all of the norovirus and/or cruise ship fires/strandings/malfeasance in the news these days.  However, I did Google said cruises and they are cheaper than cheap.  So I think I may have just added "take cheap cruise" to my spreadsheet, coupled with "pack animal-print polyester pantsuit."  What the hell; we are doing this because we are both turning 40 this year, so I might as well go with it.

- Oh. My. God.  I'm turning 40 this year.  How did THAT happen?

- So what.

- Today, a friend's gardener made a dream come true for me: he planted a couple of wine barrels of herbs right outside my kitchen.  I have parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, basil, lavender, and will soon add mint and oregano.  We also prepped a patch for several varieties of squash (delicata -- blossoms! -- acorn, and zucchini, will soon add another TBD), a patch outside my office for wildflowers, a whole long patch for more wildflowers along the horse trail ... and a pumpkin patch!  Come autumn, when you reach the end of our cul-de-sac, you'll be staring straight at a patch full of Big Max pumpkins, sugar pie pumpkins, and jack o' lantern pumpkins.  In future plans: strawberries, tomatoes, lettuces, and a couple of berry bushes. And more flowers ... can't have enough flowers!

- Did I mention that I feel so connected with my farm-girl roots, the earth, nature, my kids (the boy dug and dug today!) and love love love living in the country already?! 

And that is all for now.  Tomorrow will bring more digging up of dirt, but the best part is what it all represents: turning that earth over, sowing the seeds of a new life, and watching it blossom and grow into something beautiful.  I already see it in the love and support of my friends, and I can't wait to repay them a little by feeding them with produce from my "gratitude garden." 

Moving

It feels like just yesterday that I arrived in NorCal, unpacking too many boxes and setting up shop in what I thought might be my last house.  Life has a way of making a joke of the best-laid plans, does it not? 

I sit here tonight, surrounded by ZippGo boxes, knowing that my move this week will be far from my last.  Instead of planting deep roots as expected, I have signed up for a bit of an itinerant life for the next couple of years.  The next stop on the schedule is a home in the country -- well, in what passes for country in Silicon Valley, anyway -- for the next fifteen months or so.  Fifteen months of looking at this view while I try to figure out where I want to be, what I want to do, with whom I want to do it, and more:

This is the first house I have ever picked just for me, with the kids in mind, of course.  I set foot upon these grounds, and the thought that washed over me as I stood on the back deck, looking at the trees and the greenery and City in the distance and the mountains and the water was: "This is where I can heal."

This is where I will heal.

Moving is hard, but that just involves putting stuff in boxes and taking it out again.  It is the sentiments that cannot be unpacked so easily that choke me up these days -- like remembering how much I was looking forward to watching my orange tree grow up with my son, or how, when I first saw the window seat in this family home, all I could think of was my daughter curled up on it with a book and a dog. 

There will be new dreams, and new memories, and a lot to look forward to; I know that.  In this moment, it remains hard to keep perspective alongside what feels like a giant mess, literally and metaphorically.  That said, I remain unafraid of the future; I embrace its uncertainty and only can hope that this detour from a predictable life will yield great adventures and fulfillment beyond my expectations. 

It is time to move, and it is time to move on.  Goodbye, family home.  Welcome, new life.

 

Tomorrow, We All Lean In

Tomorrow is a big day: March 11, the date that Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In book will be released to the public, finally.  At long last, the book will not be judged by just its cover, or its author, or the many pundits who have lambasted it often without even flipping a page of the actual book.  I had the gift of reading this book pre-release and agree with what the New Yorker said: just read the book.  The contents do speak for themselves, really.  It is the closest thing I have seen to a feminist manifesto since Betty Friedan's The Feminist Mystique, which predates my birth by a decade.  I am 39 years old.  That means that it has been almost fifty years since a woman has written something like this.

It is about damned time for this book.

Clearly, I am a fan -- and that is interesting, because I was not always a Sandberg fan.  As someone who has worked in a variety of capacities (full-time, part-time, no-time, management/not, etc.), though nowhere near at Sandberg's level, I felt that she overused the word "should," making her speeches and writings seem prescriptive in a one-way-or-the-highway kind of a way.  (Call me libertarian; I do not like when people tell other people what to do.)  But recently, I have had a change of heart, especially after reading the many statistics shared in Sandberg's book.  Woman should lean in to whatever they are committed.  While at work, they should be at work, right up until they are not for whatever reason -- maternity leave, grad school, whatever -- and while they are there, they should sit at the table.  They should raise their hands, they should self-advocate, they should stand up for their boundaries, and they should be leading a hell of a lot more companies than they are.

But more than anything, they should stop making problems for other women.

They should stop criticizing a book they have not read based on what they *think* it might say.  And even if they disagree, they should have discourse over the subject matter -- not discord.

We undermine ourselves, sisters, when we have to mention the brand of the author's shoes as if somehow her alleged wearing of Louboutins undermines her credibility.  I have some Bruno Magli's in my closet; should I have refrained from writing this piece because I have a predisposition for expensive footwear?  Would sporting some Toms garner me some more credibility?

It is a sick joke how we tear each other down.  It is ridiculous how we critique each other for working, or for not working, for at-home parenting, for bottle-feeding, for having a housekeeper, for not having help, etc. etc. etc. -- or for writing a book while we sit above the glass ceiling we broke as if somehow having "made it" will detract from the message of how Sandberg got there.  And it is not just Sandberg we are after: we mock other women in power, such as Marissa Mayer for having a nursery by her office, as if that someone detracts from HELLO!  There is a woman CEO of Yahoo!  Critics may be right: perhaps no man in the history of time has ever constructed a nursery by his office.  But there are plenty of office buildings with in-house daycare, and that is pretty much the same thing.  Mayer's nursery is special, sure, but in my opinion, what a fantastic message that sends: I am a mom, and I am a CEO, and those two roles are side-by-side, not in conflict, but in shared space.

And so are we, women of the world.  We are in shared space.  We have chosen to live our lives differently, but that does not mean in conflict.  I have been so very upset at the negative backlash against Sandberg's book because so little of it has served the purpose of advancing the conversation.  It is just plain mudslinging and is one of the reasons, in my not-so-humble opinion, that we fail to be taken seriously in our demands for things like flexibility in the workplace.  There is a whole lot of whining, a whole lot of noise, and not a whole lot of action.

Sandberg's book is action.  It is opening a door, and we choose if we go through it, heeding some of her valuable advice as we do.  We choose if we go into our boss's office tomorrow and ask for equal pay for equal work, or for the ability to leave at 4 pm every Tuesday for our kids' softball games, or for that promotion that we have been passed up for by men who at every turn self-advocated better.  We can choose to nitpick, or we can choose to hear the overall message in the subtitle "Women, Work, and the Will to Lead."

"Will."  That's a funny word.  It's an active word that means, per Google, "the faculty by which a person decides to initiate action." 

And that is where I feel that Sandberg is most right in her tome.  There has been a whole lot of calling for more women in higher-up roles but not a whole lot of pointing out where we might have strayed from the path to get there.  There have not been many people suggesting that women need to do things differently ourselves if we want to break the glass ceiling.  I do not expect men to hold the elevator door open for me when they are trying to ascend to the same place.  Though that fast-track may not be what I personally have chosen to date, if it ever is, I know that I need to get there by my own, yes, will.

Do you have the will to lean in?  I do.  And I eagerly await tomorrow's news, when I hope to read of massive quantities of Lean In books being devoured by women who are so very hungry for the change we need to make ourselves.  This is a giant leap in the right direction for womankind.

Congratulations to Sheryl Sandberg and to the handful of friends appearing in this great book (Lori, Peter, and more) as well as to the team bringing the Lean In foundation to life.  It is so very worth it, and I am both grateful and exceptionally excited about yet more great conversations that will transpire from this work.  Tomorrow, let us all lean in to a new world for women.

For Dash, not a Dragon, age 8

Dearest Dash,

My very favorite moment of my pregnancy with you came when your big sister, Petunia, age 4.5, announced to her pre-K class that her mama was having a baby very soon -- and it was either going to be a girl, or a boy, or a dragon.  So we bought a sign for over your door that read "Beyond This Place There Be Dragons" -- you know, just in case, as a warning -- but fortunately, we never needed to hang it there, because you emerged into this world All Boy.

Please note that I did not believe in raising a Pink Girl and a Blue Boy.  Your sister's first toy was a workshop, and darned if she didn't want a kitchen anyway and insisted on wearing all pink through the third grade.  Your first toy was a soft baseball-player doll, ditched the moment you first laid eyes on Anything With Wheels.  Ah, well -- my heart was in the right place!

In all seriousness, you could not be more of a Boy.  If it flies, rolls, projects, is loud, dirty, or involves running, jumping, rolling, climbing, diving, death-defying, or stunts that would make a Bond actor jealous, well, you love it.  You walked up to me in first grade and said, "You know, they call me Danger Boy."  Be still my beating heart.  Maybe I did get the dragon after all?

The amazing thing is, though, that you know your limits.  You will run like the wind to jump into my arms but decelerate just enough so as not to knock me over, which, at your nearly-60 pounds, you almost can do.  The days are approaching when I will not be able to catch those flying leaps anymore, let alone carry you, my last baby.  On one level, when that day comes, my heart will break a little; but on another level, I am so proud of how you have grown.  You finally eat.  That took over seven years to achieve and deserve its own celebration on this day, your eighth birthday. 

As you grow, there is so much more that I want to tell you as you transition from being a little boy into being a big boy and eventually into being a young man -- but I am not going to do that this year.  I am not going to impart life lessons, make wishes, or share dreams.

No, Dash, this eighth year, I am just going to hold you, for I know that the moment is coming when you will no longer come through the door, crawl into my lap, and lay your head on my chest, with your ear pressed to my heart, and ask: "Does it still say 'love Dash, love Dash, love Dash?'"  Those days may be nearing an end, Dash, but know this: my heart always will beat for you and for your sister.  You are love embodied.  And you are really far from being a dragon -- in fact, as all-boy as you are, you are the kindest, gentlest, sweetest, funniest and smartest boy that I know.  I am so lucky to be your mama and will celebrate this day when, eight years ago, Dr. Martin told me "one last push, and you can tell us all if it's a girl, or a boy, or a dragon" -- and he held you up for me to see, and I cried, "It's a BOY!" -- and in that very moment, my life, and my heart, were complete. 

Keep growing up just as you are, Danger Boy.  You are doing this Boy thing just right.  Happiest of birthday wishes to you, son.

Love you up to the burnt-out lights, as you used to say -

Mama xo xo xo xo xo xo xo xo

 

X Marks the Spot

As I write this post, Petunia is on an exchange program to a faraway foreign land.  Okay, not exactly ... she is in Canada, but she is clear on the other side of Canada, though not so clear on the other side as to be in French Canada.  Okay, she is somewhere outside Toronto.  So, there.

What a preview this is giving me of my near-future, and wow, am I ever so glad to have this preview -- because, wow, this is really a moment.  (There are a lot of "wows" here, which is telling, because I never "wow."  I prefer big words, but I have few big words that can express my amazement quite as well.)

For years, I defined myself as a wife and as a more or less at-home mom -- and as many other things, too, like as a writer, as a gluten-free baking master, as a wanna-be snowboarder -- but primarily, my role has been here, in a house, in some comfy clothes, doing my child-rearing, getting-dinner-ready, keep-the-trains-running-on-time thing.  First the wife role lopped off last year, and now, I am down by half in kids for the next week.  It is so very different on so many levels, leaving me to daydream about my own transitions and possibilities -- and that is a whole other "wow" for a whole other post.

Yet one thought, more than any other, keeps running through my head: this is it.  This is the point.  We raise our kids so that they can leave us and brave the world on their own, hopefully in a sensible and productive way -- and that is exactly what Petunia is doing right now.  She is test-driving an experience that she will replicate in just over a year when, if things go as intended, she will leave our nest for boarding school, which is kind of like leaving home for good.  She will return on vacations and for summers and such, but the stuff of living regularly with a child -- the wake-up, eat breakfast, do-you-have-your-backpack, school drop-off, sports pick-up, here's dinner, do-your-homework, tuck-in, repeat -- will be half-gone by the autumn of next year.  Wow.  Just ... wow.

There is no downside here -- don't get me wrong.  This is like following a treasure map with all of its twists and turns and finally arriving at the X that marks The Spot.  The treasure is the young person whom you have reared confidently embarking on a road that a parent can no longer determine for her, carrying a toolkit that you have helped to provide in order to bolster her successful transition to an independent life.

The treasure is the picture texted to you of your near-teen in a place you have never been, with people you do not know, doing something you have never done, with a big and confident smile on her face that needs no words, because you know that it means "I'm thriving just as I'm supposed to do."

The treasure is the call you receive saying, "I'm checking in," which translates to "I know you'll worry if I don't call," which really means "I know I matter to you, and you matter to me, so here I am." 

I am sure that there are hosts of things that I have not done "by the book," parenting-wise; after all, I am flawed, just as we all are.  But I am taking this moment to appreciate something I have done quite right in raising a child who can leave home without hesitation while appreciating that we still have each other on the other end of the line.  It can be a long line, but it is a line that will never break.

We may be nearing the end of the treasure hunt, standing on the X that marks the spot -- but that spot, that launching point, is home, and it will always remain just a phone call or a text away.  And wow, am I ever glad of those calls.  And wow, my kid is in Canada, on her own, wearing snowshoes and an ear-to-ear smile in below-freezing weather.  She is not me; she is forging her own road.  And wow, it is so very fun to watch -- a treasure, indeed.

Love looks different now

Valentine's Day has been my favorite holiday since I was six years old.  What's not to love about love?  Everybody loves somebody, right?  So, as usual, my house is bedazzled with red, pink and white hearts galore; love is in the air here, as it always was.  I look at my kids: love.  They look at each other: love.  Then there's a dog: all about love.  Even the guinea pig radiates love, with his little whistling and wheeking sounds. There's love in the food I cook for us, there's love in the nightly tuck-ins and stories read, there's love in the kiss-on-the-forehead wake-up calls, and there's love in snuggling under blankets to watch old Get Smart episodes on a Saturday morning.

But for me, of course, love looks different now.  I have no "Valentine" -- well, except for Dash, who reminds me pretty regularly that he's my Valentine, though I suspect that may be to avoid saying "yes" to a particularly persistent second grade girl.  (You go, girlfriend.  Future leader of men right there!)  And yet, this year, I don't know that I've ever felt more loved.  It's such a bizarre juxtaposition: singlehood and feeling loved. I think I couldn't have imagined it before because I've never been in this position.  Yet in part because of friends' communal embrace, and even more so because of my own journey of self-awareness, I've realized that alone isn't so lonely after all -- and that the greatest love actually comes from comfort in your own skin, a belief in yourself, and peace within.  It's when you tell yourself that you matter and truly don't need anyone else to reinforce that message.  It's when you know that you're trying your hardest to be your best self and working at living a good and authentic life.  It's when you look in the mirror and know that someday, you'll have another Valentine, and it'll be someone who accepts what's looking back at you, with all of her wonder and all of her flaws, too -- and knowing that if that's not the case, that's not The One.

More than anything, this past couple of years has been an eye-opener for me about what love is and what love is not.  I think we learn the difference just by living -- and failing, and getting back up again, and saying: I am going to love the world tomorrow anyway, because that's what I do.  Love looks different now, but love is love is love. 

Happy Valentine's Day to You. - xo - Rox

Be Here, Now.

Soon, I'll offer a post on my recent trip to SoCal with my kids.  The closest thing I can compare it to is a visit to Oz -- not that I've been there, but, if I had been, I'm pretty sure it'd look a lot like a combination of Ocean Beach and Coronado.  (Chew on that mash-up, ye who have been there.)

While that's percolating, though -- and while I'm inundated with work from my "day" job, which is really a "day and night" job for the next couple of months -- I want to share an observation borne from our trip, the first one ever during which I did not take my laptop.  In fact, I went a whole 12 days without opening my laptop at all -- on purpose.  Our trip took only nine days, but I took an extra three to revel in Real Life, which actually exists without the internet.  (In writing that sentence, my Silicon Valley resident card may be yanked for good.  So be it.)

I decided that this trip would be full of intention to be in the moment, every moment, with my kids -- to notice where their eyes look when we're exploring a new place, to hold hands more, to engage, deeply, in conversation about new things, to spend a little more time immersed in new surroundings, and, perhaps most importantly, not to rush it.  That last bit infuriated Dash from time to time, like when we were on our forty-second minute at the gorilla enclosure (I can't help it -- there was a baby to watch, plus a silverback's 41st birthday...) -- but then, at the lorikeet feeding enclosure, after about an hour and a half of zipping in and out to buy more nectar to feed the birds, Dash had finally had enough.  Petunia's giggle at the sea lion and otter show will ring in my ears for quite some time.  We all had our fill, especially of animals and nature-immersion, and that was the thing -- we made the time for it.  We decided that several rounds of bird-feeding nectar at $3/pop was worth it, because where else will you get to feel the light weight of a bird on your arm, that then, if you're Petunia, will climb up your hair when it's through eating? 

When we'd go "home" to our rented converted garage in the evening, we'd make some hot chocolate, and we'd read a book aloud together before piling up together in some form to sleep.  The TV barely went on.  We just enjoyed each other.  And I didn't even have to Google how to do a thing.

Returning home, the last thing I wanted to do was to go on-line.  I had stayed current a bit on my phone with e-mail and such -- but opening a laptop, a device on which I can't use the "I don't want to touch-type" excuse -- involved a whole different commitment, and one that I was loathe to make.  I dreaded the kids' return to school; beyond the non-stop fun, sleeping in and keeping a schedule that was wholly our own was pretty delicious.

But my work is on-line, and so, I sit here, procrastinating a bit, decrying the internet age for the time-sink it is -- a hypocritical statement in the moment, but a sentiment that won't die when I get back to work.  What to do about it is the question?

I figured out the answer, and, after a couple of weeks of experimentation, it continues to work for me.  With little exception, I check e-mail on my laptop only morning and night, using only my phone in between.  I took Facebook off of my phone so that I'm not tempted to scroll through updates around my kids.  I have permission to use it all when they're asleep or otherwise occupied (like at school).  But when they're around, from dinner until bedtime especially, I'm in the moment with them.  I always was -- don't get me wrong -- but I was more distracted, especially because I often felt like my time was not my own (partly the nature of my work, really).  Now, I feel no pull into my bedroom, where I store my laptop, to see if so-and-so got back to me yet.  So-and-so can wait until bedtime.  As well, I'm suggesting more togetherness activities, building on our SoCal experience during which each of us found fulfillment in something we did together.  We're playing more board games, doing more crafts, reading more books, and spending more time talking. They have such big things to say, these little ones. 

So, as a meme goes 'round the internet in which my friends are picking up a "word" for the year, I'm picking up a phrase instead.  It's "Be Here, Now."  It's intentionally participating in every conversation without distraction -- whether with my kids, or with a dear friend.  It's a new focus on listening well.  It's shutting down the devices that make all of that difficult.  And it's noticing things, from the peace on my son's face while he fed the birds he's always loved to the pinkness of my daughter's cheeks as we visited an off-leash dog beach, perhaps her personal future-vet heaven.  It's the way they look at each other when they haven't squabbled at all for days because their needs are met, they're well-rested, and they're truly happy.  It's the way I look at myself in the mirror, realizing that I put way too much pressure on myself to try to check all of the right boxes when, really, there is no checklist, no endgame, no race, or prize for winners -- and no finish line.  What these kids will remember, and what I will, is the way we felt about each other as life unfolded just as it should as we love each other and pay good attention.

Be Here, Now. 

Except for right now, because they're asleep, and I have to get back to work...

Christmas by Night

As I tucked in my children tonight, I read to them from the book of Matthew, reminding us all of the birth story that begat today's celebrations.  Though it is the story of the joyous birth of our Christ, it holds in it some rather dark elements.  King Herod sends his wisest men to locate this newborn baby, whom he perceives to be a threat to his authority; Herod intends to kill Jesus, but the wise men -- wise to his plan -- do not assist him and, likely putting their own lives in jeopardy, never report back.  Joseph, Mary, and Jesus flee to Egypt, returning to Israel only after Herod's death, remaining in fear of the son who ruled after him.  In some ways, the New Testament could read like a mystery novel, one in which forces against Jesus try and try again to bring him down.  (Of course, they eventually succeed -- but we do not need to go there, as Easter is months away.)

What parallels this story has to life right now, whether my own personal story or that of the goings-on in the world.  When I read this piece by Max Lucado -- one of my favorite kids' authors for his fables with a strong moral message -- my heart grew at once heavy and hopeful.  Lucado writes, "Oh, Lord Jesus, you entered the dark world of your day.  Won't you enter ours?  We are weary of bloodshed.  We, like the wise men, are looking for a star.  We, like the shepherds, are kneeling at a manger.  This Christmas, we ask you, heal us, help us, be born anew in us." 

In a world where violence is ever present, where children are being taken in what ought to be sacred and safe space, how profound is that message: we are looking for a star.  We seek a light.  We search for a way out of the darkness in which we could drown if we closed our eyes and let it consume us.  We hope for a better world.

I found the light this holiday season -- or, rather, it found me.  It came to the sound of a gentle knock as a friend placed poinsettias, a wreath, and doormat on my stoop -- alongside a delicious dinner.  It continued with another friend with whom I shared one of the best child-free meals out and deepest conversations I have had in a long time.  It kept going as holiday card after holiday card arrived addressed to me in my own "original" name, some with the kindest letters and notes of support I could have ever imagined.  It grew with the arrival of my "big sister" from Sweden, a former exchange student whom I adore who traversed halfway across the globe to be with us for just a couple of days.  It blossomed in the Christmas pageant, where my heart beamed as my angel Gabriel (Petunia) and my little shepard (Dash) delivered their lines with such joy.  And it kept on rolling right through this Christmas day, when my greatest gift came in the form of a visit from a dear college friend and his lovely family; nothing can make a home glow quite like a two year-old and a six year-old, alongside my own twelve and seven year-olds, with an unlimited cookie supply!

Plus, of course, there were the lights -- literally.  I stepped out of my front door one afternoon to find myself surrounded by them, from my handrails to my doorway to the gables of my roof.  A friend had sent a light-hanger to be-Christmas my house.  I think the only tears I shed this season were while watching my kids' eyes as they saw them light up for the first time.  Awestruck does not even cover it!  It was as if I got to watch them getting infused with the Christmas spirit -- a special and magical event that I could never replicate if I tried.

Most importantly -- most impressively, perhaps -- aside from those few tears of joy, I spent this holiday season waiting for tears that never came, waiting for ache that I never felt, waiting for the hurt that I anticipated -- waiting, in a sense, to suffer.  What a shame that I wasted that time during a season of such joy.  What a shame, really, that I thought I should suffer at all.  It is as if I lost my own light.  It is my great fortune that others see it and shine it back at me when I am in my times of greatest need for that reminder.

It has been a dark year, likely my own darkest ever.  And yet, I sit here by a glowing fire, warmed even more by the love of family and friends, knowing that I have chosen to emerge from the darkness unbroken and whole into a world that I will continue to refuse to see as dark, and, poignantly, one in which I refuse to accept suffering as the norm.  The Zen proverb says "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  I choose to be strong.  I choose to remember my inner light that comes from being secure with who I am and with what I need, and especially with how I act and interact in the world. 

Max Lucado is right, Jesus was born in darkness -- and yet, a Star lit the path of all who sought Him.  My Christmas prayer this year, for myself and for all who have struggled of late to make sense of the world, is that when we are lost, we find the light -- whether it is the Light of God or the light within ourselves that reminds us of why we are here: to love each other and to be of good use to one another.  And I give extra thanks this year for the friends who shone that light on me when I refused to find it myself.  A new year lies ahead, and I am excited to begin anew.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

How many times have I grabbed for my laptop over this past week, only to being writing a blog post and then to cast it aside, for my words have lost their meaning and my feelings cannot be described adequately no matter the font or the intonation.  What does a mother say about twenty lost children?  Oftentimes when my own mother would hear of a tragedy, she would remind us that she regularly asks God to take her five minutes before He takes any of her children.  She did not feel that she could live through that kind of loss.  I understand her fear.  Birthing children is like removing part of one's heart, sticking arms and legs on it, and trusting it to walk about the world unharmed, still beating, still a part of what gives a mother life.  Yet I cannot live in fear for my children's safety.  I have to believe that they are safe in order to keep breathing myself.  I know that they know how deeply they are loved.  I know that the twenty children lost in Connecticut knew that, too.  And I know that, like mine, some of those kids were probably rushed out of the door in a harried fashion with cries of "we'll be late!" and "hurry up!" and that things were probably just so normal that morning, and that is what aches my heart he most.  When I have mornings like that, I always think: "we'll do better tomorrow," because I believe that tomorrow will come.  I cannot imagine a life with no tomorrows, no more chances, no more life. 

I have set my alarm to awaken me at 6:25 a.m. PST tomorrow, five minutes before the national moment of silence for Newtown.  I plan to spend those moments in quiet, meditative prayer, for the children, for their mothers, for their siblings and fathers and families and friends ... For the adults who lost their lives, including the shooter's mother, and for those in this country who are so ill that they could do this sort of thing.  I will pray for peace.  I will pray for an end to violence.  I will pray for love to conquer hate.  And I will pray for all of the tomorrows yet to come, that I will be patient and kind and loving and that I will not live in fear nor let my children do so.  I will pray for the peacemakers.  I will pray, because I can do that.  I cannot go to Newtown and hug and hold people, which is what I am inclined to do.  But I can hug and hold the people closest to me here and live for tomorrows that are better than these recent yesterdays.  I can pray for that.  I will carry on, trying to live a little better and love a little harder.  I will welcome my tomorrows, cherish them, and try to make them signify something. 

***

The title of this blog post is from Macbeth's final soliloquy, which has been raging in my head for this past week.  It is in response to hearing of Lady Macbeth's death, and some think that he shows some indifference toward her in this speech.  I think not.  I think that Macbeth is raging against the passage of time that he cannot stop, the do-over that he will not get.  In any event, this is far from a fitting tribute to Newtown in many ways -- and yet, it reflects, I think, the outcry of a world with too much violence handled in too little time and costing too many lives.  It is distress.  It is what I feel, even while I hunger for peace.  Here is the passage:

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

The Holiday Post that Wasn't

I have written half a dozen holiday posts, and I have scrapped every one.  In them, I have tried to explain why I chose not to write a gift guide this year; and, while I can offer a hundred reasons, let's just stick to the declarative "I didn't write a gift guide this year."  (Click the "gift guides" category on the right of the screen if you would like to see past ones.  They're long, good, and still quite current.)  Meanwhile, I tried to write about plans made, new traditions forming, and, of course, the elephant in the room: celebrating the holidays for the first time as a single parent.  And I just cannot get a post out about any of these things.  My feelings are too personal, the sentiments too raw, and the most important reality is that, despite that elephant, I know in both my brain and in my heart that I am about to have another magical Christmas with my two superkids.  It is tempting to wallow in the negatives, but hey -- stirring up handmade soap in the kitchen tonight, watching Dash wrinkle his nose as he chose scents and seeing Petunia's caution as she dripped in the coloring and checked to see if the molds had set, I suddenly smelled something in my house, and do you know what?  It smelled a lot like a very Merry Christmas going on, right under my nose.  (Achoo.  Soap-making is not for the sneezy!)

And in that moment, I found my holiday spirit. 

It started creeping up on me in church today, when I led the teens' "bagels and bibles" session and recounted a lesson that I remember from my own Sunday School days: that of how people came to know Jesus.  The shepherds, told by an Angel to be unafraid, approached Bethlehem with curiosity, said one of my teens.  Herod, upon hearing the news of the birth of a new King, likely felt protective, threatened, and hostile, chimed in a few others.  The magi, ordered to investigate by Herod, approached with skepticism, suggested another child.  Upon seeing the newborn king, born in the humblest of circumstances to the most ordinary of people, the curious shepherds and the skeptical magi left full of wonder, rejoicing and praising God.  Herod never did get word of where to find the baby, for the magi never reported back on his location, aware, through divine intervention, of their boss's hostile intent.  This mirrors being a Christian today: there are some who go out into the world believing in and proclaiming the good news of our faith  There are those who are hostile to that message.  For a practicing Christian like me, what matters is in how I respond to that challenge.

Funny, then, that, as I settled in tonight to reflect on my day, with the house full of the smell of cinnamon-sugar and fresh pine, I realized that the lesson I shared with my teens today is exactly the message of Christmas (and life, actually) that I needed to receive.  I approached this holiday wondering how I will get through it, curious about how the kids will act and react to their life change amid holiday hoopla, and skeptical that I can offer something on my own that will measure up.  At times, hostility threatened, and yet, I refused to make room for it in my home.  We put up our tree, and Petunia hung the star.  Grandma strung the lights and swept up the falling pine needles again and again and again.

And, what do you know, something amazing happened: amid my humbler circumstances, a sense of wonder and rejoicing surfaced in a most unexpected way.  My heart became more full than ever, and I felt closer to my kids as well as to my faith.  That is the miracle of birth: a renewed sense of faith that life goes on, no matter what.  As our family of three looks toward 2013, I am full of hope that this sense of warmth, love, faith, and service that fills my heart today will take up permanent residence.  It is welcome, and I am ready.

Wishing you and yours a most blessed holiday season, a sense of fulfillment as this year ends, and your own renewal, should you seek it, in the next one.  

Thankful in ways I never imagined

A year ago, our family of four celebrated our last Thanksgiving as a together family.  I remember it so vividly.  With no extended family in town, we decided to splurge on the local Four Seasons, enjoying most especially a dessert buffet that filled an entire room.  We never took the kids to places like that, and the impression lasted.  Huge smiles, thanks shared, especially for one another... It was one of the happiest holidays I'd experienced with our family.  Yet it was a mere three days later that life as I knew it changed forever.  Especially post-9-11, I should have known that life could change in an instant, but, in my naivete, I never thought it would happen to me -- not to this happy family, captured in an iPhone snapshot, standing by the chocolate fountain with smiles exuding love and gratitude.

Approaching Thanksgiving this year, my emotions are high, knowing that I want to make it an extra-special day for Petunia and Dash, who wanted to return to the Four Seasons; but I knew such a thing would exceed my emotional capacity.  Then, blessedly, the invitations started pouring in.  A friend who has become like a bonus sister is hosting her first-ever Thanksgiving at her home, in honor of her late mother who always hosted the big day.  "We're bringing together those we love and hold dear," she wrote. "Join us."  I accepted, offering to bring a tray of let's-pretend-it's-traditional mac-n-cheese -- the only Thanksgiving food that I'm sure Dash will eat -- and a pumpkin custard, and some special surprise appetizer that I hope to have figured out by the time this post is published.

Context is everything, really.  Spending Thanksgiving with a friend who's experienced multiple losses in the past couple of years seems appropriate.  I know I am not alone in my pain, just as I know we will all share in the joy that a houseful of kids and friends and family always breeds.  Somehow, we'll get through the day with what I'm sure will be loads of laughs, and then, somehow, we'll get through Christmas, and next year, and the year after that.  I know that.  It's just hard to forget that our reality has changed when I still have the picture in my head of something completely different.  New pictures will be taken, new memories will be forged, and someday, it'll get easier.  But this Thanksgiving, I'm not going to pretend like everything is swell.  It's weird, and it hurts, and it's all wrong, and God, it's not even Christmas -- and yet, it's my new normal.

What I can do that's positive is to focus deeply on my own thankfulness, and I'm thankful now in ways I never imagined.  My "sisters," they have been lifesavers in ways I cannot bring myself to write.  There are a few "brothers" in there, too, who have shown up in some pretty magnificent ways.  There's my family, especially my parents, who have taken a lot of trips West just to be here with us, to help fill the void a little and to offer some relief and some extra love.  There's my dog -- my sweet, ever-loving, furry third child -- who is just so ... herself.  So Lola.  So hysterically funny, and affectionate, and wildly entertaining.  There are friends all around the world who check in, who distract, who pray.  There are two jobs, a huge church family, food and shelter and a working fireplace ... stories to read, hot chocolate to share, snickerdoodles and giggles and so very much love.

And there are the two most important people in the world for whom I am thankful: two kids who came into this world from a place of great love and, each day, make me want to be a better person.  They are my reason for getting out of bed, for doing good work, for being my best self, for living with integrity and purpose.  They make me want to make the world a better place not for them, but with them.  They are so fundamentally good.  They are grace at work before my very eyes -- their glistening, happy, hopeful eyes in which I see a reflection of God in His heaven declaring that all is right with the world.  Even when it doesn't feel like it.  Even when the Thanksgivings I envisioned are FUBAR.  Even when I don't know when I'll say that I'm okay and really mean it.

Friends, readers, hold your loved ones a little tighter this holiday season.  I don't encourage everyone to treat every holiday like it might be the last -- but what if we did?  Would we worry less about menus and decorations and the ideal of perfection and perhaps laugh a little louder, delve a little deeper into sharing that gratitude, create some memories that'll be the stories we tell our grandkids one day?  Would we care a little less about the condition of the house and more about the condition of the people in it? 

I'm not ever going to be thankful for this blind turn my life has taken, but I sure am thankful for the belief in myself that has been borne from it.  I'm thankful that I get to live a healthy, happy, fulfilling life in spite of it all.  And yes, I'm still thankful for chocolate fountains, mountains of happy memories, and many more to come -- well, perhaps minus the chocolate fountain, though I'm pretty sure that made it onto someone's Santa list.  And that there is what I'm increasingly most thankful for: perspective.  For the kids, it's all about the sweets, whether it be chocolate or kisses, as well it should be for all of us.  Have a blessedly fulfilling Thanksgiving, all.

In the quiet moments

Lately, I've felt like the old Maxwell ad.   While it's nice to go with the flow, ease with the breeze, the Maxell effect is something different: kind of like being in a wind tunnel, blown away, holding on for dear life, else I'll end up somewhere in Kansas. 

There is so much going on around here.  I'm presently working for two amazing places, and it keeps me on my toes.  The toes of my left foot are immersed in my lifelong passion -- education -- and the toes of my right foot are immersed in my newfound excitement -- the startup world.  Writing about what folks are doing in mobile development these days is mindblowing.  "There's an app for that" is an understatement.  There are apps that are really saving lives: cancer detection apps, for example.  Life is getting easier and easier at the touch of some buttons because of the ingenuity of mobile developers.  I'm in awe. 

Watching CNBC yesterday, I saw Maria Bartiromo interviewing Twitter and Square co-founder Jack Dorsey, whom I've long admired, gushing about how both of his tools offer simplicity of connection with humankind.  His description of his focus not on when to IPO, but, rather, on how to invoke systemic change over generations had me on my feet.  Yes, I thought, I drink that Kool-Aid!  And I'm meeting those people, the folks changing the world like that.  To quote my teenaged self, it is so cool!

And then, I'm also home, wearing my other hat: Mama.  Oftentimes after school, that Maxell effect continues a bit: Dash's soccer practice, Petunia's game, meeting here, picking that up there, etc.  But somehow in the early evening, we make it home, and ahhhhh.  The wind stops blowing.  The lights dim a bit, and we sit around a table.  Lately, we've been enjoying our fireplace -- something we hadn't used in 4 years -- and it's been magical to curl up with a dog and a book and two kids eager to hear about the adventures of The Genius Files kids Coke and Pep.  (All Dan Gutman books are great -- can't recommend them enough!)  And then they go to bed, and I give myself half an hour before I burn the midnight oil returning to one of my two work-from-home jobs.

In that half an hour before the fireplace, I focus on the good in the world.  The kids who say the darnedst things.  My girl on the cusp of becoming a woman and so fiercely independent.  My boy determined to stay little for as long as possible and so fiercely snuggly.  The friends who have become family.  The family whose help has exceeded expectations.  The hope I have to love and to be loved again.  The reflection of the flames on the piano I didn't used to play enough -- the instrument at which I now sit daily and play my heart out in memory of a time in my life when I was something else, someone else, someone whole and certain and filled with curiosity about the next note, the next tune, the next chance to perform in my own right. 

In the quiet moments, I remember what I used to be and think about what I might become.  I could focus on my fears, but, instead, as the flames die out and my attention shifts to the night of work that lies ahead, I focus on my dreams.  I get to have some new ones now, and that's something about which to be excited.

The Maxell effect returns, and my quiet moments fade into another harried day, but I carry that peace -- that hope -- with me now in a way I never did.  One day blends into the next, and I carry on.

Soon to come: musings on women in politics

There is so much that I want to say about this week's election, most especially about 20 women -- a record number! -- claiming seats in the Senate.  I celebrate that progress just as I celebrate President Obama's re-election with much hope that the next four years brings us some really great hopey-changey stuff, including the appointment of more Supreme Court justices who will protect the rights of women to govern our own bodies.

But ... I am working my tail off doing some paid work that I love in two different places, not to mention mothering, head-of-householding, and all of that jazz -- so I will save most of my thoughts and then share my diatribe soon on a resurrected Rox on a Soapbox blog. 

Until then, I want to share one strong sentiment: when I attended The White House Project a few years ago, the statistic shared therein was that at the rate women were achieving higher office, it would take 500 years to reach gender parity.

Five. Hundred. Years.

I don't know where that figure stands in light of this week's election, but I do know this: it is a messed up world that we live in if we think that 1:5 Senators being female is something to celebrate.  20% may be progress, but it is far from good enough -- especially during a time when our legislature appears to care more about making laws governing our bodies than it cares about making laws requiring equal pay for equal work. 1:5 doesn't rearrange our government's priorities like I feel only women -- especially mothers -- can.  (I will back that up someday soon, I promise.)

1:5 is not a statistic I can accept for myself, let alone for my daughter.  1:5 can't make progress on childcare, pay equity, equal rights, pregnancy/prevention choices, stronger laws against domestic violence ... 1:5 doesn't drown out the din of the patriarchal society that's as old as America.  And it is old.  It's time for a new approach. 

Times, they have to change, and faster.  It's not good enough to aim to do it for our daughters and granddaughters, because they'll use the same excuse: making the world a better place for their daughters and granddaughters. 

And we wonder why the estimate is 500 years to attain gender parity in politics.

We have to do something -- but what?  Well, for starters, we have to run.

When the Rox on a Soapbox blog returns, its focus will be on women's political issues, the changemakers, and on advocacy of women's entry into politics.  And when the next election comes around, I hope that the goal is at least 2:5, because 1:5?  Not. good. enough.

On churchgoing

As I do 'most every Sunday, I took my kids to church today.  Unlike most Sundays, I encountered a little bit of resistance.  Petunia had homework to finish and was just generally in a funk.  Dash wanted to finish building a lego kit with his visiting grandpa and felt kinda comfy in his jammies.  And Mama wasn't moved, for reasons I couldn't possibly explain adequately to my kids (and pardon me while I get there in a roundabout way) -- mostly because the worst part of this divorce -- the part that I truly cannot even put into words -- is its effect on them, especially on my oldest.  I can provide an ear for them, and resources, and experts, and all sorts of things -- but I can't fix what's broken for them.  Worse, I can't even call up my former partner either to praise things done right or to say "dude, our child needs something different from you right now" -- or "you're really screwing up."  The blessing of dual-parenting (in the same house) is offsetting each other's weaknesses; to have that go out the window, suddenly, causes a great deal of imbalance in the message or treatment received during one or another's allocated time.  Suddenly, my kids have new things to fight about: who chooses activities or food more often, who gets more stuff, who wins more favor.  Sometimes, in the past, they'd disagree about food or about what to do, sure -- but the rest of it is all new, and it's causing a divide between my kids that I never thought I'd see.  They're more at odds than usual, and it's only worsening. I buy them few treats these days because I fear the repercussions.  They need to know that they're loved the same amount and will be, regardless of their strong feelings about these new lives that they very badly didn't want.

So what does a good mom -- no, a great mom, a mom who would give anything at all to ensure her kids' wellbeing -- do, especially when it seems like I'm all tried out?

I pray for Sunday to come.  I pray to show up in a community that has been there for me 100% -- to be around the people who know our story and who have self-appointed as caregivers of my soul.  And I pray hardest that my kids see that community as what it is: a safe and loving place outside of our family where their wellbeing matters to everyone around them.  This is a place where other adults and kids and families come up to hug them, and where, when "peace" is exchanged, I pray most ardently that some of that peace enters into their little hearts.  I pray for understanding and hope and resilience and so much more. I pray my heart out most days, but, most especially, on Sundays, when the cantor's voice reaches the rafters with my thoughts: "May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer."  Amen.

This is a somewhat newly-resurrected path for me.  When my marriage started falling apart a year ago, I lost my faith entirely.  By many accounts, I am one of the more faith-full people you might ever meet (faith-full being quite different from faithful or from Bible-thumping).  As well, I am one of the most well-intentioned people you'll ever meet -- perhaps my delivery isn't always spot-on, but I show up for people.  I live kindly, and well, and I help far more than I hurt.  (I'd like to think I don't hurt others ever, at least not intentionally, but I'm not perfect -- so I pray for those I've hurt, too.)  But a year ago, all of the sudden, I wondered why the God I believed in had turned his back on a faithful servant.  Why could all of this bad stuff be happening to me, and to my children, when we'd lived well?  We "did unto others as we'd have done unto ourselves" -- and we were happy.  Then suddenly, we were surrounded with anything but godliness, anything but happiness, anything but kindness and goodness and all of those things that always seemed to find us in our lives.  I'm not one of those people of faith who believed that God was challenging me.  If anything, I believed Satan was real, because I was surely in hell, and I was pretty sure that nothing could save me.

It took a -- quite literal -- hit on the head to make me realize that, actually, God was still there.  It was the most bizarre feeling ever to overcome my being.  There I was, in the absolute worst moment of my marriage, knowing that it was the very end of that marriage, and all I could feel was this incredible warmth -- and over and over again, I heard "you are not alone, you are not alone, you are not alone."  Sure, it might've been a coping mechanism.  Call it what you want, but I do know God's presence when I feel it now; I'd felt it before at life's most stressful moments, and I felt it then magnified by a hundred times over.  That warmth still hasn't left me, and it gave me such strength. 

I don't expect my kids to Believe, but I do hope that they do, in part because they will know that feeling of both earthly and heavenly community.  They'll come to their own conclusions as time unfolds, and for now, I expose them to my beliefs in hopes that some good lessons will sit and stick.  And today, I saw that in action.  We dropped Dash off at Sunday School; he came around quickly and was happy to be there to learn about the Ark.  Petunia, grandpa and I sat in a pew, with grandpa greatly enjoying the music and with me holding Petunia's hand, seeing her upset face and trying to figure out what would get her to open up her heart just a little.  The sermon was on stewardship (yawn), so that didn't quite do it.  As we raised to gather around the table for communion (we stand at the alter for a long time for that), I heard the first notes of an old favorite song, and I shared with Petunia that I used to sing it to her as a baby.  I could see that she wanted to be preteen about it -- to shrug and refuse to sing and remind me that she'd chosen not to attend today and was present under duress.  But then the song unfolded, and her eyes softened, and her lips started reappearing, and, even if not internalizing, she was listening.

"Just as I am - Thou wilt receive,
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve;
Because Thy promise I believe,
-O Lamb of God, I come! I come."

I take my kids to church because I want them to remember that there is good in the world.  I want them to know that they are loved by something greater than our small family.  I want them to see that even if they are flawed themselves, they are still loved.  I want them to hear that we all make mistakes and are forgiven anyway.  And I go to church myself to remember that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, even get through the hardest thing in a mother's life: seeing her kids hurt.  Every day, every week, every Sunday, I remind them that they are not alone.

"Just as I am - though toss'd about
With many a conflict, many a doubt,
Fightings and fears within, without,
-O Lamb of God, I come! I come."

Please, God, hear them, and help them, and heal them.  Amen.

The Bloggable Update

It's been quiet here on Rox and Roll ... too quiet.   So I'm offering a quick, somewhat boring (sorry!) update on how things are going in the Life of Rox.

I'm back to work at my seasonal, part-time gig, October-March, and I've been tasked with some new, special responsibilities therein.  Life is good in that regard.  I wasn't sure how I felt about the job last year, when it was new to me; especially working mostly from home, I wasn't sure how the in-office crew valued my performance.  Especially now that I know that I did well and was recognized for that, I feel pretty good about returning to work.  (The paycheck sure will be nice, too!)  Meanwhile, I've done some contract writing for a mobile start-up recently as well.  I so badly want "writer" (or something like it) to be my job title that I sincerely hope that I've exceeded expectations there, too.  Working two jobs in a week while being an at-home parent is not for the faint of heart.  I've been glad to have my dad here to help me (and to change the lightbulbs that I can't reach, and to fix the sink drain...) and am reminded of how much I miss being closer to family.  I gained a lot from growing up near my grandparents and am sorry I wasn't able to recreate that for my kids -- yet I feel super-lucky that my parents are willing to travel a lot to lend a hand and to see their awesome grandkids.  I'm not sure if I've thanked my parents adequately for how much they've shown up this past year, so let me offer this very big, public THANKS!!!

In any event, there's obviously a lot more going on, but I'm not going to be writing about that stuff, not for a long time, if ever.  I'm trying to focus on my new life path as a single mom in the most positive sense possible.  I'd be lying if I didn't note that it's exceptionally hard to do that at times, but, all things considered, I'm doing pretty well.  I feel great about myself and know that I chose the right (and the only) path for me.  I feel great about my work.  I feel great about my kids, especially when they pile on me at night for our half an hour of read-aloud family time.  I think we all cherish that closeness a little extra these days.  I try to focus less on the uncertainty of the future -- where we're going to live, how I'm going to make ends meet -- than I do on what is certain: that I am doing my best to craft the best possible life for my kids and myself given this set of circumstances. 

And so, with that, I leave you this ... yawn ... post.  Soon, I will regale you with tales of raucous laughter related to Petunia's and Dash's antics, but, for the moment, I am mellow ... and overwhelmed ... so I'm going to sign off with yet another Mary Oliver poem.  I love her work, and this one really reaches me these days, as I -- finally -- have started waking up grateful again for the blessings and the challenges of each new day. 

'Til next time, and the many times after, may you wake up grateful every day, too. ~ Rox

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Going Places

Recently, a friend and I had a long conversation about where in the world we'd go if we could go anyplace.  My answer: "Paris, always Paris."

"For the shopping?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "for the women."

"Talk about a life change," he muttered.  "Let's think this through."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," I admonished.  "Haven't you ever heard of the motto of Paris?  Fluctuat Nec Mergitur: tossed by the waves, she does not drown."

"That's kind of badass," he noted.  "Both the motto and you dropping some Latin.  Tell me more."

"I want to go to Paris again because it's a city full of women who Own It.  I mean, sure, they care about being thin and pretty and dressing well and what-not -- but I just feel like, as a culture, they don't take shit.  They are who they are, take it or leave it, and they expect to be known for it.  They are known for it.  I mean, French women..."

"That 'je ne sais quoi,'" he added.  I could see him nodding over the phone.  "I feel you."

"When I go, though," I expanded, "I won't be there alone.  I want a romantic vacation, but my way -- the languid dinners, the cruise down the Seine, the whole romantic Paris picture.  I want to be strolling down those cobblestone alleyways next to a man who sees that I Own It too -- who appreciates me for who and what I am... a man who is a consummate gentleman but also a feminist who likes that I have ideas and opinions and with whom I can banter about his beliefs, too... who, when I'm baking cookies at 10 pm for the last-minute bake sale my daughter sprung on me, is sitting at the counter keeping me company, actually engaged in conversation with me and not on his smartphone all of the time.  A man who pays attention to a woman who deserves it.  You know what I mean?"

"Yes.  You're having a bake sale in Paris while on a romantic vacation with a yet-to-appear man while your kids are in tow, because that's how you 'Own It?'"

(Well, I guess I can give him points for listening.)

"Yeah, I guess I kind of left Paris on that tangent, didn't I?" I admitted.

"I totally get it though," he shared.  "Paris isn't special unless you share it.  Been there, done that.  You'll get there, too."

***

So now, I have travel on the brain.  I have my "bucket list," which I need to update and to edit, thinking all the meanwhile: where to from here?  Talk about a meta-question ... In any event, my next stop in the real-world is SoCal, and then, I'm thinking, maybe the Grand Canyon, or visiting family in Florida.  But if I can muster the resources to travel abroad, where, in the world, shall I land?  Lago di Como?  London-town (again)?  Dubai?  The possibilities, they're endless ... while I'm waiting for Paris and all that it means and entails.

39

Today is my first 39th birthday.  I'm told that we have a lot of 39th birthdays, so I need to be that specific.  And all I can think is ... yippee!  This is going to be a fantastic year.  A lot of change is afoot, but it'll be good change.  Welcome change.  Change-y change-up change.  And I'm one of these weirdos that loves change.  I embrace the blind turn, convinced that Something Really Exciting Is About To Happen, always!  And while this past year's excitement is not what I had in mind, being "the master of my fate, the captain of my soul" sure is.  I'm going to keep it positive and simply declare that after a year of hell, freedom sure does taste better than even my grandma's cherry-filled cookies, which is practically sacrilegious to state. 

And what has made this past year bearable -- what has helped me to come out on top -- has been the support of my girlfriends.  They're a tribe in need of a name.  Superwomen?  Fantastic Femmes?  Girls Gone Awesome?  There is no moniker that I could give them that would reflect their superpowers.  They've given me gifts that I can never repay: their time.  Their ear.  Their phone calls "just to check in."  Their advice (but never too much advice).  Their respect.  Their understanding.  Their patience.  Their strength.  But what they've given me goes far beyond the intangibles.  Some of these women literally got me out of bed.  Put me in the shower.  Put a cup of coffee in my hands and demanded that I start to live again.  Loved my kids.  Told my kids that they love them, and that they're there for them.  Some of these ladies' husbands have stepped up and become better friends to me, too -- and, likewise, made sure my kids know that they're there, too.  There are a whole lot of tacky quotes I could offer to sum up what these women have done for me, but I'll stick to just one.  As a lifelong musician, this one is appropriate: these friends "know the song in my heart and sing it to me when my memory fails." 

These women have taught me that there are people in the world who will never let me down -- who will always have my back, and my kids' backs, and they have reminded me in some way every single day that I am not alone.

They have made me feel good about myself again, a feeling that was taken from me long before this past year.  It feels great to have my self back and to believe again that I am worth this level of friendship and goodness.  I've always felt that way as a mom, but to feel that outside of that role is life-affirming. 

So today, as I celebrate my first-39th, I celebrate the girlfriends who helped to give me my life back.  They know who they are.  They are in my heart, and they are a big part of the reason I will laugh today, and smile today, and have hope today, and tomorrow, and the next day.  They make me want to go out into the world and do some good like they've done for me.  They're an inspiration, and I am so very grateful for them.  I love them all beyond what I can express.

And to you, I share this gift that one of them gave me -- a card left at my door, with an orchid, last November.  Since I don't know many of my friends' handwriting, and since it's unsigned, I don't know the giver of this precious gift.  But that woman should know that I hung that card just outside my bedroom door and read it every single day.  It reminded me of what's important at a time when I'd forgotten. 

Thank you all, so very much.  And ... yippee!!!  39 feels just fine!

That moment when ...

Have I ever been having a lot of "moments" lately!  I have found single-parenting to be the perfect balance of excruciatingly difficult and totally awesome, but some days the scales do, indeed, tip one way or the other.  And since it's been too long since Rox and Roll injected some humor and some sweetness into your life, here is a list of some of those special times:

... that moment when I am drop-dead exhausted and need to sleep but realize that I can't find my cell phone anywhere.  Since it serves as my alarm clock, I spend the next half hour looking for it in pants pockets, jackets, purses, and cars before I remember that my son was using it to play Angry Birds while on the toilet.  In a total panic, I rush to the kids' bathroom, sure to find it sinking among the floaters, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief when I find it sitting on the tub's edge ... totally out of battery, of course.

... that moment when we're finally leaving early for school drop-off in the morning but then realize that a child can't find his/her mitt/library books/necessary hat/cleats/mind ... then, after minutes of frantic looking, said child either a) remembers that it's actually packed already; or b) finds it in the car on the now mad-dash to school.

...that moment when you get all happy to see another softball mom back in the bleachers this year, so you wave and yell out "hi, [insert her daughter's name]!" ... and then after she corrects you, saying "that's my daughter's name!" and fails to provide hers, you fake a phone call just to get the heck out of that awkward moment ... which you use to sneak into the school office and look up her name in the school directory.

... that moment when your seven year-old clings to you for dear life at bedtime and pronounces that he's never, ever letting you go because you're the perfect weapon for his bad dreams.  I know: awwww.

... that smile of relief you get from your eleven year-old when you know that she's had a particularly bad day and you show up after school with treats.  [This may not seem like a huge "moment" to you, but if you knew of the relationship between Petunia and snacks, you'd envision cheeks turning pink with The Happy and start planning your future investments in her snack shack chain.]

... that moment when friends you haven't talked to in a decade or two call you up out of the blue because they still care how you're doing, and you spend hours catching up on lives that have taken unpredictable paths and realize that, thank God, you're really never going to be alone.

... that moment when you sit on the sofa at the end of the day to watch "Good Luck Charlie" with your kids snuggled up next to you and realize that you can do it all, and well.  That's the moment that carries you through the next day's worth of Mom's taxi service pick-ups and drop-offs, last-minute bake-sale requests, staying up late to wash a uniform, and your own middle-of-the-night wake-ups  that necessitate a trip into their rooms just to look at their innocence while they sleep, to take a whiff of their sweaty little heads and to realize that they're only small for a short while, reminding you that these "moments," they are priceless in all of their forms.

I'm looking forward to many more "moments," hopefully of the sweet-not-stressful variety, and would love to hear yours as well.  Happy memory-making, friends.

That Reset Button

Recently, I returned home to NorCal from home in Vermont.  The states are almost as far away from each other as one can get in these United States and, though the politics are similar, the attitudes are about as distinct as the weather.  There's an ethos to mountain people that runs in my blood.  There's a collective conciousness in Vermont, a belief in the common good that imbues every social interaction I have there.  In Vermont, and throughout those mountains in which I grew up (a bit further south in Wild and Wonderful West Virginia), I feel a total absence of self-absorption, self-importance, self-aggrandizement, self-anything.  People just are, simply, but they are far from simple people.  They don't change the landscape of the tech world with the next next thing in the Cloud, but they can tell you which clouds are which and what it might mean for the weather, which will affect their crops, their snow, ski tourism, and, therefore, the economy.  Same endgame -- way, way different strategy.

I'm not saying that Silicon Valley is full of narcissistic assholes; though it has its share, it has a huge share of wonderful people, too.  I'm just saying that Vermont is absent any arrogance, and that is so refreshing and restorative to my spirit that I return to the Valley having truly "reset" each summer, prepared for the onslaught of self-everything. 

This year, though, that reset took a different turn, for, while away, I made a life-altering decision to end my relationship of 22 years, 15 of those spent married.  It is unlikely that I'll ever write about the reasons for this decision, for, ultimately, it is a private matter.  That said, I don't want to be the subject of gossip and rumour, so I'd rather declare it up front: I've filed for divorce from The Guv.  It is a decision made without hesitation or regret after seven months of marriage counseling that I entered with an open heart, trying to save our union.  I loved the Guv for 22 years and likely always will.  But some pretty awful things happened that irreparably broke our marriage, and I reached the day when I couldn't look myself in the eye anymore and stick in there, not for the kids, not out of fear, not for anything.  I finally decided that my "self" mattered a lot more than I thought it did.

My focus these days is on my kids, and, when they sleep, it's on me, trying to figure out who I'm going to be.  I've been someone's Better Half for over half my life -- since I was 16 years old -- and I'm not even sure I know who I am without my best friend at my side.  Sometimes I forget the depth of my pain, and then, in those dozen moments each day, I want to call him to ask a question, to share a story, just to hear his voice -- and I can't do that anymore.  I reach for him in the night, and the bed is empty and significantly colder.  It's like a habit that I have to break, and it's a pain worse than death.  I once read that when you love someone so much it hurts, the only way to stop it is to love yourself enough to stop the pain.  I'm working on that now, and I know that I'll get there on the wings of my children's smiles and on the backs of a host of Silicon Valley girlfriends who somehow always know just when I need them -- and on my own strength, which I am only now realizing I had in store.

There are a lot of negative things about divorce on which I could focus, but I'm going to remember my lifelong mantra: I choose to be happy.  Of our 22 years together, 21 (by my count) were outstanding.  I know what it's like to be richly loved and to give the same in return.  Good memories made cannot be taken away or revised, even in the worst of battles, and I cherish them all -- every love letter, every photograph, every recollection.  Two beautiful children came from our union, and they truly are the best of both of us.  And if I had it to do all over again, knowing even that it'd end this way, I'd sign right back up (well, save the worst of the past year).  I have few regrets about the life I've lived to date.  I walk away from my marriage knowing that I gave it my all, and that my all was enough even though it didn't work.  I walk away with a heart full of love for a family that exists in a different form now.  And I walk away knowing that I'm young enough to start over when I'm ready, and I will.

From the road less traveled by*

They say "don't worry, the fans don't start booing until July."**  Oh, yes, my fans, they have been booing.  I hear you.  I'm not writing enough on here, in large part because I'm writing more on here:

At long last, I introduce you to the first Rox and Roll novel, outlined over the past few months and begun in earnest today, in the place in which I've been wanting to start it.  I'm not going to say anything about it except that I have confidence that it'll be huge.  And while I know that I can write well, I don't often have the confidence to oversell something that I haven't yet written; but I predict that the sales of this mighty little book will keep me in supply of plane tickets to write in this little spot anytime I want to write here.  Here's hoping, anyway!

Because my creative button has been turned on, I also did a little of this today:

I played guitar in sixth grade and gave it up, in part because my small little hands make playing a B-minor chord outright impossible unless I use the three-fret, four-string cheat.  In other words, I overthought it all, and now, I'm relaxing.  I rented a guitar for the month, ostensibly so that Petunia can brush up before playing in 7th grade music class -- but she's at sleepaway camp, and I've almost remembered "Teach Your Children Well."  So, there.

I'm also just enjoying being home in these Green Mountains.  Here's a picture from a recent drive:

And the whole family is enjoying one nine-pound doggie who gets to know the freedom of acreage in the summertime, running so fast that she looks like a hovercraft.  Here's a picture of our sweet Lola on a break from all of that craziness:

And here's one of her in her favorite spot at night, head turned to look at the sunlight shining through our little forest, lighting up the sleeping porch on which the Guv and I knock back some Long Trails at night while watching fireflies and giving some thought to how it all came to be:

Life, summed up from the past week in these Green Mountains: it's not always easy, and happiness sure as hell isn't guaranteed.  But, sometimes, you go to a happy place, and you remember the possibilities of following an unexpected road and coming out in a place that ends up being better than the expected one, and then you embrace the power to change yourself to meet that blind turn with a new and lofty goal: to start writing your story, to pick up a guitar, to fly your flag, to run freely through the grass, and to reach the end of the day and know that it's all good enough.

I love these mountains.  They give me perspective that I cannot get when life's chaos is buzzing around me.  My head is clear, and I have reclaimed something I lost over the past year: a belief that the world is a fundamentally good place from which I stand poised to make a real difference if that's what I choose to do.  And I do choose to do that, starting with changing my attitude back to the positive thing it always was. I do love Silicon Valley, but it started to rot me.  I need to remember where I'm from a little more often, and I need to not forget who I am.

And with that, dear fans, please boo me no more, for I am back and promise to deliver not only a reasonable amount of blog fodder, but also one terrific first book.  Stay tuned...

* With apologies to Robert Frost, from whose poem "The Road Not Taken" I stole this title.  He lived in Vermont for a while, so I don't think he'd mind.

** The quote at the beginning is a baseball one, attributed to Earl Weaver, who must not have known about the Red Sox, because those fans start booing before the season even begins.  Really, Boston, so rude.

Summer Reading List

To me, summer is for four things: swimming, ice cream, reading into the wee hours, then sleeping in.  Repeat.  Since I get some of my best book recommendations from friends, below, I'm sharing with you some great books that I've read over the past few years, some of which I've mentioned in prior blog posts -- but hey, if I'm re-mentioning them, take note, because that means they stuck with me that long!  As well, I'm sharing a list of what I'm planning to read this summer along with a list of books recommended by my Facebook friends -- my best source for great reads.  I'd love to hear your list, too, and I'm also curious: how do you come across your favorite reads?  word of mouth?  hand-me-down?  the NY Times list?  the local bookstore?

Happy reading, and a side note: All books titles below are highlighted with Amazon links, but, to be clear, I don't profit from that; it's just a way for you to read more in-depth reviews and to facilitate ordering of books, if that's what you do.

***

Books Rox Recommends:

Breakfast with Buddha by Roland Merullo: This is a fascinating novel in which a man, Otto Ringling, is convinced by his sister to take her "guru" along with him on a road trip from New Jersey to their late parents' family farm in North Dakota.  Especially if you're around 40, this book has a lot to say about life's stagnancy at this stage and how one man reflected on it through an unexpected guest's eyes.  Warning: it might inspire your own self-reflection -- or a road trip! 

Following Polly by Karen Bergreen: A friend recently asked me to recommend a book in the style of my writing on my blog, and this is my closest suggestion -- though it is pretty arrogant to compare myself to the masterful Bergreen.  It has five stars on Amazon, and deservedly so -- this book made me laugh out loud so very much!  Here is a link to my original review of it on Rox and Roll.

The Immortal Life of Henriette Lacks by Rebecca Skloot: When I finished this nonfiction book, I went out and bought half a dozen copies to give to friends.  It is THAT good, and I rarely recommend non-fiction.  It's a book about cells taken from a poor Southern tobacco farmer that are still alive and used today, likely among the most important tools of modern medicine.  The book is about medical ethics but also about what it was like to be black in Baltimore in the 1950s, about socioeconomics and farming and family ... about so many wonderful things that I read it twice back-to-back.  If you don't love this book, I'll eat it.

This Is Not the Story You Think It Is by Laura Munson: I read this book a few years ago, and I'm likely to re-read it this summer.  Set in Montana, it's a memoir about a marriage that weathers challenge in a way that many don't.  My initial review of the book wasn't as favorable as my thoughts are now, years later, upon re-reading one of Munson's essays related to the book.  Here is a link to my original review of it on Rox and Roll.

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese: This compelling novel is on my required-reading list, as it's among the best I've ever read.  Mostly set in Ethiopia, it's a novel about the intertwined lives and fates of brothers Marion and Shiva.  My favorite thing about this book is the rich development of both characters and setting.  By the end, I felt like I knew more about Ethiopia and actually mourned the loss of some of the people as if I knew them.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender: This book is different, to say the least.  The main character, Rose, can taste people's emotions through the food they cook -- first learning of this ability through a bite of her mother's sad cake.  Through her taste buds, we're exposed to family stories and secrets in an unusual way.  The fantastic writing saves the weirdness of the premise.

The Marriage Plot by Jeffery Eugenides: This novel follows the lives of three students at Brown in the late-80s.  Despite the title, I didn't find the book to be so much about love as about self-discovery, or about life, as it looks to a young twenty-something.  It reminded me of when I was that girl and what I thought I knew then -- and looking back now, in my late-30s, how ridiculous it all was.

The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh: This is a novel that might make my re-read list, as it's just so very unforgettably moving.  Told through they eyes of Victoria, a product of the foster-care system, the story uses the Victorian language of flowers as a vehicle to both unravel the tale of Victoria's past as well as a way for Victoria herself to help people in the present.  This book is about loving and lovability but even more so about happiness and whether or not we get second (or more) chances at it when we've gone too far in the other direction.  You'll never forget this book.

We the Animals by Justin Torres: The tale of three brothers growing up, this book's imagery practically haunted me after I finished it.  It's as much about escape as it is about coming of age.  It's short, but, frankly, I'm not sure a reader could take anymore.  If you read and enjoyed The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls, this is a book for you.

***

Books on Rox's Summer Reading List:

The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin: As I approach 40, I'm increasingly looking for ways to maximize happiness.  I used to have a bracelet that read: "nothing matters more than this day" -- except I lost it somewhere amid running around trying to check the right boxes and do the right things to make everybody else happy.  I'm wondering: how do I seize each day as a step toward living the life I want to live for me?  And how do I integrate that with being a good wife and mother; what's the balance of self-interest and group-interest?  Rubin's nonfiction book intrigues me because of her resolutions-focused approach to improving the life she's in without major, drastic changes.  After reading this book, I hope to launch my own "happiness" project by my 39th birthday in September. 

The Good Parents by Joan London: This is a score from a recent library book sale.  From the back cover NY Times Book Review, this novel is "an enthralling, unsettling portrait of a family in crisis, from the award-winning author Francine Prose has called 'a magician who can do many thngs rapidly, expertly, and all at once."  I love family dramas (a la Johnathan Franzen) and look forward to delving into this one.

Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You by Peter Cameron: A friend recommended this one, which purports to be a novel about "a young man questioning his times, his family, his world, and himself" per Amazon.  The reviews knock the writing style but highlight the New York setting as rich, so I look forward to seeing if the balance of those things work into a positive for me.

Embers by Sándor Márai: Also a recommendation from a friend, this book is described on Amazon as follows: "Originally published in 1942 and now rediscovered to international acclaim, this taut and exquisitely structured novel by the Hungarian master Sandor Marai conjures the melancholy glamour of a decaying empire and the disillusioned wisdom of its last heirs. In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. They will exhume the memory of their friendship and that of the General’s beautiful, long-dead wife. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest--a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever."  For some reason, I think I'll like this book because I adore Downton Abbey. 

Into the Beautiful North by Luis Alberto Urrea: Another library book sale find, this book is described as riotously funny though the nature is serious: the 19 year-old main character, Nayeli, works at a taco shop in a remote Mexican village that is nearly devoid of men, as they've all gone North to the U.S for work.  The book is Nayeli's tale of trying to fetch back seven men from the North to defend and to repopulate her hometown.

Life of Pi by Yann Martel: (Yes, I know I should've read this years ago, but I'm just getting around to it now.)  I'm excited about this tale of adventure, survival and faith: the story of a boy lost at sea with a Bengal tiger; they end up in Mexico with a story so fantastic none will believe it.  It's purported to be a story that will make one believe in God -- and that's such a tall order, I have to read to see "why."

Bird Cloud by Annie Proulx: Hands-down, Annie Proulx (once E. A. Proulx, then E. Annie Proulx...) is my favorite writer, with my favorite work of hers being The Shipping News.  I also love hoards of her short stories; I read Brokeback Mountain in the New Yorker years before it became a movie.  This book, Bird Cloud, has been on my shelf for a while (another library book sale find!), but I've been nervous about cracking it, as its a nonfiction work about the design and construction of her Wyoming home.  I'm giving it a try because there's no one by which I'd rather read a "memoir of place." 

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand: Two friends from different worlds recommended this book, so it had to make my list, though I am not normally into fiction from this era ... yet it is the second such book on my list (fitting, perhaps, for a year in which I visited Pearl Harbor).  It is the true story of Louie Zamperini, who was training for the 1940 Olympics when he became a bombardier.  The author describes this as "a tale of daring, defiance, persistence, ingenuity, and the ferocious will of a man who refused to be broken." 

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain: This book has been on my iPad for eons, and, even though so many friends have read and loved it, I've just never been in the mood to crack it.  It's a fictionalized story of Hadley Richardson, Ernest Hemingway's doomed "starter wife" -- their story from their initial great love and seduction through the unravelling of their marriage.  I'll tell myself I'm going to read it for Papa ... yeah, that's it ...

The Hunger Games triology by Suzanne Collins: My daughter, Petunia, read the first two books during a week-long vacation in Hawaii.  Now, that may not seem like such a big deal, but this is a kid who is very fussy about books and very slow to read them -- and she absolutely devoured these.  She has begged me to read them, so I will.  And for anyone who has been sleeping under a rock and missed all of the hype, these books are set in the future and take place in the country of Panem, the USA's replacement, and are narrated in the voice of the 16 year-old protagonist, Katniss Everdeen.  There are emotionally-draining battles-to-the-death and more. 

***

Books Recommended by Facebook Friends:

I haven't read these, but my friends have GREAT taste; so, when I need more reads, I'll be looking these up at the library.

Bel Canto by Ann Patchett

The Night Circus by Erin Morgantstern

The Blue Edge of Midnight by Jonathon King

Rachel's Holiday by Marian Keyes

The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve

An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro

The Bone People by Keri Hulme

Perfume by Patrick Suskind

Silk by Alessandro Barrico

Breaking Night by Liz Murray

Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay

White Oleander by Janet Fitch

The Absolutely True Story of a Part Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

A Fierce Radiance by Lauren Belfer

An Available Man by Hilma Wolitzer

Beneath a Marble Sky by John Shors

Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein

Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas and Micah Sparks

Look Me in the Eye: My Life with Asperger's by John Robison

A Dog's Purpose by W. Bruce Cameron

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

The Kite Runner by Khalid Hosseini

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini

Incendiary by Chris Cleave

Maine by J. Courtney Sullivan

Escape by Barbara Delinsky

What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

Sister by Rosamund Lupton

To Be Sung Underwater by Tom McNeal

The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai

The House at Riverton by Kate Morton

Also, some authors to check out in general: Anita Shreve, Tracey Chevalier, Geraldine Brooks, Ruth Reichl, Henning Mankel, Ann Patchett

***

For more good reads, here is a link to my Summer 2011 Reading List.  And, in 2010, I put together a Holiday Gift Guide Book List.  My all-time favorite book, Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok, is on the latter list; and here's a link to my review of that one.  Enjoy!

***

Looking ahead: I'll be stepping up my publication of recipes this summer as well as cookbook recommendations.  As well, I may try to work up the courage to publish excerpts from the first novel I hope to publish.  (I've started several, but this one -- it's  a bestseller.)  This is the year I transition from reader to writer ... and from restaurant patron to chef.  I invite you to join me on this journey of approaching forty and deciding to live differently! Warmly - Rox

 

The Princess Thing

When Petunia came into being, I -- with the typical arrogance of a new parent -- came up with a list of things I knew I'd do right.  That list included never letting her play with Barbie dolls.  Puh-leez -- Barbies?!  Tall, tiny-waisted, big-breasted blonds as a toy for the daughter of a liberal, almost-short, brunette intellectual?  No freakin' way.  Instead, Petunia would build things that would empower her for a future in male-dominated engineering, should she choose that path.  She'd learn how to tinker, how to cook, how to create.  She wouldn't watch TV, would play the piano, and might be allowed one baby doll, someday. 

And then she was born.

Some of my original fantasy held: she did have a toy workshop before she had a toy kitchen.  She created a lot; we spent many days on our backyard patio with her in her birthday suit covered in fingerpaint, decorating the fence and the table as much as the paper.  We made playdough.  We made block towers.  But ... we caved on TV early on.  Did you know that one Baby Einstein video = one adult dinner at the table without screaming?  Later, piano lessons didn't stick, but guitar ones did.  Baby dolls became a collection of American Girls, and then, there were those Barbies.

To my credit, I did not buy Petunia her first Barbie doll; that came from a cousin who was a collector.  But because we caved on TV, we soon caved on movies: Disney princess movies, to be precise.  And there were Barbie-ish dolls that looked that these princesses.  And she ended up with every last one, bought, mostly, by me.  I loved how she loved those princess movies -- how I'd get home late at night from graduate school and wake up to her playing "voices" with her daddy, with him playing a prince to her favorite princess du jour, often acting out scenes from these movies.  She had the dress-up clothes.  We took her to Disneyland and Disney World.  Pretty soon she was wearing all pink, all of the time, and, most often, dresses.  It's what she loved, and what she wanted, and I forked over the cash that bought it.  She was a girlie-girl, I reckoned.  It is what it is.  (And then later, when Dash was born, I had an all-boy, all-the-time kid.  Maybe there are gender stereotypes for a reason... but I can't resolve that in one blog post.)

Anyhoo, that little (formerly) all-pink girlie-girl just received an award at her school for being a four-sport athlete.  In her closet, there are still adorable, flowery dresses that she has picked out herself, hanging next to bin upon bin of Under Armour, tennis skirts, goalie shirts, basketball shorts, softball pants, and the like... and underneath that, she still keeps dress-up clothes.  She still loves her American Girl dolls and her princess movies, but, in the back of my mind, I worry: does she think that's what life will be like?  That she can be this incredible athlete, but the real "win" in life will be when she scores a handsome prince to carry her into happily-ever-after land, where she'll have her own little real-life baby dolls?  I have friends raising kids without the princessses for this very reason -- friends whose kids can play with Barbies, but who can't ever see a princess movie because of their male-dependent "message."  I wondered: did I get it wrong?

Well, that question got answered for me today, per this converation in the car:

Petunia: "Mom, you know what I wish?  I wish Disney would make a princess movie where the prince wasn't a main character."

Me: "What about Mulan, or Pocahontas?  They weren't so prince-dependent."

Petunia: "Yeah, but they still featured guys who might as well have been princes.  It's like the girl had to have a guy.  Hey, there's an idea: how about a princess movie where there are no guys?  Just strong girls?  I'd watch that!"

...

And there you have it.  You can raise a daughter with Barbies, and princesses, and all-pink ... and soccer balls, and science kits, and workshops, and nature hikes ... and she will figure out herself what her priorities are.  You can watch Miss Representation (which I did believe and enjoy, by the way) and wonder just how much your daughter is influenced by Barbie and the media and the handsome prince fairy tales ... and then you can watch your own daughter make up her own mind. 

Not all daughters are like Petunia, sure, but hey -- as her mom, I know that I once had all of the answers, until she was born, and now, as she approaches adolescence, I feel I have none.  And I fret and I worry and I second-guess sometimes, and then my kid?  She shows me that she sees the world for what it is, sees through it all, and will make her own road just fine.  Among the things she wants to be right now are a vet, an FBI detective, an environmental scientist, and an historian.  Not a bad list for a girlie-girl who still plays with dolls and watches princess movies ... and my son?  He's playing right alongside her, watching the movies (pretending not to like them, but watching just the same!) and receiving these "messages" in a different way.  He reminded me today of his plan to adopt six sons and not have a wife.  So much for the princess story!

Kids these days: they get it, they really do, despite our best attempts to know-it-all for them. 

TIME - for a change

In honor of Mother's Day and my own Mother's 65th birthday today, I'm writing this post to offer my take on this "Mom Enough" cover of TIME magazine.  I'm no stranger to these "mommy wars," but, in this case, I'm actually not taking on the attachment parenting versus not, breastfeeding versus not, working versus not mommy wars.  Rather, I'm challenging the war that is being raged all over the blogosphere against this mom, Jamie Grumet.

I'll be direct.  I support Jamie's decision to appear on this cover, with this story, 150%.  I am tired of the critiques of Jamie: she's too young (26) to understand the ramifications of her actions.  She's exploiting her child, who -- OMG! -- might be embarrassed by this cover someday.  She's trying to get rich and famous.  The list goes on.  It's all bullshit.  Jamie Grumet knew exactly what she was doing, as she's repeated in subsequent interviews.  We women, especially, need to stop undermining her choice.  That's right: I see this as another CHOICE issue.  To a friend, almost every woman I know who's vocal about choice, when it comes to abortion rights, has questioned this woman's choice to appear on a magazine cover breastfeeding a toddler.  I'm sad about that.  Choice is choice is choice.  You don't have to like the magazine cover or support attachment parenting -- but for so many women to suggest that she's exploiting her child?  Well... ouch.  That feels like a level of judgmentalism that crosses the line.  I've been Jamie Grumet, and I know how it feels.

On election day in 2008, I butted heads with a relative over my decision to take my kids to a No on 8 demonstration.  (Proposition 8 passed, and it took away the rights of gays to marry; we were demonstrating against that with same-sex, married friends and their kids.)  My relative offered a lot of reasons why s/he thought that taking my kids to this demonstration was wrong.  In addition to it being against that person's religious teachings, s/he also suggested that people might photograph them with these signs, or that they might be on the news -- and what if their participation in this protest followed them?  What if they were presumed to be gay later in life because of it?  How could they make a choice about participating in a protest at ages 3 and 8?

I made the choice for them to attend the demonstration, just like Jamie Grumet made the choice for her child to appear with her breast in his mouth on the cover of a magazine.  I made the choice because I want my children to grow up in a world where "all people are created equal" actually means something.  I demonstrated with them because our friends' family looks just like our family, with two loving parents and two great kids.  That they should be denied access to their spouse's healthcare, or to the other privileges extended to married couples under the law, is unconscionable to me.  And if my kids, a dozen years from now, are confronted with images from that protest -- if someone teases my son in high school for being pro-gay, for example -- I will have taught them how to handle that.  I already have.  I wear my beliefs on my sleeve when it comes to social issues, and I am raising my kids to stand up for their beliefs, too -- even if and when they differ from mine.  My kids didn't even know that same-sex couples couldn't marry before Prop 8 came up; they never found it odd that their friend had two moms.  They didn't know any different, because we didn't teach them that it was different (or, God forbid, aberrant, as one elderly lady tried to tell my daughter).  It's funny: when you teach kids that certain ways of life are socially normal, or acceptable, they tend to believe it. 

And that's why I don't think Jamie Grumet is doing any lasting "damage," here.  I think it's likely that when her son has kids, he, too, will be a breastfeeding advocate -- like my grandfather was for me.  I think that if he's in high school (though he's home-schooled -- so who knows?!), and someone tries to make a joke about him sucking at his mom's teat, he'll reply: she believed in attachment parenting and raised me as she saw fit.  It's not for everyone, but it worked for me.  Or, perhaps he'll say: "Wasn't your mom mom-enough to do the same?"  Just kidding.  In part because of this blog post that Jamie wrote for BlogHer, my bet is that this family won't be judgmental about others' choices.  It's unlikely they'll be extended the same courtesy, but I also bet that this boy is going to have the confidence to take it -- for he has a mom who's confident enough to pull off this cover.  Our children learn from our actions; all the better if they're sure-footed ones. 

I would know.  I was raised by one of those women.  I carried things to school in former-protest bags from the ACLU (like "Jobs Not Jails" ones), and, in boarding school, I watched on TV as my mom was arrested for environmental activism (linking arms and praying with Martin Sheen, by the way).  I'd be lying if I didn't share that, for a moment, it crossed my mind that people might judge me or my family for my mom's actions -- that her arrest might be embarrassing, or raise uncomfortable questions among my friends.  And it did.  Some friends' families took me to task, disagreeing with my mother's stance.  And because I learned well from her how to hold my ground, I was able to say "to each her own," respecting others' right to choose to think differently, even if I didn't agree.

The older I've grown, the more I respect women like Jamie Grumet and yes, especially, my mom, for living their life out loud, sure-footed, confident, and unwavering in their support of an issue -- all the while demonstrating how to do so without being judgmental.  We owe women like this the same respect.  It's time for a change in how we interact: time to engage in dialogue about concerns without feeling like a polarized stance is necessary.  It's time to be willing to listen, and perhaps, even, to change our mind about people like Jamie.  Maybe she has it right, even at age 26 -- the same age when my mom became a mom to me, and the same age when I became a mom to my daughter.  Maybe "mom enough" just means "confident" -- something of which a whole lot of moms I know could use a boost. 

To Jamie Grumet, and to my mom on her birthday, I offer a heartfelt thank you, for the confidence to stand up for your beliefs.  Not everyone does, and I sure am glad I was raised by one who was Mom Enough.

Summer Recipe: No-Bake Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies

I made these yesterday, and it is hard not to eat the whole two dozen.  (The recipe made 27, actually, but I already ate those extra three.)  They have too much sugar, perhaps a bit too much fat, and are just. too. good.  Make these right now, let them cool on the cookie sheet, then refrigerate them overnight (though you can eat the extra three while they're cooling, like I did), and you'll wake up to chocolate happiness tomorrow.  They're good for you because of all of the endorphins from the scant amount of chocolate.  Right?

From the Food Network (appearing via Flipboard, for me):

Chocolate Peanut-Butter No-Bake Cookies

Ingredients:

• 2 cups sugar
• 4 tablespoons cocoa
• 1 stick butter
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 cup peanut butter
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• 3 cups old-fashioned oatmeal
• Waxed paper

Directions:

In a heavy saucepan bring sugar, cocoa, butter and milk to a boil. Let boil for 1 minute, then add peanut butter, vanilla and oatmeal. On a sheet of waxed paper, drop mixture by the teaspoonfuls until cooled and hardened.  (I did Tablespoonfulls and got 27 of about 2-inch diameter.)

(Note from Rox: I also think these are better after refrigeration, which is where I'd store them.)

Enjoy!

My Bucket List

Along the same theme as my last post on how to live a good life, I'm attempting some serious goal-setting via a bucket list.  Inspired by Maggie Mason (aka Mighty Girl), I've decided to start a list of things that I hope to do before I'm too old (or too dead) to enjoy them.

Please share: what's on your bucket list? 

Here are my first 38 things to do (since I'm 38 years old), in no special order:

1. Drop into a halfpipe.  (Disclaimer: I have learned to snowoboard, but I can barely connect my turns -- so this halfpipe goal is kind of a big deal.)
2. Ride a wave on a surfboard.
3. Learn to sail.
4. Drive the Road to Hana, Maui.
5. Visit Italy (all of it, but especially Rome and Lake Como).
6. Visit Norway (and the rest of Scandinavia too, why not?!).
7. Tour Australia from Sydney to Perth.
8. See the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
9. Drink coffee in Seattle, Washington, USA.
10. Visit Costa Rica.
11. Tour parts of the British Isles I haven't seen: Wales; Scotland; Ireland.
12. Go on Safari in Kenya and/or Tanzania.
13. Take my daughter to Tokyo, Japan.
14. Spend a year in Provence, France (though I'd settle for a week).
15. Gamble in Monte Carlo.
16. Take my son fishing in Alaska.
17. Visit the Hawaiian Islands I've not yet visited: Maui, Molokai, Kauai and the Big Island.
18. Savor a romantic bungalow vacation in the Seychelles.
19. Hike part of the Appalachian trail with my kids, camping along the way.
20. Take my daughter to NYC for a mom-daughter week alone to take in at least 5 Broadway shows together.
21. Take my son to see the Yankees in spring training in Tampa.
22. Take my family on an RV trip to see the Grand Canyon.
23. See the green flash.
24. See the Northern Lights.
25. See the Midnight Sun.
26. Visit every Mission in California with my family.
27. Attend the Sundance Film Festival.
28. Experience Burning Man.
29. Live in an oceanfront abode.
30. Publish a novel.
31. Take singing lessons.
32. Obtain a motorcycle license and a Vespa.
33. Give a talk at TED.  (This presumes I've done something worthy of talking about at TED...)
34. Make photo baby books for my kids.
35. Re-read the Great Books.
36. Compete consistently at a 4.0 level in tennis.
37. Learn to make a variety of chocolate truffles.
38. Ring in my 70th birthday by sittting on a park bench in Central Park with my beloved.  (You know: "Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?  How terribly strange to be 70." - Simon & Garfunkel)

 ... to be continued ...

 

La Belle Dame Sans Regrets

The title is from a Sting song, and, translated, it means The Beautiful Woman without Regrets.  He sings it in French, and, in any language, it's kind of a dark song.  He doesn't understand her, this woman without regrets; and he cries: "tu brises mon coeur," which means "you break my heart." I've always been a bit enchanted by the song, thinking that la Belle Dame may have no regrets, but the man singing to her probably does. 

"No regrets" has always been one of my mantras; it's an essential part of what, to me, is living a good life.  It's a theme that I fixate on in songs like Sting's, and in books and movies.  For instance, there's this beautiful scene in The City of Angels [spoiler alert!] where Nicolas Cage's character, in reference to Meg Ryan's late one, affirms that it was worth giving up his angel status to fall to earth as a mortal even just for one whiff of her hair in real life.  I have loved like that, and I totally get it.  No one wants to reach the end of their life and wish they'd have lived it differently.  Heck, no one wants to live a day like that; yet the inertia brought about by life's minutiae -- getting the kids to school on time, meeting the deadline, paying the bills, bedtime again -- sometimes makes changing course kind of hard.  If one seeks, like I do, to live life with no regrets, one has to be very brave and sometimes say: I want things to be better than what they are.  And it takes even more courage to actually be different -- to make the change, to be the person we'd like to be, to prioritize living a good life over living the life we're living -- the one we think is right for everybody else, or the one that looks right to the world.

If you were to live the best life you could, what would your playbook look like?  What would be your core principles, your guidelines, your affirmations and mantras and promises to yourself and to others?  I've been ruminating on that a lot, and here's the start of my list, in no specific order:

• Find the funny in the everyday, and laugh out loud at it, even if everyone thinks you're nuts.  After all, it's not the years of life that counts in the end -- it's the life in those years.  Make them ridiculously fun.

• Be a friend to all, the kind of friend you'd like to have, to your actual friends, but also to your spouse, to your family members, to your kids. 

• Likewise, choose friends wisely.  Over time, friendships change; give yourself permission to let go when necessary, and be brave enough to invite someone new out for coffee.  Friends chosen and kept well become family in time. 

• Prioritize open family communication, even when it comes at inconvenient times that kids often pick.  Drop everything when that happens and engage.  If you want kids who will listen to you, listen to them.  Same deal with spouses: talking early about uncomfortable stuff may help you to avoid big problems down the line.  (Same deal with parents, siblings, and pretty much anybody...)

• Make mistakes, and learn from them; but when they affect others adversely, say you're sorry, and mean it.  And don't make the same mistake again.

• Remember that it's always okay to push the reset button.

• Say no when you really don't want to take something on.  Say yes when it's the right thing to do for yourself and for others -- in balance.  Martyrdom is for losers.

• But: help when it's unexpected and most greatly needed.  Notice the elderly, especially, and teach your kids to notice them, too.  Hope that other kids have learned that respect when they're older.

• Find a way to serve others.  The day will come when you need help, and it flows most easily to those who've given it readily.  (And if that day never comes, what a blessing!)

• Prioritize yourself.  Everything else is easier to take care of if self-care comes first; and much harder if self-care is the last priority.

• Remain future-focused, and not mired in the past.  Let it go.  Move on.

• Love is not a boomerang.  Give of it freely, but know it doesn't always come back; and accept that.  Self-love, however, reaps greater rewards than any love given to someone else.

• Don't lose faith: not in oneself, one's God, or one's fellow man. 

• Believe that people are inherently good; and be a good example of that.

• Bite your tongue.  So many things are better left unsaid. 

• Be patient.

• Learn something new everyday, however you can; bonus points for sharing it.

• Soak in the beauty around you: in nature, and in people -- especially in people.  Everyone is beautiful in some way.

... and yes: try hard to have no regrets.

To be clear, I've failed at this whole list multiple times over.  But, I'm trying -- trying to live life with an intention: to get to the end of it and know that I've loved hard, laughed much, and lived as well as I could have.  I may not be La Belle Dame Sans Regrets, but I aim to try hard -- and to not break any hearts along the way, most especially my own.

Tell me: how do you go about living a good life?

The Wonder of It All

There is a lot going on in my world these days about which I am not writing a lick.  Few have ever seen me speechless, but those closest to me know that my thoughts and my feelings emerge most clearly from these keys at my fingertips.  I've kept it all in long enough.  I am a writer.  This is how I let my insides out, and I know no other way.  In the spirit of getting back into writing about this so-called "real life," I'll start with this post about The Wonder of It All.

I wear rose-colored glasses.  I believe that people are fundamentally good, and I find the good in pretty much everything and everybody.  If I'm 1% happy and 99% unhappy, I'll still tell you that I'm happy.  That's just how I roll.  It may seem a naive outlook on life and on the world; perhaps it is.  But I've recently felt what it's like to live differently from that -- to focus on those dark places, on the down-side, on the less-than.  And I say, f*ck that.  I'll stay in my land of unicorns and rainbows, and there's not a person who's going to bring me down from my Truffula Tree.  I can deal with the ups and downs of life from a vantage point of presumed happiness -- because if I'm not happy, I can find a path to happiness rather than fester in something that's less than that.  "Choose to be happy" has been my life's mantra for as long as I can remember.  I forgot that for a while.  Shame on me.

I didn't get back here from nothing.  I drew inspiration from friends who are living examples of what is "right" in this world in the way they give of themselves, and they've given so much to me: they have reminded me of my character, of my value, and of what I bring to the world -- much of which is the belief that I have something to share with people, something that's bigger than me, both through my writing and through hard work with my hands through service.  And I also returned to my "home-base" by drawing inspiration from some bloggers, especially Kelle Hampton who writes "Enjoying the Small Things."  The way that Kelle both photographs and writes about her life with her two daughters in Southern Florida is so moving to me that, when I'm down, just looking through a few of her posts reminds me that there are, in fact, people in the world who are just like me: people who wear their own rose-colored glasses proudly and with great effect.  Please take a moment to read Kelle and wonder with me: is her life, as she portrays it, too good to be true, or is it, in fact, what life would be like if we just lived it without any worries other than caring for each other and making the best out of the everyday? 

Spring has sprung here in NorCal.  My favorite wisteria (which my kids deemed to have a name "like a disease" last year) is starting to bloom.  Tulip magnolias are dropping their petals, and the sweet scent of various blossomings dogs me on my increasingly-frequent walks.  I got lost for a while this winter, brought down by weighty matters that deserved my time and energy but not the soul-sucking, mind-numbing incapacitation that I gave up too easily.   I'm walking back from that now, cautiously, but with my rose-colored glasses back on as I stroll toward the sunshine.  There is so much real beauty in this world, so much graciousness, so many people and places and things that deserve to be examined in the best possible light for the goodness and truth and realness that they have to offer.  Winter was hard, but spring?  Life begins anew; such is the message of Easter, too, for those who Believe.  'Tis the season for a restart, and I invite you to walk with me on a new path that takes at least a minute each day to focus on some magic in the everyday.  There's so much of it that I drink it in with reckless abandon on sunny, fragrant days like today.  This is a pretty good way to live, soaking up the Wonder of It All.

 

About Dash, Age 7

Last weekend, my son Dash turned seven years old, and he's still not in juvie.  Let's all take a moment to kiss the ground and thank Jesus.

Kidding, kidding.  Dash would never end up in juvie because, bless his heart, he behaves, generally speaking.  He doesn't punch or kick or hit or fight, except in Kung Fu when he's supposed to punch and kick and hit and fight.  He doesn't talk back, and he doesn't swear (much).  (Ahem.)  He tries to be sly, but he cannot.  It is not in his heart to pull a prank without telling you first.  Like tonight, when he asked to hug me, with a twinkle in his eye, and I asked: "Dash, is this a love hug, or is this a nefarious hug?"  He seriously replied, in a deep voice, "Never, never is it a nefarious hug.  It's always a love hug.  But I was going to fart on you, too."

See, that's the thing: the kid has a sense of humor, AND he uses words like "nefarious."  (I know; I had to look it up, too.)  Kid is smart.  No, kid is wicked smahhht.  He talks, nonstop, about everything, and it's mostly accurate.  He can tell you more about World War II than I can, and I have an American history degree that cost my parents a small fortune.  He can distinguish among 50 fighter jets and tell you in which theater they were used.  He knows about Greek gods and Roman gods, Atlantis and the Bermuda Triangle and who went missing there and when, the Mayans and the Incans, the Confederacy and the Union and why he'd have joined the latter.  He speaks French with his phys ed teacher, just for fun.  (He doesn't actually know French beyond the few phrases he's picked up from his sister and me, but that's beside the point.) 

And in case you haven't picked it up yet, kid is exhausting.

Dash runs hard, plays harder, and loves hardest of anyone I've ever met.  When he hugs you, even with farts, you feel it in your soul.  Nothing in the world matters to him in that moment other than that hug, and those hugs are among his only stopping points in a day -- a moment when he says, "yep, I'm still on earth, real and connected to this person" ... right before he gets back to "and now, I'm taking off again, seeking another adventure."

And the joy -- oh, the joy! -- in this little boy... I haven't the words for it.  I have never met a more joy-filled person in my entire life.  He smiles from his eyes to his ears to his nose to his mouth to his fingers and toes and whole body, and then he whips one of his arms around windmill-style as he runs off to spread the smile to the far corners of the earth, or at least the playground, at warp-speed.  He is SO happy, almost all of the time.  And when it's that other fraction of time, you know it, and he quakes, but he resets so fast that no one knows what happened.  The greatest joy in his life appears to be any time spent with big sister Petunia.  They have this communication system worked out between their big, huge brown eyes that is wordless and loving beyond measure and generally up to no good.  The two of them together might end up in juvie; I'm not ruling that out.  But they also might cure cancer together, because that's how they roll.  In fact, they plan to open a veterinary practice out of our Vermont home, where Dash has an ingenuous system worked out that involves him mooching off of his vet-sister while he raises his six adopted sons with no wife, because he doesn't need one, plus I'll help him, he says.  (Ummm...)  In any event, this vet practice also involves pulleys to lift horses up to the second floor, where Dash and his six sons will sleep with them just to keep an eye out.  It has to be the second floor so they can't escape, in case you were worried.  At least he gave his sister the first-floor master, but she also has the alligators -- you know, because they're a common pet in Vermont.  Like I said, kid is ... smart.  And only seven.

In any event, looking back at this past year of Dash's life, I find myself wondering where it all went, first and foremost... and then I remember the highlights, things like him pretending not to enjoy Irish dance in kindergarten (but oh, he did!)... his first coach-pitch baseball team and how much he loved playing the "hot corner" (that's 3rd base to the rest of us)... visiting Hogwarts Castle with him at Universal Florida's Wizarding World of Harry Potter last spring, and his general love of all things HP... his week at VINS science camp in Vermont and how much he fell in love with the mudslide there... so many lost teeth... his first trip to Disneyland this winter (Indiana Jones!  Star Wars!  Heaven!)... reading and reading and reading some more because there's just. so. much. to. learn....and the list could go on and on.  There have been oh so many joy-filled moments that my heart could just burst, because there's one little boy smack in the middle of it all with a big, huge smile on his adorable tooth-deprived face.

He still doesn't eat well, he still goes a hundred miles an hour, he can still be stubborn as a mule, and he still can disarm me with just a giggle.  He's my sweet boy Dash, and he's seven.  I can't believe it.

And Dash?  Thanks for making my heart sing again every day.  You are sheer joy, and I'll always love you up to the burnt-out lights.  (He made that up.  I love it.)  xo Mama

A Time-Out for Twins

This is a sponsored post.  Details appear at the end of it.

My second and final child, Dash, turned seven years old this past weekend.  While I have a whole post forthcoming about that momentous event, it also reminded me of the moment I learned that I carried only a singleton and not twins, a surprise both times.  On my father's side, twins appeared with regularity, and my grandfather was a twin; on my mother's side, my great-grandmother was a twin.  For generations on both sides, eager relatives have been waiting for twins to reappear -- to no avail.  I have to admit that I'm a wee bit bummed that they didn't appear for me, for I've always envied twins; no playdates are necessary, for a friend is always available... right?  (According to some twin-mom friends, yes; according to others, no.)   I'm intrigued on a numer of levels, not the least of which is how twin relationships are portrayed in the media.  Twins seem to be fodder for some funny, funny stuff. 

For example, in Adam Sandler's recent comedy Jack and Jill, his annual "playdate" with his twin sister comes in the form of an annual visit as they're both adults.  The juxtaposition of a pretty laid-back brother with a sister who can be described as passive-agressive at best sets a pretty tense scene, interrupted periodically by high-profile cameos (hello, Johnny Depp!).  The release of this movie on DVD inspired me to think about twin movies that I've enjoyed in the past -- and for someone of my generation, The Parent Trap stands out first and foremost.

Whether your favorite, like mine, is the original Parent Trap from 1961 starring Hayley Mills, or the redone LiLo verson (1998), the movie is so engaging because of the twins at its heart.  Divorced parents each take a twin and raise her.  The pair ends up at the same summer camp, at total odds with each other until they are forced to spend time together -- at which point they figure out their twinship.  The movie is spent plotting how to reconcile their divorced parents, neither of whom ever remarried.  The girls ultimately bring the parents back together by returning home in the other's place, one to California and one to Boston, necessitating a switch-back.  For the rest of the story, you'll just have to watch it... What I enjoy most about this movie is the plotting of the kids because of their strong desire to be together; but as a mom, now, it takes a lot to get past the "how on earth could parents separate twins?" sentiment.

 

Then, too, Twins, from 1988, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito, is another twin-touchstone film of my youth.  Schwarzenegger plays Julius, a child created from a lab experiment to be genetically perfect (athletic, smart, etc.) while DeVito plays Vincent, a good-for-nothing "accident" of a twin, considered to be genetic trash.  The experiment is considered a failure because of Vincent's birth alongside Julius's.  The whole premise is hilarious because of the obvious difference in size, stature and -- well -- everything between DeVito and Schwarzenegger, neither of whom knew they had a twin at the start of the movie.  It's part comedy, part action-movie, part social commentary, and all-around fun.  And the best part is the very end of the movie (spoiler alert!), where the brothers work alongside each other, happily raising their own families -- including, of course, twins for each.  What I enjoy most about this movie is simply watching two funny actors at their craft -- not Oscar-worthy, but certainly a laugh riot.

Do you have a favorite twin-themed movie?  I'd love to add to my list through your comments below!  And if you're interested, click here for an Amazon link if you're interested in adding it to your twin movie library.  Enjoy the show!

Sponsored by "Jack and Jill",  Now on Blu-ray™, Combo Pack & DVD

*Note: The thoughts and opinions in this post are my own. 

March Madness on Rox and Roll

Rox and Roll is back in action with some fun entertainment ahead for you this month.  I'm still working on Dash's SEVENTH birthday post (how did THAT happen?!), but, in the meanwhile, the following themes lay ahead:

- Movies, starting off with twin movies, inspired by Adam Sandler's new release, Jack and Jill; then continuing with my review of The Lorax, and more

- Book talk.  What are you reading these days?

- Travel.  I have an urge.

... and more, including a long-overdue update on the antics of Petunia and Dash.  Thanks for sticking with me, and I look forward to making you laugh out loud at least once this month.  (Hopefully more, but I'm aiming low.)  xo Rox

On hiatus until Spring 2012

Rox is taking a blogging hiatus until spring of 2012 to focus on self-care, on family, and on work.  Stay tuned for a relaunch in a few months! 

The Rox and Roll Gift Guide 2011: Think Different

I have a confession to make: Generally speaking, I'm shopping-averse.  I'm not sure if it's because I'm approaching 40 and finally rejecting a culture of consumerism, or if it's because my favorite gifts are those of experiences; I'd always rather do something than buy something.  Or maybe, as a woman of faith, it is not lost on me that the Reason for the Season is not somewhere in Housewares, or even in Target at all.  But I do love this season in which I can choose little unique somethings to express my appreciation for family as well as for a family of friends who enrich my life experience every day.  And while I could show a dear friend that I am mad talented by gifting her with that very special carefully-selected something from her pre-approved Amazon wish list, sometimes I like to go off of the menu and show my appreciation differently.

So ... drum roll please ... I introduce you to theme adopted for this year's Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Think Different.  (Yes, I know that's an advertising slogan created for Apple in 1997.  I didn't say I made it up.  I said I adopted it.)

Here we go:

Subscription commerce: This is the new term for "_____ of the month" club.  Forget fruit: these days, there are options for monthly anything.  No matter who you're gifting or the price you want to spend, there will be something just right.  I ordered three to try in November for the purposes of this list.  Of the three, I recommend two: Foodzie (written up below) and Birchbox, which is monthly trial-size cosmetics box.  I'm also going to be trying Blissmo, organic and eco-friendly products that I discovered at San Francisco's Green Fest.

About my favorite, Foodzie: I squealed with delight when I opened my November Foodzie box, pictured at right.  When I subscribed, it was $19.99/month -- totally worth it.  I learned after the fact that the November and December boxes would be at that old price-point but jacked up to bigger sizes, and then the price woudl rise to match the box at $29.99, which, to me, is discouraging.  That said, I will give it as a gift on occasion for sure; it'll be a great teacher gift, hostess gift, birthday surprise, etc.  In November's box: pickled figs by Boat Street Pickles, dried cranberries by Willow's Cranberries; fruit and nut crostini by Anjou Bakery; garlic onion pistachios by Fiddyment Farms; pistachio and almond nougat by Vadeboncoeur Nougat; and cornmeal pancake and muffin mix by the Nitty Gritty Grain Co. -- ALL things that I'll enjoy immensely.  If there's a foodie in your life, this is the right gift.

(P.S. For more subscription commerce ideas, check out this link on Sean Percival's blog.)

***

Betabrand clothing: For years, the Guv has waned a DARPA hoodie.  Why?  Apparently, it's the fusion of science and fashion.  In other words, he's a nerd, and he only wears red t-shirts, so, dear God, please let someone buy him this for Christmas, maybe in blue?

Meanwhile, Betabrand is so crazy that they actually sell something called Discopants.  If anyone buys those for the Guv, s/he has to take him out when he wears them, 'cause I won't.

***

The morning-after basket: So you're going to a party, and you're tempted to grab a bottle of wine.  Or, if you're like me, you're tempted to stop at the store on the way to the party and pick up something like Ouzo, 'cause you know nobody else will bring that.  Unless your hosts are hard-core dish-breaking Greek alcoholics, they'll appreciate a morning-after basket much more; plus, nobody else will think of it -- so it's like Ouzo, but healthy!  Someone did this for us after a party, and it blew me away; she had baked huge, awesome muffins and packed them in a basket with fresh fruit, coffee, and a single-cup french press.  It was so nice to wake up in the morning to a special treat after a late-night of post-party clean-up!  And every time I re-use the basket or the french press, I remember who gave it to me.

***

A bald eagle: For my conservationist/ecology-minded friends, I'm giving them something they'll love this year: bald eagles.  No, not real ones, silly, that'd be dangerous!  Instead, I'm sponsoring some in their honor through Vermont Institute of Natural Science's bird adoptions. This place and its birds are very near and dear to my heart, as my kids have enjoyed summer camps at VINS for five years and counting.  Their raptor center is truly amazing, with rescued birds ranging from a pair of bald eagles to sawheet owls to songbirds.  Since Vermont was hit so hard during Hurricane Irene, I worry greatly that charitable giving to this phenomental center will suffer -- so I'll be supporting their holiday adoption specials this year for extended family and teacher gifts.  Why should YOU care about VINS?  Their environmental educators and wildlife rehabilitation specialists are among the best in the world.  When's the last time you saw a raptor center?  Protecting our natural habitat is paramount, and these folks are on the front lines.  I am grateful for their service to our earth.  (Psst: If you have a Harry Potter fan in your house, you can also adopt Hedwig, aka a barred owl.)

***

Uncommon Goods: Pick anything -- seriously, just about anything.  This is, bar none, my favorite catalogue from which I rarely order anything but covet everything.  My favorite things this year: The Corkcicle wine-chilling icicle; the 7 deadly sins shot glasses, because face it: everyone drinks boring old wine at parties, but you could be a hero if you brought these and a bottle of Old Number 7; and just so y'all don't start thinking I only conjure up gifts having to do with ETOH, here are some crocheted headphones for your teenaged babysitter who dresses like Janis Joplin.  

***

Prayer cube: Perfect for households of faith, especially for godchildren, we have fun with these "prayer die" in my house.  We use the table grace one, and there is also one for daily prayers and one for bedtime prayers.  This Episcopal Bookstore on-line has lots of nice faith-based gifts for those so inclined.

***

For the Occupiers: If you have a friend on the front lines of the Occupy Movement or on any picket line, here's a fun gift: a book called "Good Chants for a Lively Picket Line."  The website selling it, Syracuse Cultural Workers, has a lot of fun and unusual stuff, including a "Build Community" tee that is a wardrobe staple for me.

***

The Fiesta Disc Pitcher: A Piece of American History: Fiesta Dinnerware is made by the Homer Laughlin China Company in Newell, West Virginia.  You've probably eaten off of their dishes at restaurants galore and might be surprised to find out that instead of paying Macy's prices, you can shop factory direct on-line.  I grew up just down the street from the Fiesta factory and have eaten off of these dishes since my aunt and uncle gifted me with an overfull set for my wedding in 1997.  Using Fiestaware makes me feel closer to home, and, as I buy additions and replacements over the years, I feel really good knowing that Americans from my hometown are employed making this awesome stuff.  I'm big on "think global, act local" and stock my house with as much as I can in support of my native Appalachia.  (Fenton Glass is another West Virginian one for those who enjoy it.)

***

Fairy House Kits: There's something about this time of year that makes me want to hold on to the magical beliefs in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, leprechauns, and yes, even the Easter Bunny.  At the Dickens Fair in San Francisco, Petunia and I picked up a fairy house kit to build together.  While I'm not really sure I believe that fairies are putting knots in her hair just because she's not leaving her shoes pointed in the right direction before she goes to bed (someone told us that once and totally seriously too), I do like the notion of providing space for their imagination -- even at age 11.  The fairy house vendor linked to here is not the one from which we purchased our kit but looks very similar; she also sells on Etsy.  In any event, I think this is a great gift for anyone in your life who remains a dreamer, from school-aged through advanced-age. 

***

Prints Charming: Made by Etsy store Poppy and Pinecone, two prints hang beside our bed in both our East and West Coast homes: one of Vermont with a heart in the center, and one of California with a heart in the center.  It's an artistic expression of our bicoastal life and love.  Especially for someone living far from home -- perhaps a college student -- these prints are heartfelt reminders of a special place.  Equally special and surprising are prints by the big harumph, also on Etsy.  We own "rush less, play more," "imagination is everything," "today is the day," and some images.  I'm a big fan of little reminders.

***

A Three-Way Gift: Get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm referencing charitable donations here: a gift from you to someone else that benefits a third party.  Personally, I'm a big believer in supporting local needs, which is why we support Vermont Institute of Natural Sciences, mentioned earlier, as well as Vermont Foodbank, the Ecumenical Hunger Program here in Silicon Valley, and the Shelter Network, also here in Silicon Valley.  For ideas on charities to support, get some ideas from Charity Navigator, described thus: "Charity Navigator, America's premiere independent charity evaluator, works to advance a more efficient and responsive philanthropic marketplace by evaluating the Financial Health and Accountability and Transparency of America's largest charities."  Check them out to make sure that your dollar is being stretched as far as possible.

***

Thanks for checking out the 2011 Rox and Roll Gift Guide.  If you're still fishing for that perfect gift, might I suggest The 2009 Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Stuff for Adults or Stuff for Kids, or The 2010 Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Gifts for a Cause, Books, Movies, Games, In-Home Experiences, Out-of-Home Experiences, Play, and Gratitude.

Happy Holidays!

An Attempt at Meal-Planning

For someone who greatly enjoys experimenting with cooking, having a family that doesn't enjoy eating anything "funky" is a bit frustrating.  Since I'm wheat-allergic (not gluten-free, but close enough), another layer of complexity -- beyond picky eatering -- factors into our meal planning.  If I were to list the amount of things this family does *not* eat ... well, wait, that could be a twitter feed, kind of like "sh*t my dad says," just called "sh*t they won't eat."  I could make millions!  Just not dinner.

For example, my entire family will not eat meat on the bone.  Imagining the standing rib roasts that will never be cooked in my wood-fired oven brings a tear to my eye, as did the chicken cacciatore I cooked with "boneless breast of chicken," which might as well be called "why bother eating."

So, we often solve this problem by going out to dinner.  There's a local Mexican spot that will make hamburgers for the Guv and for Petunia -- who didn't used to be fussy, but who has recently entered preadolescence and, is, therefore, Sick Of Everything.  When I'm there, I eat spicy sopes or albondigas.  At our favorite vegetarian South Indian spot, there are cheese dosas (we call it Indian grilled cheese) and idly (we call it Indian wonder bread) for the Guv and Dash; Petunia and I get a little funky and sample around the menu.  And we also go out for pizza.  Lots and lots of pizza.  (I usually am stuck with salad on these nights.)

With the exception of the South Indian fare, I cook better than most places I eat, so, unless I'm going out for something I never make (e.g. veal at Il Fornaio -- yeah, I know, baby cows, I'll probably get virtually paint-balled by PETA), I should cut back on the dining out as a solution for my picky eaters.  Dining out isn't exactly good for our collective waistlines, either, or for our wallet.  There's a better way, so, this week, I'm cooking.  And, like it or not, family, I'm going to push your palate a wee bit.

Inspired by my friend CityMama, and including one of her recipes, here's my plan for this coming week:

Monday: Turkey Tacos on organic blue corn shells topped with diced tomato, jack cheese, and guacamole; mixed veggies on the side

Tuesday: Crock pot night: something from The Indian Slow Cooker, steamed rice, and homemade mango lassis.  I'm assuming the boys are unlikely to eat whatever's in the crock, so I'll make a side of chicken nuggets, too, that they'll enjoy with the rice and lassis. 

Wednesday: CityMama's Yummy Balls (with oatmeal substituted for bread crumbs and Amy's tomato soup substituted for Campbells so that they're GF) with bread (sourdough baguette for them, homemade Pamela's GF white bread for for me) and a veggie crudite tray

Thursday: Crock pot mac-n-cheese and salad

Friday: Grilled burgers, baked potatoes, fresh tomatoes

Saturday: South Indian for lunch, so a light dinner is in order; possibly a date night since Grandma's here, so she'll have salad (she always does) while the kids do a pick-me-up of leftovers or scrambled eggs and toast

Sunday: No idea.  Leftovers wil be in order for lunch, and Petunia eats at our church youth group, so it's probably pasta night for the rest of us, since Petunia is always sick of pasta.  That's a win-win!

***

Wish me luck ... I'll report back next week on how this attempt at planning went ... Meanwhile, what are YOU cooking this week?

Holidays ... huh?

I cannot believe that it is November.  In fact, I cannot even believe that it is actually autumn.  I do not know how Halloween happened.  In fact, it barely happened.  I have two bins of Halloween decorations, one that remained untouched and the other cracked open moments before trick-or-treaters rang the bell.  Somehow we had some decorations, and the kids had costumes, and the trick-or-treaters happened ... and then today, someone mentioned Thanksgiving.

Huh?

Maybe it's being back to work that has me so uninspired ... but that has barely started.  Maybe it's the knowledge that we're alone for Thanksgiving, and alone for Christmas, and not travelling for either, that has made me this chill about the holidays.  Yeah, that's it, I'm chill.

Which is code for denial.

Friends are posting "pinterests" of skittle-flavored vodka gifts and holiday decor projects.  Family members have called to declare their shopping complete.  Complete! 

Which is code for: "Rox, you'd better get on that."

I'm thinking that this year, we need to wake up on Christmas morning with one thing in each stocking: a plane ticket to someplace unexpected -- someplace warm, someplace where our tiny dog is welcome, someplace where we'll all be happy to be.

But there are still a gazillion relatives to buy gifts for, and hundreds of cards that won't make or address themselves, and, and, and.

It's not that I'm all "bah, humbug," but, well, I kind of am.  I don't care for turkey -- none of us do -- and I try to express gratitude regularly, so Thanksgiving?  Contrived, to me.  And Christmas?  I believe in the Reason for the Season, and I really love picking special gifts for people -- really, really love making people happy.  But if I have to go to one more store where I already hear Christmas music playing before Thanksgiving is even here, I'm going to scream.  I shopping on-line this year, Macy's; leave me alone.

And just when I thought: okay, I have an action plan: start the photobooks next week, take the annual picture on the next sunny day, have gifts ordered by the end of the month, I get a message in my inbox:

"What are your kids doing for summer camp?"

In November.

Rox, you'd better get on that.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It's Back to Work I ... Went!

Today was my first day back to work at a paid, regular job in over eight years.  I wrote about wanting to do it, and now, I have.  It's a bit overwhelming, of course, but it's also more than a bit wonderful.  I'm not going to discuss the specifics of my job on here other than to say that it's akin to the career I had before staying home with our second child and puts to use my graduate degree.  It's like I took a time-out and am picking up just where I left off.  I feel blessed and very, very happy.

But I need to say something more than that, of course, because this is Rox and Roll.

To my sisters who are also home with their children who are also trying to go back to work, know that you can do it.  There will be a right job for you at a company who will value your experience.  Have patience, and heed the advice I was given by an unbelievably impressive female HR professional who is at the very top of her trade (truly, you might fall out of your chair if you knew who this person is): don't be girlie bout it.  Don't make excuses for being home with your kids.  Focus on what you've done in the past, and tell the company what you're going to do for them.  Be action-oriented, loading your resume and your interview responses with action verbs.  Don't waffle, and don't hesitate.  Don't "I think" -- be decisive.  Don't list the ways being on the PTA has helped you to be bigger and better; focus on your past and your future in your career.  And prepare, prepare, and prepare more -- prepare for interviews, prepare for writing cover letters, prepare by reading industry publications and by talking to folks in your business.  More importantly than anything: ask for mentorship.  A female start-up CEO (also huge and OMG impressive) rewrote my resume with me and prepped me for interviews, hard-core style -- and the awesome HR friend put my resume through the ringer again and also coached me on what might be the best fit job for my personal goals.  She heard what I was considering and offered insights on roles that I might've dismissed, thinking I was underqualified or overmatched.  In other words, surround yourself with hardworking, successful women -- especially moms -- who are already there, and ask them for the advice you know you need.  They will never turn you down; they'll be flattered, and then you can pay it forward by helping another mom find her way back.  We are all in the sorority of motherhood, and we can all help to lift each other up when needed.  (This is not to say that stay at-home moms need to be lifted up -- I'm only addressing moms who want to return to work here, supporting their desires and offering no judgment of those who make different choices.)  Fundamentally, know that you can have kids, stay at home to raise them, see them off to school, and still return to work -- and be a valued contributor to a place that knows it's lucky to have you. 

Today, I checked a big, huge box for myself -- it's probably one of the most significant dozen or so days of my entire life to date.  Because for me, and for my family, I wanted my kids, at a young age but old enough to know that I stayed at home with them, see me dress up, take a briefcase in hand, and leave for the day -- and I also wanted them to see that Daddy can pick them up from school and deal with snacks and homework and sports practices and dinner.  I wanted them to see that we both can do the same things, and that regardless of our specific roles at any point in time, we'll still love and care for them the same way -- even when the day comes when we're both working full-time outside the home.  I wanted them to see that there is no "mold," no one way of doing things -- that mommies and/or daddies can stay home, that mommies and/or daddies can go to work, and that kids will be happy and fulfilled no matter what the combination.  Today, I checked that box, and it felt GREAT!

An Alternative to the Occupation

Many folks responded to my last post either on Facebook or privately, and most didn't care for my tone.  To those I offended, please know that I approach much of my blogging as op-ed style journalism.  This comes from studying with Katie Orenstein's The Op-Ed Project.  When I share an opinion of mine, it is just that: my opinion.  And I welcome -- embrace, even -- your disagreement.  It's my firm belief that healthy dialogue among those with differing points of view is at the very heart of democracy. 

To clarify my viewpoint on the Occupation of Wall Street, I offer the following: I spent my first years of life in a trailer on a farm in rural Appalachia.  And I now live comfortably in a house I own in one of the most high-earning zip codes in America.  When it comes to the range of wealth in this country, I truly understand it, for I've lived it -- not to the tunes of millions, but I'm lucky in that, at times, I've had more than I've needed.  Enough said.  But what sticks with me from my youth, especially, isn't the feeling that I had less than somebody else.  (I don't think I ever felt that our circumstances were meager since I had a place to live, food to eat, clothes, and cousins with whom to play.)  It's the trips I took with my mom to deliver boxes of food to families in some pretty extreme circumstances.  Sometimes, we would drive these boxes down dirt roads to shacks in which the living conditions were comparable to the slums of India depicted in "Slumdog Millionaire."  I understand poverty in America, I really, really do.  I work, now, for the day when I can "retire" to a job that actually does something meaningful for the 535 American counties affected by something called rural persistent poverty.  As a native West Virginian, I see it as my longer-term calling in life to revisit the walk Bobby Kennedy once took with MLK through Appalachia, tying the fight against economic oppression to the struggle for civil rights.  I've studied it from an academic perspective, and I'm taking time to build my own service ethic and network such that I actually have the connections to effect change, whether in Washington or with nonprofit work.  If I ever do have excessive wealth, it is likely that it will be spent in and on West Virginia.

My cards are on the table now, and it should be clear that I care very deeply about this fight against poverty.  While it is not wholly incompatible with the "occupation" movement, depending on whose sign you read or whose perspective you believe, I do believe that the fight against poverty is a wholly different thing.  I am more bothered by poverty than I am by the widening income gap; they are related, but different, causes.  The United States is not yet living up to the standards demanded by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.  This is a very major problem, and we have to ask ourselves where the answer to that problem is found.  I think it's found in holding our politicians' balls to the fire.  (Not feet.  Feet aren't sensitive enough.)  Wall Street can't vote on a living wage.  Wall Street can't make sure early childhood education is strengthened throughout the nation.  Wall Street can't guarantee our citizens' healthcare.  And neither will our government unless our ire is directed at it.

So what do I think can be done differently?  I really like change.org's "Top 10 Ways to Fight Poverty" -- especially, as I mentioned in my last post, the call to volunteerism.  The Poor People's Economic Human Rights Campaign  is dated but still rife with information.   I also believe in tracking anti-poverty legislation.  My representatives in Congress know what I think; do yours? 

At the end of the day, I do respect people's right to protest on Wall Street -- of course, I do.  I still reserve my right to opine that there time would be better spent elsewhere.  Unless our entire government is going to be recalled, the point has been made; and now, it's time for people to start figuring out a way to "think globally, act locally" when it comes to concerns about the economy -- whether jobs, hunger, education, or whatever is your hot-button.  We have the world's attention now; and now, we can do some great things.  We don't have to wait for government action, though we can work locally to impact that.  There's so much that we can do ourselves to make a difference where we live.  That movement could be called "occupation backyard."  Or, as Gandhi says, "be the change you wish to see in the world."  Change starts with me -- and you.

Cross-posted on Rox on a Soapbox

The Hypocrisy of the Occupation

When I add up the man-hours wasted on the "occupation" of Wall Street (and other sites around the globe) over the last couple of months, I fear for the future of a nation growing more impoverished by the minute.

How many Habitat for Humanity homes could have been built in that same amount of time by the same amount of people?

How many boxes of food could have been packed at food pantries?

How much Hurricane Irene damage could have been cleaned up in Vermont, where there is still plenty of mud to shovel and roads to repair?

How much furniture could have been cleaned out of their own homes and donated to transitional housing programs for the homeless?

How many suits could have been collected out of their own closets and donated to Dress for Success?

How much could have been done to actively fight poverty in America?

All of the above are things that cost no money at all and are things that most of the entire 100% of the people involved in this occupation could do to alleviate poverty in our backyard.  If this "occupation" is at all about 1:6 Americans living in poverty, shame on every damn person who has stood there holding a sign when they could have used their own two hands and the same amount of time actually doing something about poverty.

I believe in the power of protest; I really do.  Most recently, during the last major election in 2008, I stood on a corner with my kids for hours demonstrating against Propostion 8, the proposition which, unfortunately, passed and, therefore, ended gay marriage in California.  Many people worked for months fighting for civil rights for all Americans, and I was proud to be among them.

But this, this "occupation," what is its goal?  To end corporate greed?  To change tax code?  To demand a distribution of wealth?  Does anyone believe that Wall Street itself is going to do anything about that at all?  Or might Congress actually effect some changes -- in which case, shouldn't the protest be there?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government which continues to fund costly wars while 1:4 children in America go to bed hungry every night?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government renowned for wasteful spending, where the cost of one state dinner is rumored to be close to half a million dollars?  How many soup kitchens could open and operate with half a million dollars in the bank?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government that promised universal healthcare, where the option to buy-in is still years away -- unless power shifts again, and that right disappears again?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government that is elected time and time again over promises to improve education in America -- then systemically panders to the interests of unions that protect workers, while children have no union to defend their interests?

The list could go on and on and on.  I understand this "occupation," I really do.  I understand that it is "showy" -- and it shows our children that when one is angry, one can show that anger.  If you want to have more money, you can ask the government to redistribute wealth.  You can blame the millionaires, for, if they paid more in taxes, little Johnny wouldn't go to bed hungry tonight.  You can believe in social revolution, in a world where there is no top 1%.  You can kill the American dream like that, just by waving a sign. 

Does anyone really believe that any of that is going to come to pass?  Does anyone believe that if millionaires suddenly pay more in taxes, fewer children will be hungry in America?

When I donate soup to our school's food drive for the local pantry this week, I know that fewer children will be going to bed hungry in my backyard.  Instead of going out and buying food for this drive, I used what was in my pantry and made cutbacks to my own grocery budget, so I didn't end up spending a thing "extra" on these donations.  (The point of that will follow, below.)

When I cleaned out my closet and gave dozens of suits to the local transitional housing shelter for borderline-homeless families last week, I knew that some ladies and gentlemen would look pretty spiffy for their next job interviews.  It cost me the gas to drive to the shelter.

When I volunteer this weekend for a group rebuilding a playground at a low-income school, I will be putting my two hands to work and expending a lot of energy, but not a dime otherwise.  The cost to me is just time and, again, gas money.

Look, I know I sound preachy, morally indignant, even.  While I apologize if that offends you, I don't regret it.  I proudly refuse to participate in this Occupy Wall Street movement, for if I had the time, the talent, or the treasure, there are other ways to effect change in this country -- ways that don't involve Wall Street, the government, or a single picket sign.  If you really care about poverty in America, I urge you to do something about it in your own backyard.  It may not cost any money at all (see above).  The way out of poverty is through working together to do what we can do to care for our own neighbors.  No picket sign will ever have the same effect as a Habitat hammer. 

I'm done looking to our government for solutions, and I'm ready to work.  I'll be occupying a local playground this weekend with my hammer.  What will you do to make a difference?

cross-posted on Rox on a Soapbox

Too old to play?

I'm having one of those "life must be working out just as it should" weeks, because, in several arenas of my life, one big question keeps cropping up: when is someone too old to play?

In recent days, I've been told by more than one parent of a teenager that their kids don't "play" anymore.  When they do have breaks from their hoards of homework, they go on-line, or maybe they watch TV.  If parents are lucky, maybe they'll take a walk.  But play?  Nah.  Too old.

Also, I've heard from parents of middle-schoolers that kids are "hanging out" these days rather than having "playdates."  "What do they do?" I asked.  The answers from my informal tiny-group survey were: Wii, YouTube, TV, movies.  Play?  Nah.  Too old.  Toys?  Nah.  Too old.  (Bluntly, this doesn't mesh with the amount of Nerf and Lego stuff I see labelled 12+.  Something's off.)

For my daughter Petunia's recent 11th birthday, parents asked, "What's she into these days?  You know, since they've outgrown toys?"  I tried not to cry.  I also tried not to "out" my daughter for her Earth Friend and American Girl dolls with which, yes, she still plays. Come to think of it, she still plays Playmobil and Legos with her brother, Dash; in fact, when she received the Lego Harry Potter "Burrows" from him for her birthday, it might have been her favorite gift.  They still build with K'nex and Tinker Toys, train tracks and Matchbox cars, blocks and paper.  They especially love building forts out of found materials and can spend all day making cities with sidewalk chalk and string and sticks and rocks.  When they're not together, Petunia still plays with her dolls on her own, or does crafts projects (which I consider playing much of the time), or writes stories (playacting in her head).  She does still play, and yes, sometimes with toys; when not with toys, she's still very much playing -- like last Thanksgiving, when she shocked us as she lashed together a real TeePee made from 2x4's and moving blankets (thank you, Girl Scouts!) then proceeded to dress as a Native American for our celebration.  In other words, she acted like a 10 year-old girl -- a pretty bada$$ 10 year-old girl, if I do say so myself!  And frankly, I hope she incorporates that whole act into her Thanksgiving routine every year until she's so old she has to ask a grandkid to do it.  Too old to play?  No. Way.

I grew up playing with cousins on a farm, and then with friends in a town, and often with family in a living room.  We played cards, and it's been super-special lately to teach my daughter the same card game ("Spite and Malice") that I used to play with my great-grandmother and my grandmother.  I would give up anything else to play that game with them, anytime -- still would.  I also remember many family Scrabble games, Trivial Pursuit, and much more far before video games and computers.  Nowadays, I play the occasional on-line game, and I do enjoy the Wii from time to time -- but give me that card deck, and it's what I'd rather do more than anything else.  Too old to play?  Never.

When I took up snowboarding at 35, I didn't do it because I'm crazy.  I did it because I like to play in the snow.  I did it because I wanted my kids to see me try to learn something new, to take a risk, to fall down, to get back up again, and to squeal with excitement the first time I connected a turn.  I wanted them to see that you're never too old to have that much fun.  It's a sport, but it's just playing in the snow. 

I know that play changes shape and form over time, and I do know that, for kids these days, a lot of it is virtual.  But we need to still send our kids to the park with a soccer ball.  We need to teach them our old card games.  Even if they're 16 and have 5 APs for which to study and seemingly no time for play, we have to get them to come outside with us and fashion the perfect pirate ship out of a cardboard box for the new 5 year-old boy in the neighborhood.  We need to find a way because we want to, because we know that happy, healthy people need to have something silly and joyful in their life.  Just think of Steve Jobs' words: not just to "stay hungry," but to "stay foolish."  Had he never played, would Apple exist today?

In closing, I'll share that the most fun I've had of late was at the Maker Faire taking part in a project to crowdsource the construction of a huge model drawbridge from recycled objects.  (I think it was from Berkeley Institute of Design, but don't quote me on that.)  For about an hour, my two kids and I worked alongside ages almost-1 to 90-something to duct-tape and string together a remarkable contraption that never really worked, but oh, how we laughed with strangers.  We were participating in a crazy experiment, perhaps, but it was even simpler than that: we were playing with the same stuff kids have always played with: materials at hand, repurposed into something amazing. 

Too old to play?  Never.  It's like saying one's too old to live.

 

My tribute to Steve Jobs

At the intersection of two of my favorite streets in Palo Alto sits a lovely house with a courtyard known for crawling with hired zombies at Halloween.  One of those streets is my favorite to drive, walk, and bike down in Palo Alto, its winding road and pretty homes making for a relaxing passage.  Many are bigger homes, but most aren't mansions; Steve Jobs' tudor house with its magical Halloween courtyard isn't.  It's a normalish house for here, for a normalish family, with kids who went to their neighborhood grammar school and a family who ate in our same restaurants, shopped in our stores, and whose friends are friends with my kids.  But, of course, it's not just any normalish house: it's the Jobs house.  And for the past month, as we passed by daily, we noticed the changes: security cars, a private ambulance waiting.  When Steve Jobs announced his resignation from Apple, the press suspected he was, again, unwell.  Those of us who live here saw the other signs, and we held our breath. 

Yesterday, we exhaled, with accompanying sobs and looks of shocks -- for even when you know it's coming, when the light of a great visionary is extinguished, it is rather dark and upsetting. 

A Buddhist, Steve Jobs likely would appreciate the continuity of the circle of life on the day of his passing: more babies are born on October 5 than on any other day of the year.  Somehow, that seems fitting, just like the rain that has beset Palo Alto over the last few days -- rain that is a bit unusual, as it's usually not this constant this early in the season.  My kids call rain "angel's tears," and I think they're spot-on.

Steve Jobs is part of why I love living in Palo Alto -- and I say "is" intentionally, for while his life is gone, his legend never will be.  Of all of the words he could use in his life, he used ones like "Stay Hungry.  Stay Foolish." -- words that actually weren't his own but, rather, were poached from a catalogue, adopted as a mantra and shared in a Stanford graduation speech in 2005 as a way to live.  In this and in many other speeches, he encouraged and challenged, but his advice never felt dogmatic.  It just felt simple, and straightforward, and do-able.   And though his legend lives on in a message of passion that can never die, Silicon Valley feels, right now, like a ship without a captain, the person who motivates and sticks with and inspires his crew.  I daresay that none of our other local leaders of high-tech industry have been as personally inspiring.  Jobs reminded us that we don't all need to found an Apple, but we do all need to remember that aiming to do something bigger than ourselves is a worthy goal, whether it's through work, service, art, writing or whatever brings us joy.  When I try to figure out what, to me, Jobs' legacy is, I don't think of Apple first; I am reminded that great things come from living one's life intentionally and with passion, purpose, and commitment.  If I can be remembered that way while living and once gone, then I, too, will have been a great success.

All that said, I will remember Steve Jobs, not only as our Captain, but mostly as a man -- the man who sat next to me in Fraiche, eating an order of oatmeal and blueberries, the same thing that I was eating, in companionable silence.  He took my oatmeal when it came up first, and I joked with him about it a bit.  With a twinkle in my eye, knowing full well to whom I was about to speak, I said, "hey you, you took my oatmeal," just as his (which became my) own order came up.  He apologized, also with a twinkle, and we complimented one another's great taste.  He sat, I sat, and there he was: the very skinny man in the St. Croix black turtleneck, old Levis, and New Balance shoes, the father, the husband, the friend, the Captain, eating oatmeal, just like me, thinking big, just like me, trying to make the world a better place, just like me, and mortal, just like me.  We were hungry; we were foolish.  We were part of this great place we call home, and it won't be the same place without him -- but we owe it to him to carry on and to dream big, to think big, and to create things we never imagined before.

May our Captain rest in eternal piece, and may his family be comforted in their time of loss.

* All photos above were taken on my iPhone outside the Apple store on University Ave. in Palo Alto.  We received a message from our daughter's school, where one of his daughters is also a student, that the family desires privacy; the road by their home has been cordoned off, and, though a memorial there is still forming much greater in size than that at the Apple store, I opted to steer clear and to take no photographs out of respect for their wishes.

Homework: A Play, with a Point

The Play

The Characters: Petunia, 11, 6th grade; Dash, 6, 1st grade; Mama

Act One:

Dash: "Mama, am I supposed to have Math homework?"

Mama: "No."

Dash: "I think I'm supposed to have Math homework.  The teacher is sending home math packets in my Friday Folder."

Mama: "That's right, the teacher is sending home Everyday Math homework sheets in your Friday Folder, but they're optional, and we're not doing them."

Dash: "Why?  Some kids are doing them and even handing them in, and sometimes the teacher mentions it."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama Does say: "Do you want to do math homework?"

Dash: "Not really."

Mama: "Okay, then, I'll check in with your teacher about that, but I also want to tell you that we're doing math when we play Monopoly City -- that's counting money -- or Yahtzee -- also counting.  When you grab the measuring tape at Ikea and measure things, you're doing math.  When we're working on your numismatism (side note: he loves that word)..."

Dash: "All that's math.  I get it.  So what's the deal with the homework?  Some kids need to do fun math instead of homework math I guess."

[end scene]

Act Two:

Mama: "Petunia, I'm going to back to school night!  Sitter Man is here.  See you in a few hours!"

Petunia: "Alright, Mom, I just started my math homework."

Three, almost four hours later:

Mama: "Thanks sitter man, I'm home!"

Petunia emerges from her room, bleary-eyed: "Mama, I'm still doing my math homework."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama does say: "I think I'd better take a look... (looks)... Umm, Petunia?  On each of these days, you're supposed to pick one of three assignments to do.  And since this syllabus covers the whole week, it appears that you've done every assignment on every day until ... wow, half of Thursday."

What Petunia does say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

Followed by: "Why don't they have a class on 'how to read a syllabus?"

Followed by: "Whooo-hooo!  I won't have any math homework all week now!"

Followed by: "And now I need to go to bed."

[end scene]

*****

The point

I am a bit disturbed that my son, Dash, at age only-6, and in only-1st grade, is feeling some kind of homework pressure.  Perhaps I could choose to look at it as him just "noticing" that kids are turning in work; but, from his facial expression, I could see that it was causing him a bit of anxiety.  He thought he was not doing something that he was supposed to be doing.  Even though the homework is optional, he's noticing that kids are doing it -- and that's bothering me.  Are parents billing it as "fun" to their kids?  Or, more likely, knowing my school, are they selling it as academically important?  The kids, according to my son, have a sense of accomplishment as they wave their little papers around saying "I did my homework!" -- so, in turn, my son is not getting that sense of "hey, I did something to please the teacher" and, thus, has all of the awkwardness that comes with that when one is only-6.  Since I was a vocal opponent of this math curriculum when it was adopted in 2009, I feel pretty awkward about it, too.  I feel like trying to engage the teacher in a discussion about it risks being interpreted as my ongoing defiance about the program instead of my concerns about the tenor of the classroom when it comes to optional work. In the end, I'm not really sure how I'll resolve that, but I do know this: I will not buy into academic competition when my son is 6.  He will learn reading, writing, and arithmetic, and, as mentioned above, there are some ways we supplement that work (Monopoly, etc.) that he doesn't even realize.  But there are parents sending their kids for math tutoring in 1st grade.  I put my foot down.  And, also, @#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!

When it comes to Petunia, my commentary is more general.  Wow, does she ever have too much homework.  She's hitting her stride when it comes to math now, and she's figured out how to read the syllabus, but there is so. much. to. organize.  Binders and books and papers and files and sports equipment and gym clothes and one very cumbersome trumpet.  The Guv is bothered that she's not biking to school, and I'm trying to invent a UHaul bike trailer, 'cause that's how much crap she takes back and forth.  I finally bought a second math book (used, $16, whoo-hoo!) to leave at home, but that doesn't take care of the rest of the stuff.  When I was in 6th grade, I had little if any homework, a desk in which I kept my papers, and I didn't change classes.  Petunia has two lockers (one for books and such, one for gym) and changes for every class.  Her backpack is too heavy with no signs of lightening.  Perhaps because she's in private school, she has 2x the homework any of her public school friends have -- AND, unlike them, she doesn't get a packet on Friday that she can start doing over the weekend (apparently, that Friday Folder thing continues for public school kids, and the work in it isn't "optional" later on).  So she lugs stuff after sports practice (her self-proclaimed "release") every day at 5:15, all the way to my car, 'cause it's too heavy.  They have four no-homework days per year.  She is living in a halfway place, perfectly balanced between being happier than I've ever seen her at her all-girl school and more stressed than I've ever seen her or than any sixth-grader should be.  I wonder: is it worth it?  She'd say yes.  The reasons we put her in this school, most especially the all-girl thing, are still the most important ... but I have to wonder: is this much homework at age 11 necessary and important -- or possibly detrimental to her overall wellbeing, even if she's not staying up to do four hours of math per night as she already once did? 

I have no answers, just a bit of vexation, for I've heard that the bigger kids get, the bigger their problems get, and I'm having an inkling of that from both kids.  Somehow, without all of that work they're doing, starting "optionally" in 1st grade, I still ended up with an Ivy League diploma on my wall.  I didn't have much academic stress, ever, and I'm not that much smarter than them, if at all. 

As their mom, I can say "no" to the optional work, and I can make Petunia turn off her light, go to bed, and encourage her to not see grades as the be-all and end-all (and make sure that we're reflecting that in our reaction to bad ones) ... but no matter how much I do for them, I wonder: how did we get to this point?  Is it good for our kids?  And how would we ever change it now?  Are there schools out there (middle school and high schools, esp.) that have NO homework?  Do those kids get into Yale too? 

Something seems very wrong, here, with this homework business.  I smell a rat, or a ruse, and I suspect the problem is not with our kids at all and maybe not even with their teachers but with Other Parents making their kids do more, better, faster, higher-level, etc.  That scares me more than the federal deficit or war or poverty or hunger because here is something we can control, and we've made it it's own out-of-control thing.  How do we get back to an age of reason?  Is it too late?

Eleven

Today, my daughter, Petunia, turned 11, though we kicked off the celebration yesterday at 9:17 p.m. PST, which is equivalent to 12:17 a.m. EST, which is when she was actually born.  (Follow that?)  That 17 minutes made the difference in my ability to stay in the hospital with her a whole extra day, so I'm pretty glad that I was on EST then.  Since that was my first baby, I wanted that extra day of hands-on help from a lactation consultant, especially, and I'm grateful for it, even though Petunia was nearly two weeks overdue and should've been home already.  And come home, she did, on September 26, to a tiny little one bedroom apartment in New Haven, Connecticut, where she lived her first nine months smack dab in the middle of us -- the Guv, a b-school student, and me, a b-school admissions officer, and about 200 of our closest friends who were always holding Petunia. 

Now, I have a theory on the effect of that crowdsourcing of child-holding on Petunia's nature: it made her love the world.  She never has friends who are just like her.  She has friends from every walk of life, of every color, of every faith, of both sexes, from every imaginable kind of home, from all around the world ... friends who are rich, friends who aren't, friends with disabilities, friends to whom she's their only friend ... she just loves people.  And she loves them for who they are, for all the good things they have inside them.  And she'll find that good in just about anybody.  She even finds that good in people she shouldn't, but I'm probably never going to try to fix that because I don't think that's a broken thing.  If I add up all of those 200 people who were holding her for her first year of life, I can see what they gave her: the man who really wanted to be a dad, who carried around Purell in his shirt pocket just so he'd be ready and clean if she came around (even though I was never that disciplined about carrying Purell myself!), gave her the sense that people that weren't family could care for her.  The girl who had never held a baby before, who was so nervous when she held Petunia -- Petunia helped give her confidence, and she gave Petunia the sense that not knowing your way is okay sometimes.  The coworker who I really wasn't sure whether or not s/he liked me (I have to be ambiguous here) was among the first to show up at my house with food for me and gifts for her -- showing Petunia that help can come from unexpected sources.  All these people together, and many more, taught our whole family that it the best way to raise a child is in a village.  And in that village, we were all loved -- but most of all, Petunia was.  She was everyone's baby, and she was all good, all easy, all smiles.

And she has stayed exactly the same for 11 (actually, beginning the 12th!) years. 

Our first family village is back in New Haven this weekend, celebrating their 10th b-school reunion.  The Guv opted to stick around here in NorCal, not wanting to leave Petunia on her birthday, even with her blessing.  I'm bummed for him -- for all of us, actually, 'cause those are some good friends -- but I know they understand.  But to that village, I offer a humble note of thanks, because they are part of what made our kid what she is today.  I appreciated the many gifts they gave to our family that year.

And to the kid who, due on 9-11, arrived 13 days late, on 9-24, I offer these special thoughts as she embarks on her 12th year of life:

Petunia, never forget that you are part of something bigger than yourself.  You are growing into womanhood and, with that, developing some skepticism, even some cynicism at times, about some big topics like war and government and what "rights" are fundamental for people -- and how those views vary from person to person.  You're coming to realize that there are a lot of things on which people don't agree, and some of these may be Big Things.  You may feel you have to make a choice or take a side -- and, with that, it may feel like your Village is not so Whole after all.  But, actually, I hope you'll go back to the Village from which you came to pick up on those simple lessons: people can be from very different walks of life, but they can still hold you, they can still feed you, and they can still help you to find your way on this crazy path of Life -- even if they're very different from you.  What makes those differences okay is your acceptance of them, which is something that has always been central to your life.  In this world that is divisive, you are inclusive.  It is a real blessing for you and for all who know you.

As you embark on your 12th year, my wish for you is simple, though it is actually a very Big Wish for a pre-adolescent: just be who you are, for who you are is a beautiful young woman who brings so much happiness to her Village.

Love you - Mama xo

 

So, the thing about parenthood ...

Someone recently told me that I'm not writing enough about my kids anymore.  Yeah, so, about that ... two words: Middle School, and one more: Dash.

When I think back to 6th grade, it was the last grade of elementary school where I lived, not the first year of junior high (which, where I live now, is called middle school).  So it wasn't a big deal, except for me, because my parents sent me to a Catholic school across the river that year.  It's not that I'd been rotten or anything; my siblings were in school there, and it was an opportunity to be in a different social situation.  It was also an opportunity to eat the world's best grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays as well as an opportunity to realize how very un-holy nuns can be.  (I know, God strike me down for saying that, but, really, they actually did rap knuckles, including mine, once, for taking out my retainer without permission.) 

So, anyway, besides my being in a different school whose motto was "grilled cheese with a side of corporal punishment and Eric spitting out the sacrament and learning what a visit from the holy spirit really meant" ... 6th grade wasn't such a big deal.

But now, Petunia has started middle school, at a new school -- at a new all-girls, seriously academic school -- and whooo-eee, do I miss Sister Mary Beatyoulikeadrum, 'cause that was easier to deal with than this homework.  And sports schedule.  And "Mom can I study in the library 'cause I want to be gone from 7:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. everyday" schedule.

Petunia is happier than she's ever been in her life.  She's working harder, and I actually heard her say the words, "I don't know why, but I'm actually excited to do my homework tonight!" last Thursday.  There must be something in the water at that magical school, or maybe that's the place on which Hogwarts is based.  Anyhoo, she's happy, she's working hard, and she's gone.  G-o-n-e.  When she is home, she's working, and if we squeeze in an hour of family time each day during the week, we're lucky.  It is what it is.  She's growing up, quite well, and she even has a weekly grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch without the side of yardstick across her knuckles.  Girl doesn't even know how lucky she is.

As for that other kid, the dementor Dash, there is First Grade.  He has the teacher he hoped for, declaring her "the nicest."  But he pretty much hates it.  He's reading Harry Potter at home; he has no patience for Chrysanthemum.  He does not feel he needs to write, or write neatly, because, as Petunia has shown, in 6th grade, he'll have a laptop.  So who cares about his stupid penmanship?  He's going to be an archaeologist someday and needs to know hieroglyphics.  What is the point of first grade, anyway? He's not thrilled to be there, and he's also not eating his lunch, again.  Since the school day is longer than it was in kindergarten, when he could eat a Luna bar and be content, this is a big deal.  It is an even bigger deal because some little asshole girl told him that Luna bars are made from luna moths, so he's been eating bugs for a year.  Since he can't take almond butter with honey -- total peanut and tree nut ban in effect -- he's been experimenting with starvation.  One day, he'll eat a cheese roll; the next day, he'll declare the same thing inedible.  Then he'll eat plain ravioli; the next day, nothing.  It's a stop-and-start experiment that is failing.  On the "nothing" days, he comes home angry.  As I sit him atop the kitchen counter, forcing him to remain there until he's eaten a healthy mini-meal, he screams things at me like, "Mom, you're ruining my happy life," or worse, "I won't starve to death, and I'll prove it."  (Oh, but he will.  He is the kid who would rather starve than eat, and we're sooooo not going there.)  After he finally does give in to ingesting a modicum of food, twenty minutes later, he finds me (usually curled up in a ball in my closet hiding from his fury) and apologizes.  "Must've been hungry," he says, as he hugs me.  "Love you mom."

So, the thing about parenthood, is that it's hard.  In times like these, it's hard to write about.  To my friends who have not yet entered preadolescence, to my friends who don't have a child with an eating disorder (which is what it is), they don't get it.  I get useless advice like "just make him eat."  Or "have you tried...?" which sometimes leads to a great suggestion but, usually, is just someone trying to prove me wrong -- that, actually, my child does eat enough to live, even if it's only a few things, not understanding that he won't even eat those few things consistently so, therefore, it actually is a crisis.  Every other day.  And that's hard.

Parents of newborns?  You have it easy.  Your colic, witching hour, sleepless nights ... that's the easy stuff.  Just wait until they grow up and you have bigger problems.

See why I haven't been blogging?  It's not nice for me to say that.  And frankly, it's not nice to my kids, who are both, in the end, doing wonderfully.  Petunia is happy, and Dash thinks he's going to Hogwarts in sixth grade.  I'm just very, very tired and in need of a week in Hawaii with no one demanding anything of me except the pool boy, wondering if I'll have a pina colada, a lava flow, or a strawberry daiquiri.  Decisions, decisions...

So that's my parenthood update for this week.  Another one is coming soon, because oohhhhh boy, Petunia is turning 11.  I can't handle the truth. 

Where's that daiquiri?

Marking ten years, for Todd

For the past five years in which I've been blogging, I've offered up 9-11 tributes here on Rox and Roll.  In some ways, these posts are the hardest to write, since we lived in the greater NY area and saw, smelled, and felt the devastation of these attacks from too close-by.  In other ways, these posts write themselves, for I just let myself share what I'm feeling a little more freely than usual. 

This year, much of what's in my mind to share are snapshots and bits and pieces, not so much of the Towers falling but, rather, of friends -- and not so much of friends who perished that day, but of friends whose lives were changed forever, many of whom I saw at my high school reunion earlier this summer.  Beyond the indescribable horrors many living friends saw that day, there are little things, like the voice of my friend calling, the one who worked on the 80-somethingth floor, telling me she's alive -- and the voice of another friend, calling to ask the fate of that one who lived as well as that of another who died, and the silence that followed.  I can close my eyes and hear those conversations in my head as if it were yesterday, not a decade ago, and if there's one thing I know, it's that I'd never wish those phone calls on anyone -- and, that day, I had dozens upon dozens.  I was home with my baby, and everyone knew it.  I was the listmaker, the tracker of lives, and every last phone call was the same, "do you know?"

Do you know?

Over the last decade, I've had friends who stayed in New York out of a need to prove that they can survive there, friends who left in fear, and friends everywhere in between.  We've had family stay on their same block smack dab in the middle of the single most diverse zip code in America (that would be Brooklyn, 11218).  We moved away for work, but we still do the same thing every year on 9-11: we go to the beach.  We do this because I drove to the water, ten years ago, as the horrors of 9-11 were unfolding, to get away from my ringing phone, to take in some peace in something concrete and beautiful.  The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and that never changes.  There are rip currents and hidden dangers, but the tide doesn't sleep.  It comes in, it goes out.  I breathed with the tide that day, in, and out.  It was all I think many of us could do: just breathe.

A decade has passed since 9-11, and, unfortunately, I don't think a single day has passed without my remembering every feeling I had that day.  I doubt a single day ever will.

I also am attuned to every feeling I've had since.  I'm a person who needs to fundamentally believe that people are good and that we live in a just world, I can't help but wish that the tragedy of 9-11 hadn't given birth to war abroad as well as domestic battles that pit crosses versus mosques.  I've heard more hate in the past decade directed toward "others" than I've heard in my life -- hate directed at some of my friends, just for being born Muslim.  It is sometimes very hard to bear the amount of hate that came out of that day; hate has no part in its legacy.

Fortunately, our alma mater started a scholarship fund in honor of our lost friend, and the legacy of a boy from a hardworking single mom in New York going to prep school and a fine college then ending up working atop the world, at Cantor Fitzgerald, can be remembered through the recipient of his scholarship: another kid given a chance.  And each year, what I hope for that kid is that he sees a day when people aren't judged by the color of their skin, or by their creed, but by the content of their character -- something Martin Luther King Jr. called for decades before these attacks, in a time when those who were black, like my lost friend, were held to a different standard, just like American Muslims are today.  It's just not right, and we owe my friend, and his scholarship recipient, and each other (in general) better than that. 

Thus, this year, I offer an affirmation from the United Presbyterian Church, the church of my childhood, based on Dr. King's teachings:

I refuse to believe that we are unable to influence the events which surround us.

I refuse to believe that we are so bound to racism and war, that peace, brotherhood and sisterhood are not possible.

I believe there is an urgent need for people to overcome oppression and violence, without resorting to violence and oppression.

I believe that we need to discover a way to live together in peace, a way which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of this way is love.

I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. I believe that right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.

I believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits.

I believe that what self-centered people have torn down, other-centered people can build up.

By the goodness of God at work within people, I believe that brokenness can be healed. "And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, and everyone will sit under their own vine and fig tree, and none shall be afraid."

I offer this post in memory of all of those affected on 9-11, and especially in memory of Todd.  Friend, rest in peace.

Back to School Recipe(s): The Easiest Pulled Pork Ever (and what to do with it)

My daughter Petunia and I love love love pulled pork, but, I confess, I'd never actually made it myself until this week.  Since Petunia just started middle school and is overwhelmed with the giant step up in homework, activities, and everything else, I thought I'd try to make it for her as comfort food.  (Don't get me wrong: she's very, very happy in her new school -- just very, very busy, too!)  I scoured the internet for recipes, and I didn't find any that were just right -- so I made one up from "best practices," greatly simplified.  I am not so experimental with meat -- plainly, it costs too much if I screw up! -- but felt like this would work.  I'm glad I went with my gut, because I came up with:

The Easiest Pulled Pork Ever!

Ingredients:

• A 3-pound pork shoulder butt: yours might be labelled pork shoulder, or pork butt, but, trust this farm girl, it's all a reference to the lower part of a pig shoulder (also known as pork blade shoulder butt), which is actually called "shoulder butt" for short
• One sweet onion, sliced in rings (optional; I just like some cooked sweet onions with my pulled pork)
• One 12-ounce can or bottle of root beer (I used Virgil's)

Directions:

• Lay half of the onion rings in the bottom of a slow cooker (crockpot).
• Place the pork shoulder butt atop, fat side up.  (There's always one side that's fattier.)
• Place the rest of the onion rings on top and around the sides.
• Pour the rootbeer over the roast.
• Set your crockpot on high for four hours.
• Then turn it down to low for four-six hours.  (Alternately, you could set it on high for an hour, then turn it down to low until dinnertime, 10-12 hours later.)
• Remove the meat from the cooker; turn cooker to "keep warm" setting if you need to keep the meat warm for a while, or turn it off if you're going to eat right away.
• Through a colander, dump out the liquid (don't retain it).  Place onions and whatever tiny bits of meat remain in colander in a bowl to serve alongside the pork.
• Scrape off any remaining fat from the pork and discard.  (Most will have melted away.)
• Using two forks, or even your fingers, shred the meat.

THAT"S IT! 

Serving ideas:

My family made several meals out of this. 

Meal One:

• Shredded meat heaped on a plate with toppings on the side: cooked onions, cole slaw, barbeque sauce (we used Organicville, a new brand at Whole Foods, which is gluten-free and very good)
• Baked golden potatoes: I stab small golden potatoes with a fork all over, rub them lightly in my hands with olive oil and a tiny bit of kosher salt, and microwave four of them at at time on a plate ... my micro has a setting for "baked potatoes," so it times itself (about 5 minutes).  You'll know they're done when a knife passed through them like butter.  Because of the olive oil and salt, we often eat these plain, or with a small dollop of butter or drizzle of olive oil.
• Peas: We've been loving English peas, which we hand-shell at the table and eat raw

Meal Two:

• Pork tacos: microwave corn tortillas under a damp paper towl for 30 seconds; fill with warmed pork, guacamole or sliced avocado, and chopped tomatoes or pico de gallo (we often skip the cheese ... they're flavorful enough without it, and it just adds fat and calories; I'd rather the kids get calcium by drinking skim milk)
• Mexican rice: I confess, I bought it at Mi Pueblo, where I also bought the guac and salsa
• Muskmelon slices: The kid who eats veggies wanted a break from greens, and this yummy thing came in our CSA box ... it took care of a fruit serving and felt like dessert (which we don't eat every meal, so that's a good thing!)

Meal Three:

• Pork melts: One piece of bread (I use spelt, since I'm wheat-allergic) topped with pork, barbeque sauce, and a very light dusting of Kraft 2% shredded cheddar cheese, toasted in a 350-degree oven for about 15 minutes (this varies widely, so check in about 10 minutes) ... alternately, warm the pork first, and broil for < 5 minutes.  (I dislike broiling -- too hot!)
• Baked potatoes (again)
• Veggie crudite (also known as cleaning out the fridge!): baby carrots, broccoli, celery, tomato wedges

And that's it.  Next time, I'm going to make ropa vieja -- which is spicy shredded beef with many more ingredients, so it won't make my back-to-school list!  (But if it's good, I'll post the recipe.)

Bon appetit!