On Turning 10

In just a few short days, my Little Man will be turning ten.
The big 1-0.
Double digits.

Nearly a decade ago, my best friend, visiting me from across the country for just for this occasion, drove me to the hospital, ready to feed me ice chips, help me push, hold my hand through surgery, or whatever else I needed as I began this journey of motherhood. A journey I chose to take up on my own, as a ‘single mother by choice.’ A journey full of familiar avenues and unexpected detours, of steeply graded hills and expanses of flat open highways. A journey on a road, perhaps, less traveled by, but undeniably worth every moment thus far.

A decade. A span of time with its own name! Surely this cannot be. We cannot have been together on this earth this long already.

It is the end of an era, special and significant. He will never ever be single digits again. In fact, he will likely spend the entirety of his remaining life in double digits.

‘My next really special number birthday will be if I turn triple digits, Mom!”

Indeed.

I look upon this child that I birthed nearly a decade ago, with more than a little help from medical science and a lot of praying.

I look at his dirty blonde hair and freckle bespeckled nose and dimple dented cheeks to each side of his boyish grin. I look into his big dark blue eyes (that are much too close to being level to my own) and I see the light in him. The kindness and thoughtfulness. The passion and playfulness. My heart swells with pride at all he is and the thought of all he could be. Potential energy, waiting to burst forth in ways I can only imagine.

And at the same time, my heart also aches. For all those things that he will learn about the world, things I wish I could shield him from, but ultimately I simply cannot nor should not. I hope they will not turn him cold and hard and unforgiving. I hope that he will understand the myriad flaws of our world and the people therein and fight where he can to help right the ship.

I hope he remembers that our hearts are big, with a capacity for love and compassion that only GROWS when it is shared. That when we reach out a hand—a hand to hold, a hand to steady, a hand to lift each other up—not everyone will take it. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. Because sometimes the mere act of having reached out to that someone ignites a hope within them. It is so easy to become cynical and bitter. But I hope he never stops reaching out, both to help others and to ask for help of his own.

I wish him a joyous life in double digits, filled with juuuust enough failure and heart ache and struggle to truly appreciate all of his blessings. And to remind him to stand up for those who are not as fortunate as I hope he will be.

So, it is with greatly mixed emotions that I will watch him blow out the candles on his birthday brownie this year. So much to be grateful for in my happy, healthy Little Man. So much to be anxious about (p-u-b-e-r-t-y! egad!!). So much worry and wonder. So much love.

Happy birthday, Little Man. Here’s to many, many more decades to come.

The End of the Innocence

My heart is so heavy from the events of this past week, from the senseless violence that has taken too many lives for no reason. Black men, policemen. None of it makes any damn sense.

Now almost 10, Little Man and I have been discussing race for a while now. As I’ve said before, I have to be careful what I share with him, as takes things hard and holds on to them for a long time. He does not know about Alton Sterling or Philando Castile or Dallas, TX. But he knows there are people who make assumptions and take actions based on race and it literally just does not compute with him.

This past week we were talking and somehow got onto the topic of the KKK. Little Man commented on how horrible they were, then said, ‘well, at least they aren’t around anymore, thank goodness.’

‘Yes, I said, ‘the KKK is indeed still around, along with other hateful groups and people.’

‘But they don’t hurt people, anymore, right? Like physically hurt them?’ And I had to tell him yes, sometimes they do.

‘Really? But they don’t,’ his voice got quiet, ‘they don’t kill people, do they?’ And I had to tell him yes, they sometimes do.

‘But why? Why would you hurt someone like that just because of their skin?’ And he fell silent.

Earlier this summer, we started talking about White Privilege. About how lucky we are to have certain things and how even without us doing anything, we get treated differently because of our skin color.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

As a very basic example, I explained how if we went into a store to look around, we might be greeted and smiled at and welcomed to ask questions if we needed help, while at the very same store, the very same clerk might follow around a person with brown skin and treat them suspiciously, even though they had no reason whatsoever to treat them that way.

We had talked before about how people who actually commit crimes are sometimes treated differently for the same crime and that statistically African Americans are convicted at a higher rate and with greater sentences than white people because of an inherent prejudice in the system.

I explained that even though we don’t ask or expect to be treated differently, we still are.

His brow furrowed as he tried to process information. And then, distraught, he said, ‘I don’t WANT to have privilege! I don’t want people to treat me differently! And I don’t want people to treat people with tan or brown or black skin differently in a bad way.’

Sadly, I said, you can’t ‘give it back’ any more than a person with brown skin can ‘turn off’ how they are treated. What you can do is be aware of it, recognize it, and call it out when you see it. This is how we can start to make a difference.

I look at my son and my heart breaks as these little pieces of innocence chip away.

I look at my son and my heart breaks for the mothers who will never see their sons grow up. Mothers who wonder, each time their child leaves the house, even when they are full grown, if they will return. Because the truth is, in numbers far greater than one can imagine, they do not.

The Hunger Games?

“Mom, I’m starving! When is dinner?” asked the bottomless pit that is my 8 year old son.

Giving an eye-roll to the heavens I replied: “No, you are certainly NOT starving, and thank goodness for that. You may be ready to eat, even a little hungry, but I assure you that you have never been starving, and for that you should be grateful. We are very lucky to have plenty of food to eat. Many people, right in this very town, are not so lucky.”

“Ok, Mom… But, when’s dinner?”

My effort to instill an appropriate level of appreciation for our food security seemed to have been a fail. Sure, we had donated items for various food drives before and had discussions about why we were donating food and how it helped a wide variety of people who for one reason or another were not able to meet their food needs. But now I felt like it was time to take our understanding to another level.

And so began our first experiment. I proposed to my Little Man that in order to have a better understanding of what it was like to not have enough food to eat, we would pick one weekend day and eat normally for breakfast and lunch, but then skip dinner completely. No extra snacks. No big lunch before to lessen the effect. I suggested that he take notes throughout the weekend so he could write about what he experienced afterwards.

Being a fairly compassionate 8 year old, Little Man was completely on board with this project, although his first comment was that we would need to have a ‘feast’ the next morning, which in his world basically means a ‘big’ breakfast (eggs, bacon and toast, etc).

“Oh no,” I said. “People who don’t have food for dinner don’t have food for a big breakfast the next day. Just a regular breakfast for us.”

A bit dubiously, he agreed. Food, after all, is a main focal point of his young life. A little man with a big palate, he enjoys trying different foods, experimenting with combinations, and generally reveling in good quality (and sometimes mediocre quality) grub.

And so, we embarked on this little experiment together. I did not cheat—no midnight snacking for me once he had gone to bed. I stayed true to the intentions of our design, even though he would have been none the wiser if I hadn’t.

As he talked to me about his thoughts and feelings over the two day period, one thing I noted is that he referred several times to “those people.” “Those people who don’t have enough food.” While subtle and unintentional, the distinction bothered me—as if it put a distance between ‘us’ and ‘them.’ We talked about how they are just people, as oppose to those people. People in our own town, in our very own school, even, who don’t have enough food to eat.

We also talked about how this experiment would only give us a very general and basic idea of how it must feel to not have enough food to eat, because we are ‘food secure’: even if we skip a meal, we know we are going to come downstairs in the morning to a house well stocked with a wide variety of food. People who have food insecurity not only may not have dinner, but may not know if or when they will have breakfast. Or lunch.
Ultimately, our experiment led to a little better understanding and a little more gratitude for what we are lucky enough to have. And we have stricken the phrase “I’m starving” from the vocabulary.

A few weeks later, however we had a tiff over tomatoes.

Little Man, as I mentioned, is certainly not a picky eater by any means, but he is still 8, and sometimes his taste buds will turn on a dime. Witness the case of the cherry tomatoes. While cleaning out his lunch box after school, I noticed that 1/2 the cherry tomatoes I’d sent for his lunch that day had come back home.

“Why did you not eat your tomatoes?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t really like them. And the teacher at lunch told me I should bring them home instead of wasting them by throwing them away.”

“What do you mean you don’t really like them? I just bought them 2 days ago. You picked them out!”

Yes, he told me, but they just didn’t taste that great to him, and he didn’t care for them anymore. I assured him that his teacher was absolutely right to tell him not to waste them. However, my son is a strep carrier, and after having caught strep from him 3 times in the last year, I was not inclined to eat his leftovers that he brought home from the cafeteria, and since he didn’t want to eat them either, we had a bit of a problem.

It is all well and good if you decide you don’t like something, but I JUST bought them and only because those were the ones he asked for. The time to tell me that he wasn’t too keen on them anymore would have been BEFORE I rang them up at the store.

Consequently, I had him go up to his spending money bank and bring me $2, the price for half the container of tomatoes. Since I would eat the rest of them, I thought it fair that he pay for half of them, since he was the reason I bought them in the first place. He agreed that this was a fair conclusion.

He handed me the money, and I was going to just put it in my wallet, when an idea came to me. Rummaging around in the closet, I found an empty canister. I took Little Man’s $2 and put it inside and told him that this was going to be our Food Pantry jar. We would start it with his money and we would then donate it to the local food pantry or use it to buy items that they need and donate them. In addition, since Little Man likes dining out so much, any time we went to a restaurant, we would add a dollar to the jar to show our gratitude for being able to go out to eat.

Just today, I saw a notice from the food pantry in our town indicating that they were low on specific items and listing what they needed. So I went to our jar and counted $10, which we will be using this weekend to purchase needed items and drop them off with the town.

It may not be much, but every little bit helps.

Snow Day Moms

Blessed are the Snow Day Moms:

Who are grateful to have the time to take off work to make it to early dismissal, although they did have other plans for that vacation leave that did not involve being shut up in the house for an indeterminate amount of time under questionable conditions.

Who remain patient as they listen to their beloved children, who are so wound up from the weather, no recess, shoveling down their lunch in 15 minutes, that they have been talking NON-STOP since they crossed out of the school threshold, like a Starbucks virgin on a double-double espresso.

Who negotiate precarious roads while said children (who have just shoveled down their 15 minute lunch immediately prior to pickup) wonder aloud at 1 PM when snack will be and what’s for dinner.

Who brave the grocery store aisles to ensure there is milk for hot cocoa, eggs for baked goods, and bread as a backup plan, among other staples and food stuffs, waiting longer in the checkout line that it took to gather said supplies in the first place.

Who fervently pray that the power does not go out, which would, among other things, place said supplies in peril.

Whose ingenuity is tested, when the power does go out, to create a nutritious meal from a multitude of random frozen and refrigerated ingredients, so as not to waste said supplies.

Who sorely wish they’d remembered to hit the liquor store, too.

Who remind their children throughout the day of the 101 toys and games at their disposal when they sit staring blankly at them wondering what they should do next.

Who make a valiant effort to keep screen time to a minimum…or at least not an all-day event.

Who pull wet gloves from pockets, wet socks from boots, and wet boots from the hard wood floors, ensuring that they thoroughly dry out and are ready for future use.

Who use their day not only to clear the snow that so graciously made this day possible, but to clean, organize, catch up on that extra load of laundry, and tend to all manner of other household chores that slipped through the cracks over the weekend.

Who try very hard not to curse the snow plow driver who ALWAYS comes by just as she’s opening the screen door to go inside, no matter when she started or how late she finished.

Who put their children to bed at their scheduled time, assuring them that they can’t stay up late banking on the hope that they will have tomorrow off, too.

 Who go back out in their jammies and boots at 10 PM to clear off that evening flurry… and the sludgy cement left behind at the bottom of the driveway after the snow plow snuck by one last time.

Who play the odds of prepping tomorrow’s lunch box lunch tonight.

Blessed are the Snow Day Moms (and Dads!) who will not inherit the earth.  And that’s OK, because they’ve sorta got their hands full as it is.

Runner’s Redress…and Resolutions

When I was in high school, all the freshmen had to take some sort of P.E. class. It didn’t matter what it was, you just had to take SOMEthing. Being new to the school (the city, the state, the time zone…) and less than “athletically” inclined, I tried to pick something somewhat non-threatening that I thought I could muddle through relatively unscathed. I picked tennis. Unfortunately, the only tennis class that fit into my schedule was first period. Really?

Now, anyone who’s ever been a teenager (particularly a teenage girl) can tell you that having P.E. first thing in the morning and then having to go through the whole rest of the school day thereafter is not a good combination. I tried very hard not to sweat. Ever. Because the 5 minutes you got at the end of class to change clothes and “shower” could not possible cut it.  Who were they kidding?  This was the 80’s, man! In Texas! It would take me 5 minutes just to Aquanet my hair. No, there would be no showering, and therefore no sweating, but plenty of extra deodorant (just in case).

Tennis was a challenge to me on many levels, but the class, overall, turned out OK. Our teacher, Mrs. Brown, was patient and kind, and tried her best to encourage even the least skilled of us towards improvement.  I met one of my best friends in that class, along with my other best friend’s brother (and his best buddy), with whom I am still friends to this day. I even picked up a few (minor) tennis skills.

But the class also had a deep, dark downside that hung over my head like that squiggly little cloud Pig Pen has in the Peanuts® comics.  And its name was “The Presidential Fitness Test.”

While I’ve tried to block it out of my mind, as I recall the ‘test’ required us to do a certain number of sit ups and pull ups in a specified period of time, and to run a 12 minute mile. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but to an athletically challenged 14 year old girl who was all about that bass before Meghan Trainor was even born, it was a nightmare.

Certain days were set aside throughout the year for us to work towards these fitness goals with the hope that come Spring, we would be able to ‘pass’ the test. My equally unathletic best friend and I would struggle through as best we could, agreeing that the president ought to have better things to do than torture high school students who were yet too young to vote.

There was a boy in our class, whose name I HAVE successfully blocked from my memory, who was not much help.  His idea of encouragement was to yell harassing taunts at us, as we crept by on our way round the track, about how slow and pitiful we were, as well as all manor of creatures who could move faster than us and how we were just generally pathetic. He did this, of course, out of earshot of our teacher, who clearly would not have stood for such nonsense had she known, but to whom we never mentioned it due to the simple fact that we were mortified by the entire affair.

In the end, I did some sit ups, maybe two pull ups (may-be), and I think we eventually ran a 15-ish minute mile. In theory, I think the idea of the test was to motivate us to reach a higher level of physical fitness. In practice, it proved only to knock another peg out from under my already abysmally low teenage self esteem.

Unlike his mother was, my eight year old son is quite active in a variety of sports, so this Fall when he decided to join the Running Club at his elementary school, I wanted to show my support in a meaningful way. Besides providing a way for the kids to be more active, a major goal of the club was to have the kids participate in one of the local running events at the end of term. This included a ½ mile or 1 mile kids run and a 5K race. Before I could stop myself, I was suggesting to my son that we run the 5K together.

Wait, what?

‘How far is a 5K?’ he asked. Good question! (how could I not know this information before making such a suggestion?) We Googled it: 3.1 miles. (Slight waiver in my resolve). He was doubtful. But I pressed forward: the walks we go on in our neighborhood in the summer are about one and a half miles—heck, we’re almost halfway there! (who WAS this person talking?!).

Ultimately, we agreed that he would start Running Club and I would start training and we’d check in with each other in about a month and see how we were feeling. If all was going well, we’d sign up for the race on Dec. 7

As you now know, I didn’t exactly have a stunning ‘track’ record with running. In short, once I survived PE, I did not run. Did. Not. Run. In fact, I used to jokingly tell people that if you EVER see me running, I suggest you get up and start running too, because either my ass is, literally, on fire (in which case I should NOT be running, but doing the stop, drop and roll) or I am being chased by a large and hungry wild carnivore. Yet, here I was, printing out the Couch to 5K program, counting the weeks and making sure I had enough ‘squoosh’ room to meet my training goal. I’d been going to the gym for a little over a year, so it wasn’t like I was entirely inactive, but still. 3.1 miles? Hmmm.

Everything’s great when you’re starting out alternating running 90 seconds and walking 60 seconds for 15 minutes. I began obsessing about training, making sure I ran 3 times a week. Looking over the course for the race. Looking at times from last year’s participants. We discovered that last year an 80+ year old woman ran the race in 45:08. Our goal became ‘beat the old lady’s time’ (said with all due reverence to this woman, whomever she was—I was thoroughly impressed by her!). We were both feeling good. About 2/3 through the training program, I was thinking, ‘I might really be able to run this whole thing!’

Until I got to the week that said ‘run for 25 minutes without stopping.’ That was the first week I did not meet the training goal for the first day. Doubts surfaced. Self-esteem swayed precariously in the wind. I pretty much convinced myself I could not run 3.1 miles without stopping. I could finish, yes. Run the whole thing? Doubtful. I was disappointed in myself. Disappointed that I was going to let my son down. But I kept training all the same.

By the time we got to race day, I still hadn’t run 3.1 miles; the furthest I’d gone was 2.75. It was a sunny but cold day with an icy wind and I was sure I was going to crap out somewhere in the middle of the run.

We were surprised how fast we came up on the first mile, and by the time we rounded the course and hit the second mile, we were beginning to think that we might possibly actually make it. As we neared the finish, the capital city looming in the distance, we were cheering each other on—we were going to make it! We sprinted across the finish line, high-fived Santa, and immediately sought out the hot chocolate and Christmas cookies that were promised at the end of the race.

I finished in 40:31, my son finishing 2 seconds ahead of me. My pace was 13:01. Holy crap! Did I really run faster and farther at 43 years old than I did at 14? No WAY. Fourteen year old me felt totally vindicated. Can I get a ‘hell yeah!’

We both felt great after the race and had already decided we wanted to do another one (perhaps in warmer weather next time). Our goal is to finish under 40 minutes, which would put me under a 13 minute pace. Not quite presidentially fit, but slowly edging closer…

So, what’ve these two long stories got to do with resolutions, you ask?  The answer is this:

At 43 years old, I tried something I have never done before. Never imagined I could accomplish. Never even occurred to me to try. Something I told myself I could not do.

And it made me think that I ought to do that more often. Put myself out there and just give more things a go. So instead of some random specific goal, I resolve to live bigger and bolder in 2015, whatever that comes to mean. Whatever that turns out to be may not appear particularly big or bold to the outside observer. But to me? I want to see me be brave!

 

 

 

Are there any eggs left in Fargo, North Dakota?

Here we are on November 1, the day after Halloween, when the candy is marked down 30% and Target has swiftly replaced the plastic pumpkins and fake blood with the twinkling lights of Christmas (what? There’s another holiday somewhere in between? To hell, you say!).

The day after a woman in Fargo, North Dakota claimed she was going to give the sturdier trick or treaters who showed up at her door the sweet treat of shame and self loathing, with a healthy dose of parental chastisement. And I’ve been wondering all day, if this lady was truly legit, just how many square inches of her property are NOT covered in TP?

If you haven’t heard the story, and at this point you have most likely been living under a rock if you haven’t, you can find one of the many retellings of it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/30/fat-letters-halloween_n_4177341.html . Basically, a woman wanting to take a stand against childhood obesity claimed that on Halloween this year, she would not pass out candy to children that she deemed to be “moderately obese” (through the apparent use of her bionic eye that instantly calculates BMI from a momentary glance). Instead, THOSE children would receive a snappily crafted letter of good intent informing said child’s parents of her assessment of their irresponsible behavior for allowing their chunky kiddo to be out “looking for free candy just ‘cause other kids are doing it.” She states that she’s looking to send said Mommies and Daddies a message in hopes that they’ll parent-up (my term) “and ration candy this Halloween and not allow your child to continue these unhealthy eating habits.”

She is doing this, she claims in her letter, because it ‘takes a village’ to raise children and she is just trying to do her part. I’m sure you can imagine the ‘village idiot’ comments that followed the story.

Let’s assume for a moment (perhaps a rather large assumption) that this woman is, in fact legitimate, and does have a genuine concern for the children’s health in her community. The truth is not only childhood obesity, but adult obesity as well, are a major concern in our society right now. According to the CDC comments in the article mentioned here, childhood obesity has more than doubled in the past 30 years, bringing with it all its physical and mental health related issues.  That’s the real deal and something we all should be concerned about.

I don’t think there are many people in the U.S. that would deny there’s a problem here. But Fargo Lady’s solution is flawed from the beginning. First of all, why is it ok for kids who don’t LOOK ‘moderately obese’ to be allowed to “consum[e] sugar and treats to the extent of some children this Halloween season”? If she is really concerned about childhood obesity, then shouldn’t she not hand out candy to ANY children? Why assume that children who are not currently showing outward signs of obesity have ‘healthy eating habits’?

Several people have suggested she give out healthy snacks, stickers, pencils, quarters, toothbrushes, etc. or simply turn off her light and not give out anything at all.  Each of these would support her position of taking a stand against obesity while being inclusive of all children who came to her door.

If Fargo Lady really cares about childhood obesity, she needs to do her research, which shows that shaming children about their weight actually has the opposite effect (see article) and can increase their obesity risk.  If she really cares about childhood obesity and wants to be part of her village, perhaps she could consider volunteering at her local Y or Boys and Girls Club to organize fitness activities, healthy food tastings, parent and child cooking classes, nutritional classes, etc.  There are so many positive ways to support all children and help them make changes that could last a lifetime.

May people have commented on this story that they use Halloween as a learning tool to teach lessons about moderation, portion, and nutrition in a kid friendly way that still allows their children to have treats but understand why gorging is a bad choice for many different reasons and that treats are just that.

Until my son was 5 years old, I did not let him have any candy at all.  He is in no way considered obese and had no health problems and I want to keep it that way.  We had occasional treats that were high quality and few and far between, but no candy. He would dress up for Halloween every year, but we didn’t go out trick or treating.  And I didn’t give out candy, because I thought, how can I justify giving stuff out to other kids that I won’t let my own kid have?  So instead he would dress up and we’d go do something fun and then go out to eat (not fast food) and have a yummy dinner that we both enjoyed. We still do that—Halloween dinner is our family tradition. In recent years, I’ve allowed some occasional chocolates.

Now 7, this was the first year we went out to trick or treat.  We only went to one place: our local high school that was doing an indoor trick or treat charity event. He got plenty of candy (enough to last at least a month or more at a piece a day) and even offered to share with me. I told him I would buy from him any candy that he wasn’t allowed to have and he could put that money in his savings bank to spend on what he wants (with Mom approval!). He was happy as a clam.

As to Fargo Lady and her plans, I don’t really understand how she’s going to ‘deem’ children ‘moderately obese’ simply by looking at them, in costume, no less. Clearly there are some people you can look at and see that they are heavier than others, but where is that line? Is she going to hide a scale in her porch steps.  Shall the children fill out a height/weight chart prior to ringing the doorbell? Perhaps they should have a note from their doctor stating that they are healthy enough for trick or treating activity.

Because the truth is, you don’t know what’s going on with that kid in front of you.  What medication she’s on, what illness he has.  Perhaps this is the one night she gets to go out with her friends and feel like a ‘normal’ kid. Perhaps he’s recovering from an injury. I am not making excuses, just indicating that there are a lot of factors that can’t be taken into consideration with a quick glance in the dark.

Can you imagine being six, seven, ten, twelve years old, going up to someone’s door with three or four of your friends or neighbors and each of them receives a candy except you? Wow.  I WAS that ‘moderately obese’ child.  And I would have gone home and cried myself to sleep.

There’s a better way.  I hope Fargo Lady found it.

Because I’ve gotta be honest.  If that were MY kid who came home with tears in his eyes and a note such as hers in his hand, I’d be makin’ a trip to the local Quicky Mart for a dozen large whites and some Angel Soft. It would be totally wrong of me, but I wouldn’t care. I would be taking a stand against bullying in my village. Perhaps I’d even leave her a snappily worded letter of good intent.

 

You Say It’s Your Birthday? It’s My Birthday, Too!

Today was my birthday (gooooo, Geminis!). I look forward to it every year.  Conveniently situated in the calendar at the halfway mark to Christmas, as a child I felt June was the perfectly timed birthday month to spread out annual gift giving. Funny that while I’ve always thought of myself as a summer baby, probably because we were always out of school before my birthday rolled around (the only drawback to the mid-June b-day—no classroom cupcakes on my special day!),  I am technically a spring baby, as the official start of summer is still 2 days away.

Birthdays in my house didn’t involve annual blowout parties with lots of guests, games and goodie bags—in fact, I only had a couple of “friend” parties growing up. But we always had a family celebration filled with lots of love (and usually quite a bit of humidity—it was Jersey in June, mind you).

Now, I am all grown up, and my birthday still means a lot to me. It really aggravates me when people imply that adults should not make a big deal about their birthday. Like you’re somehow being childish if you want to acknowledge your special day. Or to even think about it as a special day.  That you want to celebrate the mingling of your parental gene pool. That you want to acknowledge the hard work your momma went through growing you in her body and then popping you out by whatever means necessary.

Apparently after 21, you’re only allowed to acknowledge your “big” b-days: 30, 40, 50, etc. and then your supposed to be all sad about them and are allowed to have people celebrate with you in an effort to cheer you up and make you feel better about still being alive.

Hey, I survived another year on this planet, dammit! I gained strength and knowledge.  I endured.

Hopefully, I made an impact.  Perhaps just a small one: a random act of kindness, a smile, a thoughtful word that made someone else’s day jut a bit brighter, if only for a moment. Perhaps something more.

My birthday is a reminder that I exist. That I have potential. That there is more of me yet to come.  How much more?  Who can say? But I embrace this reminder of my birth and take joy in it. I am here!

So, I sit before you, writing the lines, and I am not ashamed to say that it made my heart smile today each time my FB notification dinged to tell me another of my friends wished me a happy day.

It was a beautiful day filled with lots of love.  And I enjoyed it!

Unopened Presents on Christmas Day

Lately there seems to have been an overabundance of violent outbursts across the country. At a time of year when we sing about peace on earth and good will towards man, man seems to be taking up arms in very public places and at the cost of many lives.  I have watched these stories, saddened by the events happening hundreds, even thousands of miles from me, with a heavy heart for those people so very far away.

And then, suddenly, it was not so far away.

Then, on Friday, it was here in the state I now call home. Here on my doorstep. Not hundreds of miles away, but a mere 50.

I could not process it all.  I knew I could not watch it.  It was 9/11 all over again—no new information, so they just kept repeating the same thing for hours and hours, showing the plane crash into the tower again and again and again.  I could not bear it. Thinking of the school, the children, the teachers, the parents, I would well up with tears, then bring myself back in control.  I had to finish my work day.  I had to get to my own son. I felt a sudden burning need to see him immediately, to make sure he was safe and to protect him from the knowledge of this terrible event.

As I began to gather information, mostly from reading updates on the internet, I felt as though I were being hit by massive waves crashing against me.  Body blows. Punches to the gut.

The first was the report I read was about the 1^st grade teacher that locked herself in the bathroom with her class (http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-teacher-refused-unlock-door-police-fearing-gunmans/story?id=17976299#.UMzevoXN5DK). She kept them calm as she listened to the gunfire, certain that they were going to die. She told them that she loved them and was happy that they were her students.  She told them that it would be okay, because she “wanted that to be the last thing they heard, not the gunfire in the hall.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table when I read this, my own son safely tucked in his bed.  I put my head down on the table and wept.  I could not help it. It gushed from me, along with an agonized, strangled sort of moan. My son is in first grade. I was struck to the core.

When the police came and knocked on the door, she made them show their badges under the door, fearing it was the gunman trying to trick them into coming out. Then she told them if they were really the police they would be able to get the key. Only when they did so did she trust it was really “the good guys.” My tears came for so many reasons, but mostly from the genuine love she had shown for her children, not only making every effort to keep them safe physically, but to ease them mentally and to make what she thought were to be their last moments full of all the love she could give them.

The second was a television story late that evening, which I caught just as I was turning off the TV to get ready for bed. They talked about the hospital staff who had been notified of a shooting at an elementary school and had been placed on high alert, anticipating mass casualties.  About 80 or so medical staff prepared themselves for an onslaught of children and adults in need of urgent care.  Three vicitms came.  ‘Where are the others?’ they wondered out loud. The response came: there are no others. ‘But we heard that over 20 people were shot.’  Again came the response: there are no others.  And then it began to sink in to these skilled professionals that their skills in this instance would no longer be required.  There was no one else left to save. The sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. Again, I wept.  The thought of first responders, ready to spring into action with life saving measures, and the site that they came upon.  The doctors and nurses waiting with open arms, only to find empty beds. I cannot fathom it. I could not take any more that day.

More detailed stories came out on Saturday, and a new round of shocks struck me:

–Another first grade teacher, who hid her children in closets and cabinets, told the gunman she faced that her class was in the gym; she was shot and killed, but saved the lives of the children in her class (http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/newtown-teacher-vicki-soto-remembered-article-1.1221004)

–The principal and school psychologist, who ran towards the gunfire, trying unsuccessfully to stop the gunman, losing their lives in the process (http://www.nbcconnecticut.com/news/local/NATL-Principal-of-Sandy-Hook-Elementary-Remembered-for-Her-Dedication-Commitment–183634591.html)

–The lead teacher who, having no lock on the door, threw herself against it and was shot through the door in the arm and leg (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/14/newtown-elementary-therap_n_2303739.html)

Again came the tears. I’m sure there are more such stories, but I cannot process any more right now.  It is just too much.

I have always had a great deal of respect for teachers, and was a classroom teacher myself briefly, back when I was young and fresh out of college.  It is an amazing, challenging, rewarding, frustrating job. The teachers at my son’s elementary school, like so many teachers across the country, are remarkable individuals.  I would never ask nor expect them to literally put their lives on the line for my child. Yet, I have a feeling that in such a situation, they would do just that.  They are passionate, caring, dedicated professionals who truly love our children.

So many people wonder, as I do myself, what we can do for this school, these people, these families. I ask you to please remember these people and honor them.  And the next time you hear someone talking about how teachers are overpaid, glorified babysitters and how they have it so easy with their summers ‘off’ and ‘short’ days, remind them. Remind them.  Those teachers who have by the grace of God never faced such circumstances are, still, everyday heroes that inspire our children, and us. So I am going to remember those lost on Friday and honor their memory by honoring the teachers in my life.

This is what else I’m going to do:

This year I am adding two presents under my tree: a new tradition.

Something about the thought of unopened presents under the Christmas trees of 20 little boys and girls struck a chord. It conjured in my mind with painful resonance the image of Tiny Tim’s crutch, sitting alone in the corner and without an owner.

And so, I will wrap a box this Christmas with a tight little bow.  A box not meant to be opened. I will use it to remind me of those we have lost, those who will not get to open gifts this year.  I will use it to remind me how luck we are to be together.

Another box, decorated with shiny paper and a pretty ribbon, will be opened. But will be empty. This box serves to remind me of the many gifts that we can give that cannot be bought. Gifts like love, kindness, friendship, laughter, compassion. Gifts we should share with one another every single day.

I hope these presents will help me remember and honor those who were lost, as well as to celebrate the sharing of unseen gifts on Christmas and always.

I know, it sounds a bit corny.  It probably is. But it is what works for me right now. It’s a way for me to make sense of such senselessness, to think through the unthinkable, to give some semblance of order to the chaos. Right now, corny is the best I can do.

Unusually Thankful

On this Black Friday, where we celebrate the start of the holiday season by getting up too early (or never going to bed at all) to fight with throngs of people ready to trample you for a chance to pay $6 for the latest, greatest most popular thing that they will all have forgotten that they bought 6 months from now, I choose the road less often taken. Comfy cozy in my bed at 9AM with the sun streaming through my window and my son enthralled in PBS Kids, I continue to contemplate the amazing bounty that life has to offer.

Today, I take a moment to give thanks from a different angle for some of the less attractive things in my life.

I am grateful for my entryway halls, so sadly pocked, in desperate need for many years of a skim coat and paint job at the very least, though more likely a gutting and fresh drywall (why, why did I listen to the guy at Sherwin Williams who assured me that I should try to pull down the wallpaper instead of just painting over it??).  Truth be told, These walls are somewhat of an embarrassment and I fight the urge to blindfold guests as they enter, guiding them instead to a quick right into the living room.

Yet these walls remind me that, although in need of some cosmetic surgery, my house is still standing neigh on 90 years while many others are not.  I am grateful that they continue to echo the laughter and love that make our house a home and that we have a home to come to each night.

I am grateful for my big, fat German American thighs. Though they could certainly stand to be much less big and fat (a project that I perpetually work on, to somewhat limited success and inevitable backsliding), they remind me of how luck I am live in a country with access to such a bountiful food supply and the means with which to access it. They also remind me to give as generously as I am able to those who are not so fortunate.  Having been a poor grad student to whom a package of hotdogs represented my month’s worth of meat, I have not forgotten how it feels to be unable to afford sufficient nutrition.

I am grateful for Little Man’s seasonally more frequent massive nosebleeds.  They are somewhat scary and unenjoyable for both Little Man and me and they make my heart hurt because there is nothing I can do for him but sit and offer comfort and wait for them to stop.  But they are also a great example of “if this is the worst thing that happens today, we are doing alright.”  They remind me that my son is otherwise incredibly healthy and happy with an unusually strong constitution.  Strong like bull (bull with exceptionally thin nasal membranes).

I am grateful for property taxes, although I admit to sucking in quite a bit of air each time I open my annual car tax bill (my house tax being paid through the escrow account of my mortgage is somewhat less painful to experience as I don’t ‘see’ it so up close and personal). In addition to reminding me that I am fortunate enough to own property (much like playing Monopoly with Little Man), I am blessed to live in a town whose tax money supports a truly exception public education system, as well as robust town services. We are not one of those fancy pants rich school districts just rolling in the dough, but we do alright and the importance placed on providing educational excellence is downright impressive. I am thankful every day for the amazing teachers and administrators at my son’s school whose knowledge, dedication and genuine caring help to guide my future citizen.

It is so easy, as we get back to the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, to mumble and grumble for all the things we want and all the things we wish were different.  But as my Little Man climbs into bed with me this Friday after Thanksgiving for snuggles and tickles, I try not to forget to give thanks for all we have, for all we are, for all we have the potential to be, both for ourselves and others.

Wishing you a holiday season overflowing with reminders of your own blessings in unexpected places.

A Heartfelt Halloween

So, I don’t let Little Man eat candy, but I wanted him to be able to go trick or treating since he’s never gone before (last year Halloween was cancelled by the big northeast Halloween snowstorm).  Our local high school was having an event this evening that I thought would be perfect—inside, safe, and early in the evening on a school night. I made a deal with him that him that he could go to the high school to trick or treat and then I would buy his candy from him and he could put the money in his banks for something later.  He said that was a great idea!

Today, I pick him up from school and talk about going home and getting changed into his costume (a police officer) so we can go to the high school, and then I thought we would go out to dinner, which Little Man views as a treat in and of itself.

He says, “fine,” and seems to be looking out the car window despondently. I tell him we don’t have to go tonight if he doesn’t want to and we can wait and go a different night.

“No, I want to go out to dinner.  That’s not why I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Well, I really don’t want to go trick or treating at the high school.”

“You don’t?

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”  I go through a huge list of every possible thing I could think of that would have made him change his mind about going: Would you rather go out in the neighborhood?  Are you afraid it will be scary? Are you afraid because you’ve never been there before? Are you worried Mommy won’t be able to go around with you? Did someone at school say something that would make you not want to go? I get a “no” to every one.

“Are you sad because you don’t get to keep your candy and you want to?”

“No, Mommy, I don’t want any candy.  And I don’t want any money. I already have everything I need; I don’t need anything else. I’m just being honest.” He could not have been more sincere.

Are you kidding me? I pushed him on it a few more times—are you sure somebody didn’t say anything to you?  Are you sure you’re not scared or worried about something?  Are you sure you don’t want to go—there’s still 45 minutes! Nope.

You know you can tell Mommy anything, right?  Yes.  On this point, he made a “thumb swear,” which is apparently a binding contract that cannot be broken (I know he hasn’t read Harry Potter yet, so I’m not sure where that came from). He swore that even if he thought something would make me sad or mad, he could tell me anything.

He was simply happy to pick the restaurant and go out to dinner, in his costume.

Have I mentioned lately that he’s six?? This kid is killing me.  I was absolutely on the verge of tears. After the past few days with the crazy weather, the worrying about us and friends and family, the total destruction of places that I once knew, these are the moments that I have to cling to.

I do not know what planet Little Man is from, but I sure am happy that he found his way into my life. And my heart.

Happy Halloween  🙂