The Reluctant Carnivore

One of the best parts of being a parent is sitting back and watching your child figure it all out. In starts and spurts, they begin to muddle through those murky questions of life: Who am I? What do I stand for? What are my priorities?

My Little Man has pretty much always been a champion of civil rights and social equality, wondering with utter frustration what the big deal is about differences in race, religion, gender, and sexual orientation. His go-to question is ‘who cares?’ As in, why treat people any differently because of these things—who cares? We’re all just people, right?

More recently he’s been cultivating a greater concern for animals, as well. Big game hunting, killing merely for sport or specifically for horns, hooves, etc. gets under his skin. ‘That’s just wrong,’ he tells me. I agree.

And so, it was no great surprise to me when the topic of vegetarianism came up at the dinner table last month:

Little Man: Mom, I might want to be a vegetarian one day, because I’m not sure I like eating animals.

Me: Well, that is certainly a decision you could make. There are lots of people who are vegetarians.

Little Man: So…are there some vegetarians who eat just one kind of meat?

Me: Well, there are all different kinds. Vegans don’t eat any type of animal product, including eggs and milk products. Some vegetarians do eat eggs and dairy. Some are mostly vegetarian but will eat fish. Or chicken. Just depends on what type they are and why they are a vegetarian (or mostly vegetarian).

Little Man: Oh. Because I would want to eat bacon. I love bacon. I’m not sure I could give that up.

Me: You know bacon comes from a pig, right?

Little Man: Yeah. But, it’s so good. Can I be a vegetarian who eats bacon?

And there it was. The main thing standing between the 8 year old and a decision to ‘go green’: bacon.

I, for one, would have to agree that if you’re going to question your morals over a meat product, bacon is clearly the best choice. Arguably, there is little in the culinary world that is simply not better with bacon.

A few days later came the follow-up question:

“If I’m a vegetarian, can I still eat pizza?”

To his great relief, I assured him that pizza was, in fact, still ‘on the table.’ As long as no meat was involved, he was good to go (although I did remind him that if he chose to be vegan, he’d have to alter things up a bit).

Having pizza on his side seemed to give him something to chew on as he continued to contemplate his potential herbivor-ious future. But still there was the pressing problem. The problem of bacon.

A week or so later, he came up with this little beauty:

“Mom, is it possible, for pork products for example, to just take the skin or something off, but still keep the animal alive?”

Ummmmm….no.

Firstly, I explained, bacon doesn’t come from the skin of a pig and secondly, there is no animal I can think of for which you can take some of the meat of the animal and yet keep the animal alive. Sadly, it just doesn’t work that way.

Although, truth be told, if there is anyone who is motivated to figure out a way to bring home the bacon while keeping the pig alive and well down on the farm, it is my son.

‘Oh,’ he said and was silent on the subject, off to think through it some more.

I have to tell you, it was a challenge keeping a straight face on this last query. For, while the image of a skinless pig running around the farmyard is utterly disturbing, I found the question itself highly amusing. It was almost as if I could SEE the wheels turning in his head trying to reconcile his love of bacon with his concern for animals. The internal struggle. The moral dilemma. Trying to find a satisfactory compromise. I love that he is still thinking it through, mulling it over, deciding what is most important to him and why.

Who knows how long it will take him to decide, or how many times he will change his mind in the process. It matters not to me. For, in the end, it is the journey that I admire the most.

And the bacon. 😉

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.

The Death of the Tooth Fairy

It all began innocently enough: we went out to eat, Little Man, my Mom and me, on the day after my birthday. After chowing down for a bit, Little Man began to fiddle in earnest with his loose tooth– #8, the last one he would lose for a few years. It had been loose for a while, slowly working its way free of the root, and I could see it was now hanging by a biological thread. Hoping to keep him from swallowing the darn thing (not EVEN going there!), I whisked him off to the restaurant bathroom where he successfully pulled it out all by himself. We wrapped it in a napkin and I tucked it away in my pocket to keep it safe. Returning to the table, he proudly gave Grandma a bright, gap-toothed grin. All was right with the world.

Getting ready for bed that night, Little Man wrote his note to the Tooth Fairy and told me not to forget to tape the tooth on to it, then ran upstairs to brush his remaining choppers. I followed his instructions and laid the Scotch tape encase parcel to rest on his dresser.

Then, as we snuggled up to say our goodnights: “Mom,” he said, in his angel sweet voice, “are you the Tooth Fairy?”

And there it was.

I lay there a minute, looking blankly into his adorable almost 8-year old face. Did he really just ask me if I was the Tooth Fairy? Seriously?

I tried to pretend that I didn’t hear him: “Time for bed now.”

“But Mom, you didn’t answer me.”

Playing dumb: “Answer what, honey?”

“Are you the Tooth Fairy?”

Dang it! That didn’t work!

Psychology: “Do you think I’m the Tooth Fairy?”

“Are you?”

Pressing the question: “What do you think?”

“Yes and no.”

Reprieve? “Why yes?” And why no?

“Well, yes because you always know when I lose a tooth, and you are very quiet, so I wouldn’t hear you come in my room. And you can type, so you could type the notes the Tooth Fairy leaves. Oh, and you have fancy scissors, too, like the Tooth Fairy uses on her notes.”

Wow, some serious logic at work there. I try not to react. “Ok. Why no?”

“Because maybe there is a Tooth Fairy.”

Avoidance: “Maybe there is.”

“So are you?”

“Am I what?”

“The Tooth Fairy! Mom, please. I really want to know. Are you?”

“What if I am?”

“If you are, then I will no longer believe in any mythical creatures. And if not, I will still continue to believe in some mythical creatures.”

It was at this point that I began to giggle. Not because what he said was funny; although the way he said it was somewhat amusing, I found his words quite sweet and yet heartbreaking at the same time. Instead, it was that nervous laugh you sometimes get, bordering on hysterics. When you literally don’t to whether to laugh or cry. It’s a 50-50 shot either way.

I looked into his face, half hidden in the shadows of the falling sun peeping through his window. He would not let it go. And I did not want to answer. I am not entirely sure why I was so adamant about withholding this information. I was hoping the questions would just go away, like a random pain in your side. But I knew they wouldn’t.

Finally, I managed to pull myself together: “Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know. I won’t tell anyone if you are. For real. It will be our secret.”

“So then why does it matter?”

“Because I want to solve the mystery, the mystery of the Tooth Fairy. If it’s you, then I’ve solved it. And if it’s not, I can cross you off my suspect list.”

Well, that made me laugh outright. His ‘suspect’ list? What, now I’m on CSI??

“Please, Mom, PLEASE! It’s ok if you are. I just want to know.”

We went on like this for a little while longer. For some reason, I just could not say it. I had to put him off for one more day. I told him that we were both tired and it was past bedtime. I told him to go to bed and ask me again tomorrow if he still wanted to know.

It was the Meatloaf response: Sleep on it, and I’ll give you my answer in the morning.

He looked at me through sleepy eyes. “Will you tell me the truth?”

“If I answer the question, I will answer it truthfully.”

Later that night, when I was quite sure he was asleep, I crept into his room to remove his note and tooth, trading his pint sized printing for the Tooth Fairy’s fancy font. Then I snuck back downstairs to contemplate the next morning’s query that I knew would come.

I would not lie to him. I had hesitated in the first place when venturing into ‘mythical creatures’ like the Tooth Fairy and Santa, as I knew the day would eventually come when the myth would be revealed. I have always encouraged my Little Man to think what he wants to think and believe what he wants to believe, and to be content to let others do the same. There’s a part of me that is actually surprised that it took him this long to figure it out, as his mind moves at a lightning speed. Maybe he had figured it out long ago and just recently summoned the courage to ask the question, the type of question that you are not sure you want the answer to. But an answer he was obviously ready to hear, even if I was not yet ready to speak it.

The next morning, he came bounding into my room, note and silver dollar in hand.

“So are you?”

“Well, good morning to you, too.”

“Sorry, Mom! Good morning. So are you the Tooth Fairy?”

Sigh. “I don’t know about THE Tooth Fairy. But I am YOUR Tooth Fairy.” There. I said it. Out loud. A little icy stab to my heart as a bit of his childhood fell away. I hugged him tight and swallowed hard around the knot in my throat.

Was he broken up about it? Hardly.

A big smile spread across his face: “I thought so! But I wasn’t totally sure. It’s OK, Mom. I won’t tell anybody else,” he said quietly, pleased to be sharing a confidence. “I do have a question, though. Where do you get all those silver dollars?”

Big hugs and kisses all around. He read over the note I left him once more, then hopped out of bed and ran off to put his loot in his piggy bank. Hesitating for a moment in the doorway, he looked back at me and smiled again.

“Oh, and Mom. Thanks for telling me the truth.” 🙂

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.

 

Sandy Hook Remembered: A Conspiracy of Love

Last week, I sat through what felt like the longest PTO meeting of my life.  It was uncomfortable to listen to and nauseating to contemplate.  We were talking about school security, post Sandy Hook. Our principal outlined ongoing changes being made to policies and procedures, including consultations with the town police chief and heads of security companies. Many parents were there to express their concerns and displeasure over some changes that had already been made with how children are dropped off and picked up from school. It was serious business.

I have to be honest, my attention faltered, sitting in the auditorium, as my mind wondered to thoughts of that horrible day and then to the teachers and staff in my own school.  To my own first grader. Watching our principal speak, I was struck by how tired he looked. Granted, he was just recovering from a week of the flu, but his thoughts and words wore heavily on him and I could see the weight of his position and responsibility, now multiplied tenfold. Waves of emotion washed over me, lapping at my feet and bringing me to the verge of tears, as they do now, writing these words.

I had a strong desire to give him a big hug. To stand up and say thank you to him and all of the teachers who had come to the meeting. To say, “I love you all” and mean it, although I don’t even know most of them and that would probably be considered exceedingly weird.

Sandy Hook is the educational 9/11.  There is no going back.  As our principal said, ‘December 14 was a game changer.’ And I shuddered.

Meanwhile, in the world where people think every real life event is some sort of Da Vinci Code plot that only they are smart enough to figure out, a friend at work mentioned something about some ridiculous Sandy Hook conspiracy theories she heard floating around. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time.  But in the past few days, they started popping up in my feed on Facebook. I wanted to be educated on what these people were talking about, so I Googled “Sandy Hook Conspiracy” and started reading.  Then I watched the beginning of a video a friend posted.  I could feel my blood boiling.

Now, I am not conspiracy theorist, but I also have no doubt that the government does not always tell us the whole story about things. Sometimes for our own good, sometimes for theirs.  But this stuff, this is just sickening.

Theories range from the entire thing being completely staged by actors where no one actually got hurt or killed at all, to it being a military operation executed by Black Ops.  Most theories claim that it is somehow connected to a plot by the Obama administration to push through gun control legislation, and leading ultimately to some sort of Socialist/Communist/Marxist/Stalinist state (I wish they would pick one—I’m pretty sure they are not actually interchangeable).

Here’s the thing: I live in Connecticut.  I assure you that this actually happened. People I work with live in Newtown.  They have attended the funerals.  They know families.  This is for real.

And if this horrible tragedy becomes the catalyst for conversations long overdue about gun control, mental health care, violent video games, media saturation, etc. then thank God something positive can come out of it.  It is not politicizing the event to demand real change in areas that have so long been swept under the rug.

(I will not entertain arguments on these items here, but if you want to hear an excellent, passionate, well expressed position for responsible gun control, look no further than Jon Stewart, whose “fake” news speaks truth more eloquently than I possibly could: http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-january-8-2013/scapegoat-hunter—gun-control)

These crazy theories and their overzealous supporters make me angry.  Truly, deeply, punch a wall angry.  But punching the wall only adds to the violence, crippling me (literally) in the process. So what are we to do?

I think now is the time for a conspiracy of our own: a conspiracy of love. Honor those innocent children and staff of Sandy Hook every day by conspiring to show love and compassion to our fellow human beings.

Practice random acts of kindness!
Make a joyful noise!
Be thankful!

Small acts of kindness can go a long way to making someone’s day a bit brighter, and yours too, in the process. There are many movements afoot that can be found all over the internet and on FB, such as Guerrilla Goodness (https://www.facebook.com/GuerrillaGoodness?fref=ts)—check them out. Start your own.

To start, I ask you to help honor the staff of Sandy Hook by honoring the teachers I your life.  Write a note to your child’s teacher(s). Email one of your own teachers, past or present. Send a letter of support to your neighborhood school. Just to say ‘hey,’ or ‘thank you,’ or ‘thinking of you.’

I began thinking about all the teachers I had in public school.  I was fairly certain I could remember them all.  So I sat down and made a list. I was pretty dang close.  As far as I can recall, I am only missing my teachers for Swimming and Home Economics, both of which I only had for one semester in junior high.

All of my teachers had an impact on me in some way.  So I am sharing with you my ‘roll call,’ if you will. I plan to put my list on my FB page, too.  I hope others will take up the challenge and post their own lists. Let us all conspire to respect, rejoice in and love one another as best we can, whenever we can.

Elementary School:

Ms. Napoleon (K)
Ms. Epifanio (1)
Ms. Weiser (2)
Mrs. Sliwa (3)
Mrs. Taylor (4)
Mrs. Burke (5 & 6)
Mrs. Rotundo (principal)
Mrs. Steiber (orchestra)
Mrs. Demitri (music)

Jr. High:

Mr. Zelly
Ms. Royal
Mr. DeJesus
Mrs. Schwartz
Mrs. Brown
Mr. Crawford
Mrs. Jones
Mrs. Williams
Ms. Barclay
Mr. DiDanato
Mr. Pucciati
Mrs. Medina

High School:

Mrs. Guard
Mr. Helm
Mrs. Reza
Mr. Johnson
Dr. Omundson
Mrs. Rodriguez
Mrs. Reynolds
Mrs. Brown
Ms. Booth
Mr. Kitchen
Ms. Call
Mr. Lawrence
Mr. Dettman
Mrs. York

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  🙂

MLK Jr., Malala and My Little Man

Last month, I had the following conversation with my six year old Little Man:

“I hope that I die of old age. And not, like, from someone doing something to me.”

Me: “What would somebody do to you?”

LM: “Oh, you know, like shooting me.”

Me: “Well I certainly hope no one shoots you, too. What made you think of that?”

LM: “Oh, I don’t know, I just hope I don’t get shot for something I believe.”

Me: (starting to get a little concerned about where this is going) “But why would someone do that?”

LM: “Well, you know, like Martin Luther King. They shot him because he wanted people to be together. People didn’t like his idea of everyone going to the same school and stuff. That’s just not right. Everybody should be able to go to the same school. But they shot him for that.”

Me: “Yes, that’s true. What made you think of Martin Luther King today (in the middle of September…and the middle of breakfast)?”

LM: “I don’t know… Oh! We were reading a book about him in library the other day. And they didn’t want people to be able to live together [in the same neighborhoods] either. That doesn’t make sense!”

Me: “No, and they separated a lot of other things, too. Blacks were not allowed to eat in some restaurants…”

LM: “WHAT?! That’s crazy! (at his sincerely incredulous look, I was not sure whether to laugh or cry). But he made it change. Now people don’t think that. But he got shot.”

Me: “He did. But he stood up for what he believed in and he helped make things change. Sometimes it’s really hard to stand up for what we think is right. And there are still some people who DO still think that way. [another look of utter disbelief from Little Man]. And it is OK to disagree, but the people who shot him were wrong to try to hurt him for what he believed. We can disagree with each other without being violent [insert definition of “violent” here]. We have to have self-control, just like Mrs. Masters talked about in class last week, right?”

LM: “Right. We can’t hurt each other like that. That’s wrong.”

I cannot tell you how happy it makes me that my Little Man is growing up in an environment where it is so difficult for him to fathom why in the world anyone would say that all his friends could not go to the same school or eat at the same restaurant or any of the other ridiculously stupid and degrading things that segregation enforced.

I am proud that he understands that Martin Luther King Jr. helped revise the rules by standing up for what he believed in and demanding change.  I am proud that at his young age, he can see how important it was for Dr. King taking a stand for what was right even though his life was taken from him for the same. But at the same time, it breaks my heart. It seems a lesson better learned at a more distant age, when the blush of innocence has had a moment to fade.

I was going to save this story to share in January in a post dedicated to MLK Jr. But then last Tuesday happened, and I felt compelled to write.  Write about hope and fear and courage and cowardice.  Last Tuesday, in a village in Pakistan, a girl was shot point blank while riding home from school by members of the Taliban.  She was specifically targeted by the them because she is an outspoken supporter of education for girls in her country.  Her name is Malala Yousafzai and she is 14 years old. If you haven’t heard about her yet, go read this right now: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/10/world/asia/teen-school-activist-malala-yousafzai-survives-hit-by-pakistani-taliban.html?_r=0

I read her story with a mixture of disbelief and outrage. Suddenly I felt like my six year old, utterly unable to comprehend how this could possibly happen.  The story touched me more deeply than I had expected, and a week later I am still struggling with my emotions.

I look at this amazing young woman, beautiful both inside and out, so strong and bold and unafraid. Every time I see a pictures of her, every time I look into her warm, confident brown eyes that appear, in one photography, to be the color of golden honey, I’m filled with a mixture of feelings that borders on nausea as a wave of parental fear wells up inside me.

Dr. King, after all, was a full grown man.  Certainly, this does not make his death any less tragic; he was a father, a husband, a son.  He was a human being. But he was an adult, attacked, in kind, by pathetic, cowardly adults.  Gunned down for the simple belief that restrictions should not be placed on a person based on the color of their skin.

Malala, clearly wise beyond her years, is still merely a child.  Gunned down for the simple belief that girls should be allowed to go to school. How could it be that this organization that claims to be so powerful could be threatened by a 14 year old girl? How is it that they could be so fearful that no other voice save their own be heard that they would attempt to silence this child? And not covertly, in the shadows where no one could see how their action betrayed their weakness. No, no, they trumpeted their inadequacy in broad daylight, loudly and proudly taking credit for their actions and vowing to finish the job, should Malala survive their initial attack. “Let this be a lesson,” a Taliban spokesman stated.

Yes, let this be a lesson, indeed.

The question at the crux of this “lesson” has my maternal instincts at odds. On one hand, I want to encourage my child to have courage in the face of despair, to hold fast to what is right and good, and to stand up and be counted. Yet the desire to protect, to keep my child from harms way, is powerful. How is it, I wonder, that one fights such unspeakable violence without resorting to violence oneself? While I consider myself a non-violent person, I can see that a mother might be moved to take up arms, literally. I am not sure that the methods of Dr. King can hold up here.

Little Man and I have talked about how difficult it is to stand up for what we believe in in the face of great disagreement, but also how important it is to do just that.  Yet how can I fully embrace this lesson, when people have become so savage that they would attempt to take the life of a child, and promise to do so again and again, until they are successful? How can I encourage him to embrace the courage of his convictions, when it seems more and more that this could result in the untimely departure of yet another kind soul from this earth?

These questions weigh heavily on my heart.  I realize, sadly, that this is not some “new” phenomenon. And yet, I cannot shake how profoundly this particular event has affected me. I pray for Malala’s recovery and safety. I pray with all mothers for all of our children. Peace be with us all.

 

The Postmodern Family Vacation: What is the new normal?

I sifted through my Sunday paper yesterday morning, pulling out the usual bits- coupons, TV guide, Target ad, and USA Weekend. On the latter’s cover were pictures of the characters from NBCs debut of “The New Normal” and the corresponding story inside was titled “The Postmodern Family.”

“The Postmodern Family?”  Really?  How could I resist?

The article talked about the multitude of upcoming shows based on non-traditional families. TV historian Tim Brooks notes that television has often presented us with non-traditional families, as it reflects what’s already going on in our current society. For example, The Brady Bunch in its time reflected “the trend of a blended family,” where adults with children from previous marriages came together to form a new family unit.

This particular example rather amused me, as I just had a Very Brady Summer Vacation…

Back when I was pregnant with my son, there was a story on one of those news shows- 60 Minutes or 20/20- about the Donor Sibling Registry and families who had found each other through it.  These were families who had used the same donor in order to have their children. The story was about a set of half-siblings whose families had contacted each other with the help of the Registry, gotten to know one another, and eventually not only met, but went on a family vacation together.

I was amazed and impressed by the story, but at the same time was somewhat taken aback.  “That is great for them,” I thought to myself, “but I cannot imagine me doing that.  I think I would feel a little weird.”

The whole idea of using a donor, of having a child on my own, was so new to me at that point.  And while I was curious about other families that had used the same donor and was not above communicating with them, even meeting with them, I could not really picture myself hanging out down the shore with them.  It just seemed a little “out there” for me.

Nearly six years later, Little Man and I found ourselves on a plane to the West Coast for vacation. Where were we going? To meet two of his siblings and their moms and hang out at a beach house…down the shore…for a week.  Wait, what?

Explaining this to outside folks, hearing the words coming out of my mouth, it sounded so surreal. It was so interesting, fascinating.  People were fascinated. Truly. And excited. Excited at the opportunity for Little Man and for the mystery of it all. Perhaps we three Moms should write a pilot for our own show. I bet it would sell, too.  We have tons of material.

We had actually already met one of the siblings twice before, as he and his mom live in a nearby state. The other one we had never met.  We were going on vacation with people we had never met before. A little voice in the back of my head screamed, “what are you thinking?!” Yet the rest of my brain, the bigger, louder, more intuitive part, somehow knew it would be alright. That it was right. We have all kept in contact for so many years through FB, that in an odd way I did feel like I knew them.

Still, as we sat on the plane, eating our complimentary peanuts and drinking our tomato juice, little black clouds of doubt appeared in my mind, like pop-up thunderstorms in the summertime: what if the boys don’t get along? What if the moms don’t get along?  What if they don’t like him?  What if they don’t like me? What if we don’t like them?

And yet, it all seemed to fall into place.  We met Brother 1 and his mom at the airport and proceded to our rental car, following the directions to meet Brother 2, the one neither of us had met before. We immediately discovered that two boys born three days apart are LOUD. Being a one-child family, that was the first of many revelations. The boys were all so excited to meet each other, and spent quite a bit of time (after bonding over Angry Birds) running around shouting “Brother Hug!” followed by a sort of pile-on brother sandwich. They got along surprisingly well, although not without the typical arguments that ensue when you have both children of a similar age and siblings. We got a brief yet sufficient taste of what it might be like to have triplets.

Overall, it was a typical family vacation.  We got lost going somewhere we were sure we knew how to find.  We got sunburned at the beach. One brother spiked a mystery fever a few days in and was out of commission for two days. We went to an amusement park. We lost power and spent ½ an hour searching for candles and matches and flashlights with dead batteries. We took TONS of pictures. We bought souvenirs. We laughed a lot.

And in the Very Brady tradition, the boys decided to put on a play, which they wrote and performed for us.

All too quickly the week passed by and as the time came to leave, I felt as though I was parting with friends I had know for a long time. As Gonzo says, “there’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.” At the end of the week, the “three brothers from other mothers” went their separate ways, back to their individual families, yet having a clearer sense of a larger familial bond out there. There is still a brother and three sisters we know of that we have not yet met.  I wonder what other family outings lie in our future?

And that was just our FIRST summer adventure. Upon leaving our beach home, we met up with my mom and set off even further west, to visit my brother and his wife. Well, that sounds like a ‘regular’ family vacation, right? Ummmm…yes and no.  So, both of my parents were married before and each had a son from their previous marriage.  I grew up in the same house with the brother we were going to visit, although I had not seen him since I was a junior in high school. He was in the military for many years and was overseas for much of that time.  He had seen our mom more recently than me, although it had been far too long for her, too. We write occasionally and talk on the phone at Christmas.  He and my sister-in-law were married in the Philippines where she is from while they were both in the service, and we had never met her although they’ve been married for several years. My son as not met either of them before.

And so we sat on yet another plane, crossing the Pacific, headed for a new week of a very different family vacation. Once again, the scene was surreal as I headed out to spend another week with someone I had never met before.  It just did not really seem to be happening. When I told people about this impending trip, they were excited, but also in disbelief.  How could I not have seen my own brother for so long? I mean, what was wrong with us, anyway? No one said that, of course, but I could tell that some people were thinking it.

And you know what?  I didn’t really care. Circumstances were what they were and we simply did not have the funds on either end to make it happen. It was only by a bizarre twist of fate that I was able to make it happen now (but that story will have to wait for another post). The point was, it was happening now.

We finally got to meet my brother’s wife at the airport when they came to pick us up.  I haven’t seen my brother in such a long time I actually walked right past him at the baggage claim (although, to be fair, I was distracted by my mother who was fretting at the time over how we were going to find him), but the minute I heard his voice, I whipped around.  My son was just beaming with excitement. He hugged his uncle and auntie, just thrilled to be in their presence.

It didn’t take long for these pieces to fall into place, either.  Before the end of the day, Little Man and his Auntie were snuggled together on the couch watching PBS. My brother was cracking jokes and our mom was giggling hysterically. We settled in and were made to feel completely at home.

Overall, it was a typical family vacation.  We got stuck in tourist traffic.  We used lots of sunscreen.  Mom had tummy trouble. We went to an amusement park. My SIL had a problem with a client and had to stay home for part of our adventures.  We took TONS of pictures.  We bought souvenirs.  We laughed A LOT.

Again the week flew by and I found it hard to believe that it was already time to go. We had not seen each other in so long, yet it felt as if no time had passed at all between our visits. Having been surrounded by so many people over the past two weeks, it seemed a little odd to be heading home, just the Little Man and me. Yet as much as I enjoyed our travels, I was happy to soon be back to our own little house in our own little beds. It’s always nice to come back home again.

At home, we were met at the airport by yet another part of our family, what we refer to as our “extended” family, which contains honorary uncles and aunts who have been friends of mine for many years but are so close they might as well be official family members. We recounted to Uncle Charles as many of our adventures as our sleepy heads could conjure. He dropped us at our house and left us both with a hug and a kiss, and the promise to meet up with him and Uncle Stuart soon to recount the many stories we had to tell.

The USA Weekend article in Sunday’s paper talked about how the new season’s shows “push boundaries” in their depiction of families today. My family may not be “traditional,” but I assure you I’m not actually trying to push any boundaries; I’m just trying to live my life.

What is “the new normal?” It’s quite simple, really, and actually, nothing “new.” My family, in all its variations, is full of love and that, to me, is exactly what a “normal” family should be.

Kindergarten Epilogue: First Grade Already??

Time is a funny thing.  Anyone with grown kids will tell you that your children grow up in the blink of an eye. As I grow older, however, I find that there is some bizarre time bending that goes on in my life, a phenomenon that, as Spock might say, is ‘highly illogical.’

On one hand, it seems like only yesterday that I was contemplating the beautiful symmetry of the last day of kindergarten, which corresponded in our town (thanks to a freak October snowstorm that kept us out of school for over a week) to the first day of summer. A beginning, an end. Very yin-yang.

I had rolled an essay around in my head on that day, summarizing the year that was kindergarten: what we had learned, what we had gained, how we had changed. That first lazy day of summer started as a Ferris wheel ride, gently circling in the breeze.

Then, suddenly, I was being whipped around on a roller coaster, up, down and all around.
Work: bam!
Camp: bam!
Vacation: bam!
Recovering from vacation: bam! bam!
Planning a birthday party: bam!

The screech of brakes, the release of the bar, and suddenly I’m tumbling head first down the school supply aisle in search of a small but specific list of necessary items.  How could 1^st grade possibly be upon us already?

On the other hand, as we readied ourselves this morning for another first day of school, it seemed, not like a year, but decades ago that kindergarten had begun.  The anxiety, the fretting, the wringing of hands. The tears.  And that was just me! Could it really have been a mere 365 days since my bright, shiny Little Man embarked on his formal education? No way!  He and I have both changed so much, grown so much, it could not possibly have been just a year since we stood in front of the great glass double doors of the school building, prepared now to begin the first day of 1^st grade.

Again the symmetry: the first day of first grade.  I have always been attracted to the balance of things, and this day seemed to hold some special symbolism.  The first of the first.  And, as my son pointed out, we were no longer in “letters”—this was serious business: we were in the “number” grades, now!

We approached the playground behind the school (“This year we are on the BIG playground, Mom! <pause> I wish we could still play on the Kindergarten one, though.”) with a calm sense of anticipation. We already had the lay of the land.  Little Man knew almost everyone in his class. We looked for friends assigned to other classes and for the place we were to line up for school. With a slight spike in anxiety, we searched for our teacher.

We found her standing near the building in a bright orange cardigan, ready to take on a new year and a new class.  She greeted each student with a warm smile, checking them off her list and verifying how they would go home at the end of the day.  Little Man’s face was bright with excitement; he could not have been more ready to take on first grade.

He took his place in line and I took mine, among the other camera wielding adults beaming with pride. Kisses were blown; hugs exchanged. A whirl of activity and anticipation which seemed to culminate with groups of eager 1^st graders pointing and shouting in recognition as their former kindergarten teachers received a greeting befitting their rock star status: “I think I see Mr. Sparkes…There! There’s Mr. Michaud!” Since our school’s kindergarten starts later in the day on the first day of school, the kindergarten teachers made an appearance, wading their way through waves of their last year’s students, joyful at the site of them, sharing high fives and hugs, smiles and stories.  The Beatles wish they had it so good.

And then the bell rang, and it was time to hear some brief words from the principal and head into class.  So much to do and see! I walked away confident that my Little Man would have the best day of first grade ever.

It was on the way to work that I felt the lump rising in my throat and the unexpected tears brimming my eyes, threatening to overflow.  ‘Where was this coming from?’ I thought, as I swallowed hard, trying to force the lump back down where it belonged. I had not counted on this being an emotional day.

I punched at the pre-programmed buttons on the car radio, which was completely unnecessary since it’s a touch screen, in search of something, ANYTHING upbeat. Why, why did you choose today, 80s morning show, to fail me?  Six stations and everyone was talking.  The chatter was finally broken by “Drops of Jupiter,” a fine song in and of itself, but clearly not what I’d had in mind. I fought hard to choke down my tears, since I get all red and blotchy when I cry and that really doesn’t go over well at the start of the workday. Success finally came as I pulled into the parking lot, and was grateful, for once, at the distance of my parking space to the building and the long walk to follow.

Little Man had an awesome day, by the way, as I knew he would.  When I picked him up from school he was positively glowing and his first words were, “I love first grade!” And my heart did sing at the sound of them. I wonder if our next first day will feel like forever or a fort night from now…

Oh, and I’m still am not sure what I was crying about. Perhaps, like the time bending phenomenon, it is just one of those things that comes with the parental territory.

 

The Magical Myths of Mommy-hood

This weekend, I saw the Johnson’s Mother’s Day commercial, “You’re Doing OK.” If you haven’t seen it yet, do give it a view (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yotq4zr0dRc).  The message is sweet and sentimental, but also straight up (“there was that strained carrot incident”).

It made me smile and think back, over six years ago now (was it really that long ago?), to when I decided to try to become a mom. I knew it would be hard to do it on my own.  I had thought through the logistics, the finances, the physical and emotional challenges.

Because I was choosing to be a single mom, I thought that meant I had to prove to everyone that I could handle it all on my own.  No help from the studio audience for me!  Why would you need to hold the baby while I’m eating?  I can do both!  Why would I take you up on your offer to do my laundry?  I can get up and down the basement stairs after my C-section…if I sit on my bum and drag the laundry up behind me (or in front of me…depending on how you look at it)!

I look back on that time and wonder who exactly I was trying to prove something to.  Certainly not to my friends or family, who knew if anybody could make it work, I could.  No, I had created my own Myth of Mommy-hood.  I told this myth to myself over and over until it became necessary and real and valid.  And then I went out to eat dinner while still on maternity leave with my good friend from work. She offered to hold the baby while I ate.  I valiantly declined.  She looked me in the eye, told me to shut up, and took the baby (who simply adored her) from my arms. I began to eat with two hands: how refreshing to cut a piece of meat with a fork AND knife simultaneously!  The spell was broken! The myth had fallen by the wayside.

This got me thinking about some of those other Mommy Myths that have been passed down through the generations. Myths that have been clung to, told and retold. Myths of epic proportion.  Myths that need to go down…

Mommy Myth #1: You will not remember the pain
To put it bluntly, this pure and utter b.s. Luckily, or not, I wound up having to have a C-section, so I did not have to go through the entire, full throttle birthing process, although I was in labor for about 12 hours. But if you think for one minute that I don’t remember how sore my throat was from the breathing tube (yes, the localized anesthesia didn’t work and I had to be knocked out), the thrill of the catheter, and every time I forgot to get out of bed without twisting at the waist (and the blinding pain resulting from said movement), you are c-ra-zy.

Perhaps this myth would be more feasible if it were renamed “you will not CARE about the pain.” Of course you care about the pain at the time, but in retrospect, withstanding that pain seems a decent enough trade off for the freshly minted person you get at the end. I remember the pain, but I didn’t hold it against my little man.  And it didn’t stop me, or most other women, from considering another one.

Mommy Myth #2: You will instantaneously and magically fall in love with your child
I cannot tell you how many times I heard this when I was pregnant: that magical moment when they hand you your child, your eyes meet, your minds meld, and if anyone so much as moves a hair on their head, you will immediately rip out the heart (and eat it will some fava beans, and a nice chianti).

No myth caused me more angst than this one (except maybe #3). Perhaps it does work this way for some moms. It did not work this way for me. As far as I know, I did not have postpartum, yet the magical moment eluded me.

Firstly, I was unconscious when he came into the light, so I did not even get to see him until I was back in my room. I woke up with a sore throat, and having never had any kind of surgery, I was quite discombobulated by this, as I was sure all the action had happened further south.  They brought him into my room, but I wasn’t quite fully functional yet and was afraid my arms would not hold him.  My best friend brought him to my side.  He was adorable, squeaky clean, and perfect in every way. He looked at me with his little old man face and it was clear that he was mine. There was most definitely a maternal connection.  But no shaft of light from the heavens.  No Hallelujah choir. No jolt of lightening. What was wrong with me? I was already a horrible mother before I’d even had a chance to get started!

After a few days, I took him home, my best friend went back to Texas, and I was left alone with the boy and my inferior thoughts.  I most assuredly adored this wee person I grew, but I waited for that amazing wave of something…mythical…  It did not come. I began to panic.  Perhaps I would never bond properly with my baby.  I did not share my fear and guilt with anyone, lest they realize what a truly terrible mother I was. After a week or two, my friend from work (the same one who shattered my personal myth), came over to visit.  We were sitting on the couch talking, when suddenly I burst into tears, weeping uncontrollably about my inability to “connect.” She hugged me and rubbed my shoulder.  “What took you so long?  It took me less than a week to freak out with my kids.” She assured me that there was nothing wrong with me and that very few women were blessed with an actual light beam from on high. And of course, she was right.  One would be hard pressed to look at my son and me today and think we had not “bonded.”

Mommy Myth #3: There is something fundamentally wrong with you as a mother if you cannot or will not breastfeed your child
My angst over a lack of angels singing in the in the recovery room was doubled down by the fact that I was not able to breastfeed.  I believe there was a combination of reasons for this, medical and physical, but the fact was, I could not make it work and I was utterly distraught. I was sure I was destroying my child’s life through this shortcoming of mine. I actually had one nurse tell me I was “ruining” him by giving him a pacifier. Really?  He’s hot off the presses and I’ve already ruined him? Damn, talk about a heavy cross to bear.

I pumped.  I took meds. The results were unimpressive. It was my attending doctor who helped dispel this one.  An older woman than I by a generation, she assured me that while we knew breast milk was the best if possible, her entire generation was bottle fed, and they seemed to have turned out ok. God bless her wisdom.

Mommy Myth #4: You must sacrifice yourself and your needs at all times for your child
Here, again, we have absolute and total b.s. Of course there are times when you put your child’s needs and wants above your own—I mean, did you REALLY want to read One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish for the 46^th time…today? No, you did not.  But sometimes, you do it anyway. Sometimes you give your child the last drink of water, even though you are really thirsty.  Sometimes you don’t buy something for yourself so you can get something special for him or her. Sometimes the sacrifice is real and deep. But let’s face it, women are trained by our society to put other people’s needs ahead of their own, and there are those that take great pride in the fact that they never, ever do for themselves because they are too busy taking care of everyone else.

I personally believe in two basic guiding principles here.  The first is the old adage: ‘if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’ That doesn’t mean that Momma gets everything she wants all the time and to hell with everyone else.  But it does mean that Momma needs to have a life that is somewhat happy and fulfilled so that she can reflect those qualities to her children and teach them how to find these things in their own lives.

The second is from your basic flight attendant instructions prior to takeoff: ‘in the unlikely event of a loss in cabin pressure, please secure your own mask before assisting your child.’ If you do not take care of yourself, you cannot take care of someone else.  Plain and simple. What good is it to run yourself into the ground for your child when you will eventually break down, and then who will take care of them?  Keeping a happy healthy you gives you the ability to take raise happy and healthy them.

 

Mommy Myth #5: You must treasure and adore every single moment with your child
A few months ago I read a great blog post about this very topic that puts it more eloquently than I ever could.  Some friends were passing it around on FB and it is a great read. It’s by Glennon Melton, titled “Don’t Carpe Diem.” (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/glennon-melton/dont-carpe-diem_b_1206346.html).

It is about being a mom and how other (usually older) moms will come up to you, at random, and tell you how much they loved every moment of motherhood and how you should enjoy every single minute, too.  She is usually telling you this in the middle of a the grocery store or your local Target, at a time when your children have driven you so close to the edge that you have contemplated, even for a brief, fleeting moment: A.) strangling them within an inch of their life or B.) simply walking away and pretending they do not belong to you. You know that moment I’m talking about.  If you don’t…you will. Of course, you do NOT do either of these things, because you are a responsible adult in charge of their well-being.  But having someone tell you you should be savoring this very moment really makes you want to turn around and commit choice A upon her.  But you don’t do that either, because she means well, and that would only get you arrested, and then who would look after the children? (although the woman would probably assure you, as you were choking her, that you would someday look back fondly on this very moment. Making you want to squeeze even harder…).

There are many moments of motherhood I have not enjoyed.  Being vomited on. Discovering the six-foot scratch my son etched in his bedroom furniture.  Mysterious medical maladies that come and go with no known cause or cure. I do not treasure them. I do not cherish them. And like Glennon, I do not think it makes me a bad mom to admit that I do not hold them near and dear to my heart.  There are many, many other memories that I do, but not these.

 

I’m sure you’ve heard other Mommy Myths; these are just the ones that came to mind at the close of this lovely spring on which we celebrate all things maternal.

In truth, I find motherhood, like most things, is a dichotomy. Amazing. Exasperating. Inspiring. Infuriating. Frightening. Awesome.

An old ad campaign for the U.S. military (Army, I think) had the tag line “the toughest job you’ll ever love.” I think that sums it up pretty well, don’t you?

Happy Mother’s Day, ya’ll!