Memorial Day Reflections

To begin, I am a pacifist.  I never, ever agree with war.  I used to, but not anymore.  Words are more impressive than guns; love will always beat hate.  I feel mixed when I immerse myself in places of war like Arlington Cemetery, military museums, and today, the bowels of an aircraft carrier. 

We spent the weekend in San Diego celebrating a wedding.  On our way out of town, we decided to take a tour of the USS Midway.  I felt uneasy paying the price of admission because I felt like I was supporting war.  But because I love my country like a family, I accept and love the best and not-so-best of those I love.  This ship represents my country’s history, and as such is a part of me, and I need to know.  I need to know about my family.

The USS Midway is staffed by an impressive array of veterans whose service spans over 60 years.  We met many docents throughout our tour.  Each of them is a proud volunteer and is exceedingly happy to answer every question you might have.  Steve, who served in Vietnam, lent me the month-by-month records of the Midway’s history.  I learned that the USS Midway spent most of her time assisting military missions.  She served in Vietnam and was the flagship vessel of the Gulf War fleet.  However, she also assisted in humanitarian missions, including the evacuation of over 3, 000 refugees in Saigon and over 1, 800 refugees (I think) when Mt. Pinatubo exploded.  Most of the time, though, she’s been a vessel of war, as she is designed to be.  I visited the War Room, the origin of strategy for the Gulf War.  I felt uneasy in the place where war began.  From Wayne, a retired Marine with a tattoo of a giraffe on his leg (they’re the wife’s favorite), we learned about how planes take off and land safely on deck, how the captain is ALWAYS responsible (even if he’s asleep!), and how to chart a course through the open sea.  We moved on through the tour to the Ready Rooms, the place where pilots would gather to watch movies, read mail or meet before a mission to receive their orders.  Though I didn’t get our docent’s name, he held an impressive stature.  He was tall, confident, and carried an air of authority.  He was kind of a badass.  He talked to us about the functions of the Ready Room and how all the seats are arranged by rank.  Naturally, I gravitated to the seat of the highest ranking officer.  Dave sat next to me.  Just like home, right?  Anyway, at the end of his presentation, I asked him about his service history.  He flew in the US Navy for over 20 years.  Now retired, he spends much of his time on the Midway talking to people about life on an aircraft carrier.  We moved through several Ready Rooms, each adorned with shields of battalions, jackets, medals, and letters.  Each piece of memorabilia churned a swell of pride and sadness because these men, these brave men, left land and all the loving people on it, to fly out into the blue unknown to defend and fight, and hopefully return.  Many did not.  I tried to talk to Dave, but I felt that ol’ sentimental frog in my throat.  I held off.

 As we returned to the lower decks, we saw dozens of veterans out chatting with visitors.  One caught my eye.  An older gentleman sat at a table next to a sign which read, "Talk to a real WWII veteran."  I thought, "What's so special about that?"  To my amazement, somebody was talking to him!  Really?

And I realized, in a lightning bolt moment, that my childhood was special and unusual.  That even as I loathe war, I cannot deny the countless times I watched my grandfathers sit together on our patio swapping stories from World War II.  Though my mother’s father flew out of England and my father’s father sailed through the Pacific, they are joined in the eternal brotherhood of men who defended our country in a war of the world.  I noticed the line of people waiting to speak to this man, and I realized that mine was not the experience of every child. 

I grew up with the distinct privilege of hearing real stories from real heroes and seeing real tears shed from decades-old wounds.  Their stories have become an undeniable part of me.  Though my father denied for many years the legitimacy of his service, recently he has accepted his place in our nations’s history.  He served our country in the Air Force.  He assisted young men as they flew out of Vietnam.  I asked him once about a good memory he had from that time.  He told me, “Once, these guys were on a plane coming home, and when we lifted off, the whole plane erupted in cheers.”

I learned early that some wounds never heal.

About two weeks before he died, I got to visit one last time with my grandfather.  We went out to breakfast, and in the course of our small talk, he said, “Boy, when I left San Francisco and left for the Pacific, I didn’t know if I’d come back.”  I imagine that all the men and women who serve share a similar sentiment because, as we all know, they don’t all come back.

With one hour left in Memorial Day, I reflect that I’ve spent my life with conflicting feelings.  I love veterans but hate war.  Does hating war mean that I’m disrespecting veterans?  I don’t think so, though many may disagree.  I maintain that the finest way to honor a veteran is to find a peaceful solution to a conflict.  Less war means fewer veterans.  Sounds pretty good!  I dislike emotional and physical wounds.  I dislike political games.  I dislike unnecessary death.  My position on war is independent of my feelings towards those who serve.  I’ve seen my grandfathers’ faces when they talk.  It’s what they don’t say – that’s what should never have been seen.  But, they saw it and then they lived lives in dignity and honor for their families and country.  I take pride in knowing that their legacy is part of my story.  I want peace so badly, and it is because of these great people who see, hear, smell, taste, and touch that which no human should ever have to experience at the hands of another.  Yet I am profoundly grateful to them every day.  I cannot help but shake hands with folks in uniform and say, “Thank you”, and wish them good luck.  And sometimes shout, "HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY!" to the guy in uniform at the airport CPK eating his pizza on Veteran's Day.  He shouted, "Thank you!" right back and some people clapped. 

Seriously, the real people in that uniform are a big deal to me. 

Seriously.  War sucks. 

Today I mourned the loss of those who served.  Today I remembered those who went away and came back, but lost themselves on the battlefield.  Though still with us in body, they are forever changed.  Today I thank those who might help them regain their sense of self again, that they might live out the promise of a life well-lived.  Today I remember those who put on a uniform, yet are no longer with us.  Today I thank the spouses, children, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends who supported them.

Let us honor our veterans and love peace equally.

 

 

An Open Letter to the Teachers at the Special Ed School Behind My House

Dear Teachers,

The first thing I heard was the rattle of the gate, which I thought was odd because it was the middle of the day.  Everybody who might hop the fence should be in school, but somebody wasn’t.  Then I heard you.

“Adam*,” you asked, “Why did you climb over the fence?”

“Because I’m sick of this,” he yelled.  “You guys are mean and unfair.”

You answered in a calm voice, asking how and why, saying again and again, “I want to understand why you are upset.”  You repeated over and over, “I want to talk to you.”

"You guys are..." Adam shouted, each time leveling a new accusation upon you.  Unfair, mean, monsters, hateful.

You unlocked the gate, and he asked, “Are you unlocking the gate?”

“Yes,” you replied.  I heard you tell him that another teacher was on his way to the other side of the alley, and then Adam took off.  It was too late, though, because the other teacher was there.

I considered calling the police because I was concerned for your safety, but your voices held me back.  You stayed so calm.  You were so remarkably calm.  I heard the struggle in Adam’s voice, the rage, the fury at not being understood and wanting to lash out at every force that lashed against him in the world, and I heard your calm voices.  I heard you say again and again, “We want to keep you safe.”  And I knew it was true because he could very easily have run into the street.

I think Adam was pinned to the ground.  He sounded so angry, threatening you, telling you he wanted to hit you or kick you or something worse, and you stayed so calm.  You spoke so quietly and respectfully and compassionately to this boy, this boy!, who was obviously struggling, and you wanted so badly for him to get up and walk back into school under his own power.  You gave him more chances than I’ve ever given my kids.

You worked with him for a long time and I do not know the outcome.  I stopped listening because hearing children struggle hurts my soul.

But I want to pass this along.  Your extraordinary compassion, patience, and love testify your dedication to the life of this student.  I never heard you complain.  You never blamed him.  You never accused him.  You simply repeated, “We want to keep you safe.”

I don’t know what it all means.  It might mean nothing.  It might mean that your high level of training, experience, and knowledge make occurrences like this commonplace.  But for me, it wasn’t.  For me, this experience highlighted the difference between your job and everybody else’s.   Most folks who walk into an office don’t deal with threats of getting punched in the ribs by someone they love.  They won’t deal with the possibility of that person’s relatives working against them.  They won’t deal with the whims of a system that willfully leaves this child underfunded and his teachers overworked and underpaid.  It means that you and this child perpetually get less, yet you need and deserve so much more.

I guess I just want to say that what I heard broke my heart into a thousand pieces and yet, each day you come to work, yours gets broken, repaired, and re-broken on a daily basis.  It’s part of the job.  You are amazing.

That’s all I’ve got.

*The boy's name has been changed.

Air

Every night, I begin screaming on the inside around 5 o’clock.  The trigger begins around 4:45.  Here’s how it goes:

                “Mom, I’m hungry.”

                “Mom, I want a snack.”

                “I know you’re hungry.  You just had a snack an hour ago.  I’m going to start dinner soon.”

I begin whining on the inside. I want them to not ask me for anything because they’ve been asking me for stuff, food, help, drinks since 7 am.  I want a little bit of a reprieve.  I want help.  But nobody is coming to the rescue for another hour, at least.  I begin to want to cry.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve made it into the kitchen and am pulling veggies, cans of beans, maybe some pasta, or leftovers out onto our shiny counters.  The whiny-dialogue begins again, only this time they’re in the kitchen, underfoot, in the fridge, in the cupboards, at the counter:

                “Mom, can I have some yogurt?”

                “Mommy, I’m thirsty.  Can I have some hot chocolate?”

                “I’m making dinner right now.  Why don’t you go build a train track while you wait?”

                “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

It is not an angry “no”, for neither of my children direct rage or fury towards me.  Instead, theirs is a response full of self-pity and disbelief.  Their whine cries, “How on Earth can you expect me to survive the next half hour while I wait for you to prepare the bounty of food you intend to place before us on our table?”  Verbatim.

Sometimes I’m fine.  Sometimes I can tolerate everything and this common refrain rolls off me like oil in a hot pan.  I move through the evening calm, unperturbed, amused even, that this is my daily grind.  Every once in a while, I even enjoy it and I think, “These are treasured days.”

Other times, I’m not fine.  Those times, I feel suffocated and this refrain sticks to me like hot iron and I’m treading, trying to keep my head above water.  My heart beats fast and I take a sip of wine and it doesn’t help.  My head still feels light.  I’ve been known to walk out of the room and suck in big gulps of air.  I  want to feel the air at the bottom of my lungs because that’s what feels best.

I want to feel my lungs full of air.  And I know exactly why.  Full lungs and partially full lungs are the difference between a mediocre run and a great run.  The start of a run is a battle of wills.  My mind needs some clarity and my muscles fight viciously against my method of attaining it.  I hear things like, “I didn’t eat enough food” or “I’m thirsty” or “I didn’t sleep enough” for the first few minutes.  After beating through that jungle, I spend the next few minutes trying to sync my feet and breath.  I like taking 5-6 steps for every inhale and another 5-6 steps for every exhale.  Depending on terrain, I try to maintain this rhythm.  It is a song I have been fine-tuning for three decades.  Sometimes it’s more of a jazzy, interpretive piece.  I’ll know where I’m going but have no idea how I’m going to get there.  I run at an irregular pace and my breathing is inconsistent.  Those runs are usually mediocre, sometimes good.  Those times, I'm struggling for rhythm, and before I know it, it's over.  Other times, my run is an opera.  Those days are my favorite days.  Every step is a melody, perfect and pure and sure.  On those days, I breathe deep and my lungs fill up, expand into deep, massively stretched bladders of air and my back releases pent up tension and my face relaxes and I can just keep going forever.  I have been known to smile stupidly.

At five o’clock, I try to mimic the latter.  But it usually doesn’t work.  I clearly need pharmaceutical intervention.

I talked about the witching hour with my neighbor one night.  I admitted how confounded I felt, unable to maintain control of my emotions at the clock ticked towards five and everybody begins to lose it.  My neighbor, an older woman who raised two girls alone, said simply, “Oh, when my girls were young, I wanted to wipe the 5 off the clock.”

I took a deep breath.  I wasn’t alone.  Other mothers shared my experience and felt the same way!  I am not crazy or incompetent or an asshole parent.  This experience is just part of this season in my life.

Not long after ourconversation, I accepted an invitation out to a Mom’s Night Out.  I hadn’t been out in a while and I freaking needed to get out bad.  I asked my neighbor if she could watch the kids, and she obliged happily.  When she arrived that night, she smiled and told me I looked nice.  She took my hand, placed a $20 bill in my palm, and said, “Have fun.”

It's My Birthday Week!

Well, technically it's on Saturday, but I decided I'd have a Birthday Week this year.  When I told Dave, he said, "It's about time because every other woman I know does!"  My birthday week is a celebration of the things I love most.  Yesterday I made bird feeders with Marcus and last night we had a family movie night.  It was a Monday and we all watched "Toy Story".  Super treat!  Today I'm treating myself to a long writing session, a good run, and a craft with my kids.  But I'm also hankering for something else.  Here it is.

For my birthday this year, I want charity.  Seriously.  I want you to donate $5 (or more) to a charity.  Do you have a favorite that you already contribute to?  If not, ask yourself, "What do I care about?"  Do you care about free speech?  Do you care about education?  Do you care about cheetahs in South Africa?  Do you care about feeding the hungry or fostering children?  What about cancer or HIV or depression?  Perhaps soccer camps for kids?  WHAT IS IMPORTANT TO YOU?  Today is a perfect day for you to do something about it.

I've compiled a list of charities that are important to me for various reasons.  Some charities benefit scientists who are working to find a cure for cancer.  Others aid children born with cleft lips and cleft palates.  Still others match foster animals with their forever homes.  If one of these organizations speaks to you, please give today.  I'd love to hear about it, but you're also welcome to hold it inside.  You never regret giving to others.

Help someone else today.  That's all I really want.

Health

Today, you can

• be a part of finding a cure for cystic fibrosis.
• be a part of finding a cure for cancer through the Leukemia Lymphoma Society and The American Cancer Society.
• support families cope with mental health issues at NAMI.
• support medical professionals in the neediest parts of the world through Doctors Without Borders (Medecins sans Frontieres).

Children

Today, you can

• help children born with a cleft lip or cleft palate receive a life-saving surgery with your contribution to The Smile Train.
• help families of children who need medical treatments far from home by supporting Ronald McDonald House Charities.
• help children around the world receive access to basic necessities at Unicef.
• help a child's dream come true at the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
• help end childhood hunger at Lunches of Love.

Education

Today, you can

• support a teacher's project at Donor's Choose.
• support access to information at Wikipedia.
• Support arts education and outreach programs (and honor my dear friend) at The Jason Siebert Memorial Fund.

Community

Today, you can

• fund an innovative project in your community at Kickstarter.
• provide basic necessities for a homeless person at Guiltless Giving
• feed the hungry in my town at Food Bank of Contra Coast and Solano.

Social Justice

Today, you can

• remind kids who are afraid to come out that It Gets Better.
• help everyone have access to free medical care and birth control at Planned Parenthood.
• help homeless pets find forever homes at Best Friends and Rocket Dog Rescue.
• help veterans use skills they acquired on the battlefield to save lives in disaster-stricken areas at Team Rubicon.

Environment

Today, you can

• help preserve our national parks.
• plant a tree at the Arbor Day Foundation.
• help preserve our rivers, steams, oceans, and watersheds at The Surfrider Foundation.

International

Today, you can

• support Blue Kitabu's environmentally and financially sustainable education programs in Ghana.
• support children in Swaziland receive love and education at the New Hope Centre.  (This is a faith-based organization).
• help children in war-torn countries at Unicef.

This, my friends, is the short list.  There are SO many mouths to feed and we all have so much to give, and if you've got a favorite, go today to give $5.   Your change jar can change somebody's life.

Please please please give $5!  That's it!  If you want to give more, please do.  But support people who are giving their lives to make life better.

Today, you can.

Thank you.

Who Are You?

Hello Friends!

Every time I post, Blogger is kind enough to let me know how many unique visitors view each post.  I sometimes feel like I'm writing in a void, because I receive so many visitors but leave no feedback.  I love hearing from you, but not in a narcissistic way.  Did I write something that made you think, change your perspective, piss you off, or make you feel hope?  Reading your comments turns this into a conversation.  I want my perspective changed.  If you've ever met me in real life, you know I love conversation.  This is a way for me to communicate, but right now it's one way.  I don't want that.  Please leave a comment.

I think bribery is best.  I have a $10 gift card to www.etsy.com WAITING for one lucky somebody, but you have to do two things.

1)  You must click the "Follow" button on the right.  I won't email you or bug you in any way.  It's a way for me to attach a face or personality to your words.
2)  You must leave a comment about a previous post.

Do this by Friday, December 21, 2012 at 8 pm, and you're in the running.

Thank you so much!
N

I Want To Hear From You

It’s only Monday.  I really wanted to stay in bed today, or more accurately, just not take Alexandria to school.  I wanted to keep my little family close by to do crafts, sing, or lie about on the floor.  Maybe talk about Santa.  I need giggles and to not be on a schedule.  But we went through the rigamaroll of the morning and I was happysad when we got to Alexandria’s classroom.  We had to knock on the door.  It’s now locked at all times.  Fear of the unknown is holding all of us hostage.

I felt a little better yesterday, though.  I did some Christmas shopping.  My spirits lifted seeing so many people smiling.  I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a book for their holiday book drive and that felt good.  I found ways to be joyful and light.  It’s the season, after all.

I heard my pastor say, "I’m a fixer."  I like fixing problems, too.  I want to fix this and I can’t.  Nothing I do will undo it.  That problem is beyond my capabilities.  I'm not hopeless because I can do other things.  We can do other things.  Sadly, the list of problems facing our towns, states, our nation, and the world, is endless.  The thought of confronting all of these issues seem daunting, impossible for one person to tackle.  We’re a team, though.  Right?  Aren’t we all in this together?

I once heard my wise friend tell her child, who was lamenting the absence of a snack while in the car, “Remember that feeling.  That’s hunger.  Some children feel that all day long.  You’re getting a snack when we stop.  But be grateful.”  Any and every child can understand the sadness of hunger.  Every child can work to end that.

I came up with an idea last night that Dave and I are entertaining.  Since our kids are old enough to understand the necessity of giving, I thought, “Let’s make it a family affair.”  I suggested that we make only one resolution for next year.  I suggested that we, as a family, agree on a cause and commit time to that cause one weekend day per month.  Alexandria suggested that all children should have pajamas.  I agree.  Every kid needs pajamas.

Instead of focusing on what we can’t fix, let’s fix the things that we can.  Here are some simple steps:

1. Choose your problem.  Hungry kids in Africa or clean drinking water for everyone?  Eyeglasses for everyone, shoes, coats, dental care, band-aids, access to birth control, adopting shelter pets, supporting foster parents, treatment for the mentally ill, backpacks for schoolchildren, soccer balls, trash-free streets, parks, and beaches?  Pick one.
2. Choose how to give.  Your options are time, money, or goods.  Can you drive your neighbor to dialysis?  Do it.  Can you read books to the elderly or the blind?  You bet.  So can your teenager!  Can you have a summer garage sale and donate the proceeds?  Yes.  You can.
3. Commit.  Write it on the calendar or put it in your phone.  Accept no excuses, including your own.  Despite what we’d love to believe, we all have extra time.  Turn of MSNBC, FOX, and CNN.  Shut down the X-box.  Get off the computer or phone and get out.  Take your teenage boy or girl with you.  Take your spouse.  Bring a friend or neighbor.  Turn giving into a family or neighborhood affair.  Build it into your own culture.

That’s it.  Veterans need YOU.  Children need YOU.  Shelter animals need YOU.  Parks, recreation areas, beaches, forests, deserts, and lakes need YOU.  Displaced peoples around the world need YOU.

If you are out there volunteering, giving, walking, educating, fostering, adopting, or feeding, I want to hear about it.  Please leave a comment.  I am desperate to know how you are making it better, or how you plan to make it better.  Please leave the web address of your favorite charitable organization, as well.  I am committing to this.  Join me.

I'm At A Loss

So when I heard what happened, one of my first impulses was to get Alexandria out of school.  I needed her with me, her body, her safe little person with me.  I needed both of my kids close, safe.  With me.  Dave came into the kitchen and we stood and cried.  I sobbed hard.  I put on “Caillou” for Marcus, sat close to him on the couch, and began digesting news.

I didn’t go get her.  “It will be disruptive,” I thought.  “She’s safe.”  I knew she was safe because the likelihood of her not being safe was so small.  So small.  I waited until school ended to get my badly needed hug and then sent her off to a friend’s house.

I lashed out at American politics and sought comfort in wise friends.  Friends wrote prayers and sank deep into faith.  Other friends got pissed at people who wrote prayers and were vocal about the absence of God.  Someone even asked me to not express anything political, to just let people grieve, only to later retract, understanding that we all grieve differently.  I found information on how to talk to kids about tragedies and as parents, we agreed to have the worst conversation ever when she got home.

Midway through the afternoon, I began to read an article on the incident.  I felt nauseous and turned away.  I stumbled onto The Onion and that was it.  “Fuck everything” was precisely the perfect sentiment.  I couldn't handle any more details.  I didn’t want to know anybody’s name, including the bad guy.  I didn’t want to see faces or tears or distraught parents.  I knew they were there but I didn’t need the images seared into my brain.  The images my imagination conjured were fucking horrible enough already.  My soul couldn’t handle more.

Alexandria spent the afternoon jumping on a trampoline, exhilarated in the cold autumn air.  When she got home, we sat down with her and in very simple, clear language explained what happened.  No locations.  No ages.  Just one bad guy and a LOT of good guys.  We love you.  Everybody wants to keep you safe.  Don’t listen to kids on the playground.  Talk to us.  “Can I ask a teacher?”  “Yes,” we said.  She had a support group of trustworthy adults.  “Do you have any questions?”

“Why?”

Fuck.  “I don’t know.”

It’s OK to not know.  Actually, my best answer to “why” is “I don’t know.”  Because if I know the answer to this, then I can see into the abyss and I don’t want to see into the abyss.  I don’t ever want to know that kind of darkness.  Ever.

I struggled to make light and joy.  As we pushed through dinner, table topics included “What would you do to make it better for somebody else?” and “What is one problem that you would solve for people in need?”  Hope sprang from the table.  “Clean drinking water for everyone.”  “I’d make sure all kids had gloves.”  “I’d make sure that nobody was ever hungry again.”  We finished the evening on our couch watching the most hope-filled joy one can find on a TV:  “It’s Christmastime, Charlie Brown”.  I cried silent tears when Linus begins with, “Lights please.”

A friend asked me a real, pressing, and relevant question.  It’s a sentiment that has been echoed throughout the world.  “Where was the Lord today?” she asked.

I simply don’t have any answers.  Good loses sometimes.  Good versus evil is the oldest battle in The Book.  “Don’t eat the apple.”  Enter snake.  *eats apple  “Now you’ll see all the evil.”  Great.  Friends spoke of Spiritual Battle.  Holy shit.  This is real.  Evil is living and breathing among us and it does awful shit.  One friend asked God to simply end it all if this is how it was going to go.

I successfully avoided the news for approximately 36 hours.  I spoke with loving friends and we talked of fearlessness in the face of this evil.  We cried through the horror and utter desperation of the parents.  Of little stockings and ungiven gifts from Santa and unknown last kisses and giggles and never more and what the fuck?  But still no news.

I went to book group.  Again, I avoided the shittiness and discussed drivel (seriously, A Room with A View sucked).  I enjoyed a nice coffee with my friend and we chatted for hours of nothing and everything.  While driving home and trying to find a freeway on ramp, I flipped through the radio stations searching for something upbeat.  And then I heard a stat (which I will not repeat here) that I did not need to hear.  Quickly, I pressed the button to change the station but it was too late!  No, no, no, no, no fucking no I didn’t want to hear any goddamn thing about it at fucking all no dammit no!  I felt the rage course through me and I really tried to clench my knuckles and let it pass but I was not going to get off that easy.

I began to scream.  Deep, primal, terrible rage-filled screams filled my mouth and my car and I felt the ancient shared genes of chimpanzees and gorillas and the fury when they bare their teeth and scream loudly and it fills the forest and makes the hair on your neck stand up.  I screamed like that and just drove for a while, slightly lost in the green hills and rain.  Then I couldn’t scream anymore.  My voice stopped.  I have more in me but my vocal cords refuse the abuse.  I drove the rest of the way home practically catatonic. 

I came home to beauty.  Dave was setting up an ornament making craft station with the kids.  They were eating snacks and giggling.  I reminded myself that spending time with my little family is a way to embrace the conquering power of love.  We made reindeer out of peanuts and embellished cardboard stars.  I put Marcus to bed.  We invented derivations of the word “snuggle*”.  We sang.  We made joy and peace.

But I don’t know where to go from here.  What the fuck are we doing as a society that we’ve been relatively complacent about evil ruining the fabric of our souls until something as horrific as this happens?  I’ll ask the same question as The Onion.  Do we really want to fucking live like this anymore?  Do we want our lives to be dictated by fear?  I don’t.  I don’t ever want to see or hear or feel this ever again.  I believe in the power of good.  I believe the each of us holds within us infinite good, but are we so busy and bustled and stretched and pulled that we don’t have time to let it out?  I mean, fuck.  What are we doing with our lives?  Why the fuck are we here?  WHY ARE YOU HERE?  If the first answer out of our mouths is not, “To make it better” then maybe we ought to re-evaluate our lives.  Because if it’s not to give water or “Blessing Bags” to homeless people or feed people on days other than Thanksgiving or pick up trash or drive a friend’s kid to school or hug every kid in your kid’s class and learn their names or bring healthy snacks to all the teachers or pay the toll for the folks behind you or walk shelter dogs or make cookies for firemen or any other nice, generous, small, glory-filled act then what the fuck are you doing with this beautiful life that God has handed you?  (Please click on the link.  Please.)

One light conquers darkness, just one candle, one light bulb, one flashlight.  It’s not scary anymore with the lights on.  This is the season of lights.  Can we turn off the dark news and vacuous reality shows, log off Facebook and Twitter, and instead look into the faces of our family, friends, neighbors, and hell, even strangers, and just be a light? 

I don’t know how else to beat this.  I mean, fuck.

*snuckle – when snuggling, one party takes advantage of the closeness and begins tickling the other party.

*sneegle – when snuggling, both parties hold each other very, very tight and squeal, “Eeeeee!”

Checking Out and Pressing In

I’m going to be really honest.  Lately, I’ve been playing a computer game and I hate myself every time I do it.  I blow time and potential doing it.  I find myself drawn to it when I go down the road I shouldn’t go down.  It’s like beta time but I’m not doing anything creative, so I feel guilty.  I could knit or quilt or sew or anything else but I rebel against production and waste my brain instead.  But that road, that painful realization that you chose a more challenging adventure, is what I think about.

I feel like I’m checking out, but it doesn’t feel like I’m taking a break.  Instead, I tend to consider the what-ifs of my life. 

What if I’d said that to this person or done this instead of that?  Maybe I wouldn’t be dealing with the harsh reality of…oh, it’s too much and it’s too personal.  If I’d only realized the limitless potential hidden within when I was a little younger!  Don’t go there.  Don’t go there.

Sometimes it’s hard to deal with the minutae of every day when much larger problems loom.  A few years ago, I remember getting hammered for not writing thank-you notes in the midst of grieving the loss my job and death a friend.  In that life moment, writing thank-you notes was the last thing on my mind.  Especially, when, at six months pregnant, somebody had to remind me to eat more than one meal a day.  On some days coping seemed impossible.  But I was chastised for not holding it together.

I’m gonna cuss.  Fuck that.

So that’s where I am right now.  I feel pressure for not holding it together.  I feel the need to be invincible and strong and motherly and wifely and nurturing and completely satisfied.  In short, I feel compelled to be everything to everyone.  I drown it all in this stupid game.  Where is it coming from?  I’m not sure.  But it comes from somewhere and I’m irritated. 

Those who love me most tell me I hold unreasonable expectations for myself.  My recent descent into self-loathing stems from not working.  For example, I feel guilt when I spend money while not working.  Specifically, when I am not working, I feel guilt when I spend money on myself.  The irrational reasoning is that I attach my self-worth in my family to the amount of money I make.  I feel guilt.  This week’s battle surrounded paying for a class to keep my license to train.

It’s absurd.  Apparently, I don’t feel worthy of the cost to continue my education.  It’s probably why I sold things on Craigslist to pay for school.  I didn’t feel like I was worth the time it took to earn the money it took to pay for school.  That’s it.

I sobbed my way through this dilemma yesterday with Dave and my bestie.  Both of them said the exact same thing.

“You are worth it.  It’s not even a question.  You have an obligation to continue and study and learn and get better at what you do.”

Sometimes it’s all you need.  But this wasn’t one of those times.

When I really gutted my soul to Dave, he simply said, “I know what you’re feeling.  I feel it often.”

I also needed that.  In addition to hearing the words, I also needed to hear empathy.  I didn’t just need a fix-it.  I also needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t crazy, that my feelings are within the realm of normal but self-defeating and that I wasn’t alone when I felt them.  Misery loves company?

This time around, being a stay-at-home is terribly humbling.  Going back to not working after I was on a career path, bushwhacking my way into a secure position as a well-respected trainer, is more challenging than I thought.  I wasn’t making a ton of money, but my paycheck was steady and I was fulfilled at work.  I was independent.  I felt good every day when I went to work, and I felt better when I came home.  I gave that up (voluntarily!) to stay at home and raise my kids.  Now that we are well into the demands of school-homework-schedule demands, I am less enchanted with my role.  It’s demanding and exhausting.  It tests my patience and I haven’t fought hard enough for my own needs.  I’ve given myself no wiggle room for growth (remember when I told you I wasn’t worth the time?).  I’m fighting to retain a bit of myself while meeting the demands of a changed family dynamic.  No longer do I have my own social circle, my own experiences, my own life.  It’s tied up in everybody elses.  I’ve spent time and energy ensuring everybody else is comfortable, yet I failed to take care of myself.  And, to top it all off, the past two years have been so crazy and tumultuous that I’ve barely had time to focus on meeting the demands of retaining my license.  I do not recommend procrastination.  It sucks.  Not only do I feel unworthy of the money and time it takes to keep my license because I am not making money doing it, I am now about to be unable to do it because my license will be expired.  Yes.  It’s where I am.  My current job title is to be my kids’ parent and Dave’s wife.  I am the picker-upper and dropper-offer, fundraiser, get up, get dressed, make breakfast, get your teeth brushed, we’re late, let’s go harpee.  I’m not a trainer, so why try?

It’s possible that I’m not cut out for stay at home mom-ing.  I admire women who find satisfaction in staying home and devoting their entire lives to their children.  I don’t think I’m one of them.  Much of the time, it makes me crazy.  I don’t hate it, but I’m not necessarily thrilled with the person I’m becoming.  Some days, I am bitter and resentful and unfulfilled.  Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my dimensions.

I come back to the words of my husband and closest friends.  Clearly, I have to get past my self-worth issues.  Hallelujah!  I am worth every penny it takes to keep my brain and soul intact!  I am worth the effort others need to exert to ensure my happiness.  I spend countless hours giving to others to fill their souls, and I deserve the same.  I must get past the guilt.  It’s not fear.  It’s re-evaluating my worth.

What I find crazy is that I don’t hold ANYONE else to this standard.  To my friends who stay at home, home school, go to school, and volunteer, I think, “Man, she is really doing it.  She is really contributing to the wholeness of the world.”  Yet, I am unable to grant that grace to myself.  Why?

Actually, I don’t care why.  I’m not particularly interested in sifting through my great childhood to figure out who went wrong where.  Identifying the culprit in my over-emphasis on money accomplishes nothing.  I just have to get rid of it.  Emphasizing money over love is stupid and self-defeating.  I am a supportive wife and mother.  Oh, I’ve also neglected to mention that I’m a great friend, too.  Although not as much as I’d like, I engage in active learning.  I enrich myself through avid reading and engagement in creative pursuits.  I am a writer.  Yet I am not satisfied because I am not making money?  I am a basket case!  I’m crazy!  As I play this stupid online game, I literally run through all of the people who are doing more than me and are contributing more than me.  It’s the worst thing ever for my mental health!  Yet I resist it about as well as a moth can resist a bright light.

Through this continuing season of self-examination, I come back to the words of pastor Bob.  “Press in” he likes to say.  If you’re struggling, lean in to the challenge.  Engage it.  It’s God challenging you to trust Him more.  I envision a football player pushing though a wall of linemen.  Put your head down, crouch, and press your shoulder in.  Press in and push through.

Despair is a false blanket covering real blessings.  I am supremely blessed, yet I choose to see things I don’t have instead of all that surrounds me.  Each night this week, my boy has asked me to cuddle with him while he falls asleep.  I want that time so badly to just check out of life.  I want to be quiet and alone so badly and I want to just think uninterrupted so badly, but he needs me so badly too.  I refuse to raise a tough boy.  I refuse to raise a boy who wants to be held yet is afraid to ask.  So, I run a quick calculus of the value of his needs versus the value of my desire to check out.  How satisfied am I going to be if I know he’s in there, wanting to connect with me, and I’m out here doing some mindless activity in an effort to suppress the frustration of my own false take on reality?  I hear Bob.  “Press in” he says.  I press in.  I meet my struggle and walk in to my boy’s room.  I lay down with him.  I sing him a song.  Then another.  And another.  He gently pulls my hand over his body so that I am holding him very close to me, and he says, “I love cuddling with you, mommy.”

I don’t want to fight anymore because I’m the one creating the struggle.  I must be what my family needs me to be, but I also need to be what I want to be!  Carving out space for me in the midst of the Most Demanding Job on Earth proves a Herculean effort.  I fail often, but a good friend tells me he just tries to “fail better.”  I’m going to fail better and guiltlessly.  Playing an absurd game is a fail.  I’d like to fail better.  Admitting weakness is the first step to building strength.  I’m not sure where I’m going.  I feel a little lost, frankly.  But I’m loved and worth it and the people who love me most unconditionally want my heart and mind and soul to succeed.  And they don’t believe that success is attached to a paycheck.  My kids love me for me.  They don’t have any idea what money means, except that when I don’t have any in my wallet we’re not getting any frozen yogurt.  I am not associated with a dollar sign.  To these people, I am associated with unconditional love.  I give it, and whether I feel I’m worthy of it or not, I get it.  I ask again and again, “Why are we so blessed?”

But I don’t need to ask why we are blessed.  I need to lean into reality and let my heart be still.  I realize that I don’t need to check out.  I need to log off.   

The Rules of Engagement

This political season was nasty.  Name calling, false accusations, and fact-free assertions ran rampant across the interwebs.  As a long-time political junkie, I found this trend particularly disheartening.  I love a hot-blooded political fight as much as the next guy, but I also love shaking hands afterwards.  Social media has drawn more people into the political process, which is great because involvement makes the whole system thrive.  However, if social media is the new venue for political discourse, let’s lay down some ground rules.

1)      No name calling.  Insulting your fellow Americans by calling them crazy, uninformed, stupid, sheep, wackos, and even Nazis simply because they share different beliefs than you is disrespectful and unnecessary.  Petty name-calling weakens your argument.  Save it for the playground.

2)      No generalizing.  All Republicans don’t believe the same thing, nor do Democrats adhere to the same beliefs.  Each of us comes to the political fray with personal experiences that shape our world view.  Respect your opponent’s life experience by NOT putting them in a box.

3)      Separate politics and religion.  The internet is not a bar, so politics and religion are up for discussion, but they are two separate debates.  All conservatives are not Christian and all liberals are not Jews.  In a political debate, attacking another person’s faith, especially in a country whose Constitution guarantees both a secular government and religious freedom, accomplishes nothing.  In politics, religion is a non-issue.

4)      Check your facts.  Nothing ruins a great debate like a lie, half-truth, or a fabricated talking point.  Before you enflame your opponent with the morning’s latest accusation or something you read in an email, run it through one of the many unbiased online fact-checking machines.  Factcheck.org, politifact.org, Wikipedia.org, and national newspapers (excluding the opinion pages) may support or disprove your assertion.  If it checks out, use it.  If your assertion is false or mostly false, you may want to re-evaluate your position.  Facts are facts.  False declarations are lies.  Something that you think ought to be true, but is proven untrue, has no place in honest discourse.

5)      Facts are facts.  If you struggle to prove your point based on the facts you are finding, consider that perhaps the facts are correct and you need to modify your position.  It’s OK to change and grow, even as an adult!  Avoid criticizing the source of the facts, as well.  Finding a fact distributed by the Congressional Budget Office or the Bureau of Labor Statistics that disproves your assertion is a red flag – you may be wrong.  Admit it, adapt, and move on.  You’ll find peace.

6)      Cite non-partisan news sources.  Rush’s point about global warming being caused by sheep farts in New Zealand might be factually spot-on, but there’s a pretty good chance your liberal opponent thinks Rush is a pompous gas bag.  If Mr. Limbaugh’s facts are correct, you will be able to find them in an unbiased source.  Factcheck.org, politifact.org, Wikipedia.org, and national newspapers (excluding the opinion pages) are great sources for information.  MSNBC, FOX News, Huffington Post, Daily KOS, and Andrew Breitbart are biased and sometimes opinion-based sources.  Remember that, although the information from these outlets may be factually true, we are living in a time when the media has lost objective credibility.  In many cases, the line between real news and entertainment is hopelessly blurred.  Respect your opponent’s skepticism of political news sources and simply avoid them.   Cite your facts from unbiased sources and you’ll enjoy hard-won credibility.  As a credible source, you’re more likely to sway your opponent to see your point of view more clearly.

7)      Avoid the “They’re all the same” trap.  All politicians are not sleazebags and all political parties differ.  If you are unclear about the positions of the various political parties, and how they differ, I encourage you to investigate their websites and read the entire party platform.  Democrats, the American Communist Party, Republicans, the Green Party, and Libertarians are all different.  Accusing them of all “being the same” does a great disservice to those who serve our country honestly and hold fast to their principles.

8)      Learn the terminology.  Learn the difference between a political system and an economic system. 

9)      Keep it in perspective.  When emphasizing the scale of an alleged scandal, refrain from quantifying it as “the biggest in history”, as in “This fiasco is the biggest in history.”  Pearl Harbor, the Holocaust, September 11, and the Khmer Rouge are what you’re up against.  A politician makes a closed-door deal with a company he used to run?  Definitely lacks scruples, but not the worst move in history.  Keep it in perspective.

10)   Hitler was Hitler.  No current leaders come close to reviving the atrocities of Hitler.  If you compare any current world leader to Hitler, you lose the entire argument.  If your opponent compares any current world leader to Hitler, congratulations, you win!  Discussion over, log off, go outside.

There you have it!  Adhering to these rules of engagement ensure respectful online political discourse.  If you choose to engage, be prepared to learn, bend, grow, and change.  This is how we can mend the massive chasm between the left and right.  We must respect each other first.  Remember that the words you type are read by somebody just like you, sitting in front of the screen looking for a connection, trying to sort out something in the midst of work, parenting, homework, hobbies, and a dream of something better.  Be a part of it.  Be a part of making it better, smarter, and more respectful for everybody.

Snapshot of Reality

There was this moment last week when I was unfairly lashing out at Dave for the general feeling of dissatisfaction that intoxicates my days these days.  I spent minutes explaining to him that I’d been on the brink of something, really getting my fingers wrapped around a career finally, not just a job, when I agreed, yes agreed!, to uproot our family and move 350 miles away.  I lamented that my 12 hour days are spent in an intellectual vacuum, wiping noses, stepping on LEGOs, making snacks, meals, snacks, snacks, water with ice, questions why why why?  “I’m so frustrated,” I said.  “This isn’t what I want to do.”

“You’re sick of being a mother,” he said.

The words were a revelation.  No judgment.  No guilt trip.  No “I feel sorry for our kids,” just a simple, “OK” and some solutions, some ways to eke out some satisfaction from my days.  He offered words of encouragement.  Pure love, pure pride in his wife when he pointed out everything that I am, that I forgot I was.

“Label yourself,” he said.

“Wife and mother,” I replied.

“You get up and 5:30 and write for an hour and a half every morning.  You run three times a week.  I'd add writer and athlete.”

I sighed.  I’d chosen to see less in myself.  He reminded me of words of love my friends poured over me at our going-away party.  “You make it better where ever you go,” they’d said.

I started to cry, humbled again by their distant unconditional love.  At once, I felt better.  I keep reminding others that tough times pass, that seasons change, that all the clichés about struggles and challenges are clichés for a reason.  Quick to remind others, slow to remember.  Somehow I’m not allowed to struggle like everyone else?  Absurd!

Really, my life is, in most ways, better than before.  I mentioned that to Dave and he asked, “Most ways?”

“I don’t have my friends here.  They were my support.”  I also don't have a life outside of my family.

So, now comes the next phase of restarting life.  I’ve got car insurance and cable.  I found my local Trader Joe’s and a few good running routes.  The logistics are covered.  The every day is done.  Now, I’ve got to tackle the long term.

My good friend suggested I go on meetup.com to search for groups.  “Ninety percent of the people you’ll meet?  Meh.  But you’ll find some gems.”  I like the idea, but I need more than friends, I think.

Is it awful that, as a stay at home mom, I don’t want to join a dedicated mom’s group?  I cringe at the thought of hanging out with a bunch of moms, talking about motherhood.  The last think that I want is to find common ground around the same subject that is making me crazy!  Realizing that I’m sick of being a stay at home mom explained everything.  I need more than just my kids.  I need more than just my family.  I need my own life again.  I need a life separate from carpools, helping with homework, and making meals.

I may get crucified for saying I’m sick of full-time motherhood.  Judge me, accuse me of being an unfit mother, or tell me I’m simply wrong for feeling this way.  Want to know my reply to anyone who may chide me for my feelings?   Staying at home with kids is the hardest job on the planet.  Waking up every day to demands, questions, more questions, incessant questions, rules, breaking of rules, enforcement of rules, manners, more manners, please sit at the table, nagging, pestering, begging me to play but not that I want to play this, interrupting, not liking breakfast, no I don’t want a peanut butter sandwich for lunch I want grilled cheese no not milk I want water I don’t want an apple I want a peach.  Don’t cut it up!  I’m not cut out for it these days.  I possess neither the patience nor the will.  I’ve been built up too strongly by success in my career to step out of that life without some level of dissatisfaction.  Nobody needs to remind me that raising children is the most important job I’ll ever do.  Please refrain from consoling me with reminders of the positive change I’m affecting through the unconditional love I feel for my kids.  I’ll remind you that we’re not all built the same.  This doesn’t fill me completely.  I don’t feel nearly as alive as I did when I worked a mere 10 hours a week.  That’s it.  Ten hours!  I won't apologize, either.

By itself, motherhood confines me.  I feel limited and unfulfilled.  Doing double, working as a trainer in a kick-ass gym and mothering?  Now that’s what I call satisfied!  Sure my schedule was nuts.  Yes, I felt pressed and stressed sometimes.  But my body, mind, soul, and spirit thrived!  I challenged myself and brought that growth home.  I feel that I was a better mother then than I am now.  I need to get back to that place.  Again, I find myself in the position of trying squeeze in everything I need to do alone into about 6 hours a week.  I feel pressed and stretched and confined and going crazy.  It’s about to change, though.  I feel it.

That’s it.  I’ll break out of this new shell soon enough.  The process just sucks.