Barnmaven

All mixed up

You can't listen to the radio or turn on the TV or look at Twitter or Facebook and not be aware of what happened in Pakistan yesterday.  Few people aren't talking about the death of Bin Laden, and the range of response is...what's the word I'm looking for?  Fascinating?  Curious?  Expected?  I don't know.  I don't know how I feel today.

Like so many Americans I remember vividly the events of 9/11, being hugely pregnant with my daughter and working not very far from New York City.  Everyone I worked with and socialized with knew someone who was in the towers, we were all affected.  My manager's husband was one of a very small number of people who was on the 104th floor of the South Tower who actually survived the attack, fire and collapse of the building. 

I remember how stunned we were, all of us, even our then-president.  I remember the drawing together as a country, in the way that groups will do when they have been attacked.  I loved the feeling of solidarity between us and the other voices around the world that lifted to inform us of their love, their outrage, their sorrow.  Being overwhelmed when I thought of the victims and their families, the responders who lost their lives saving others. 

In the years since, memory has dulled.  A coast away from where I was, the Twin Towers and the loss that was experienced that day is not as big a topic of conversation as I am sure it still is  back in Jersey.  A decade, two wars, a recession, and the minutiae of life have the cumulative effect of allowing the past to be...well, the past.

From the time that I turned on the news last night, after receiving a call from a friend back East, until now, as I type this post, I continue to experience a range of emotional reaction that leaves me still undecided as to what I feel about Osama Bin Laden and his death.

Of course there is a sense of grim satisfaction, the kind where your eyes narrow and you snarl in triumph.  We got you, you sonofabitch.  Finally.  A hot flash in my gut, some long-forgotten desire for revenge filled.  Paybacks are a bitch.  Not just for 9/11, either.  I remember the 17 sailors who were killed in 2000 aboard the USS Cole, and let us also not forget the 6 victims of the 1993 bomb attack on the World Trade Center.  Bin Laden was a man whose ideology was to wage war against America.   He would not see you or I as individuals with lives of value, he would see us only as his enemies.  And so in that context, a part of me grins savagely at the thought of his demise.

I am proud, of our President and his succinct, to-the-point speech last night.  Whatever else he is or is not, I think we can all agree the man is a spectacular orator.  I am reminded again of why I cast my ballot for him, when in a field of candidates marked by rancor, idiocy, hatred and paranoia, he stood out to me as a man of great conviction and great ideas. More so, though, I am proud of our military and the precision and professionalism with which this operation was carried out.  I imagine there are some men who are celebrating quietly today, even though their names will likely never be made public. 

And because I feel some satisfaction and some pride, I also feel ashamed.  Ashamed because I do not believe in violence as a solution.  I believe in loving people, even when they act in ways that are unlovable.  I can't just abandon my belief that we were all created by the same God, regardless of our nationality, culture or ideology.  I cannot join those who are celebrating death today.  I agree that this is a major, remarkable event, but I don't think it is cause for celebration, flag-waving or fireworks.  Killing Osama Bin Laden will not likely prevent future deaths by terrorism, nor will it bring back those whom we have already lost.  It is at best an act of revenge.

I feel sorrow as well.  Sadness for the victims of the USS Cole bombing and of 9/11, people who survived or family members of those who did not, for whom the events of yesterady - even if they bring some measure of relief - will dredge up memories of horror and tragedy.  Sorrow at the reminder of the terrible waste of human life, human potential inflicted in those events and in other acts of terrorism carried out by Al Quaeda and its operatives.  Sorrow that we live in a world where war and hatred will seemingly always be part of our present and our future, not just part of our past.  Sorrow for all the loss, all the pain, for the children being taught to hate by their parents and their peers - not just children of terrorists, but children of everyday people who because of fear and intolerance are being taught to hate anyone who is part of a particular religion or culture, or simply happened to be born in the wrong country.  Sorrow for the divisiveness that has grown here in our own country because we could not agree on the right response, because our leaders took us to wars that so many of us felt did nothing to avenge the past or prevent future attacks. 

And that leads to frustration.  Frustration over the endless violence begetting violence begetting violence.  A violent end to a man who promoted violence as a way of life; deserved? Maybe.  Maybe not. I don't know.  I'm not God.  I'm not willing to pretend I know the answer.  Frustration because I know that this death will not end the war in Afghanistan any time soon.  Frustration because even when we do eventually leave Afghanistan that we will probably still be engaged in Libya or anywhere else in the world that our government feels that they can protect American interests under the guise of "preserving democracy." 

I don't know why I lack the certainty so many others feel about this, but there it is.  I don't know if that makes me a bad American, a bad Christian, a bad parent or a bad example.  I suppose I can hold some measure of relief that at least I'm still really, really good at writing run-on sentences and being overly parenthetical.

I meant to do that

 

Last Sunday at church we were finally back in our sanctuary.  Over a year past, a structural engineer working for the company who was trying to fix a roof leak (of the sort that really ought to be named "leakus herpesious" because, like a cold sore, it never really goes away) reported that in his professional opnion the roof was unsafe and caused a grave threat to human life in the case of rain or snow. 

We've been having church in the fireside room ever since.  I never had a problem with this, having been in many kinds of churches over the years both formal and informal.  It was a difficult change, though, for many of our older parishioners, some of whom have been attending our church for decades.  If you've been raised on a steady diet of stained-glass windows, pipe organ and pews with soft red seat cushions, not to mention a priest who stands at a lectern in full regalia, the informal nature of setting up "church" in the room where you normally have coffee and then staying there for more than a year is going to be difficult.   We had some real drama over it, and our priest ended up taking a position at another parish in large part, I think, because of the stress of it. 

The numbers at Sunday service dwindled considerably over the past year, but we made it through.  And by the grace of God, we were back in the main sanctuary just in time for Easter Sunday.  I almost cried for joy when I hear the first strains of the organ being played. 

Singing under the high roof with the good acoustics with the organ has a completely different feel than it does in a small room by the piano.  I do confess that there's more than one reason I prefer sitting in the choir loft to sitting in a row of chairs facing a room.  I feel a lot less "on display" back there.  I can also surreptitiously surf the web on my droid when no one's looking. 

There, my secret is out.

They did offer Sunday School for the kids on Easter but C opted out and wanted to play with his toys on the stairs.  He and another little girl played more or less nicely for most of the service, but at some point the yelling, even with the doors closed, was quite noticeable. 

Although many churches say that they "welcome children" very few actually mean it.  In most churches, children are welcome only up to the point where they actually make noise, cry or have a stinky diaper.  Beyond that, Mom and child are banished to the crying room.  Wandering the aisles is frowned upon, and God forbid your bipolar child should happen to be in a manic phase and fall into a rage. 

The church we attend is lovely in every way, not the least of which being that they  not only saychildren are welcome, they REALLY mean it.  I know this to be a fact because my children have put it to the test, vigorously.  My son has spent services where he wandered from the pews to the choir loft, on my lap, under my bench, behind the altar and back to the pews and nobody even looked crosseyed at him.  In fact, most of the ladies just smile and pat him on the head when he wanders by.  When the kids get antsy on the Sundays there is no kids group, the older kids take turns entertaining them.  My children have argued, loudly and vociferously, in the middle of service. 

One recent Sunday, a rather nice day,the kids were playing outside during service.  The very ending of the doxology, "Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost...." was punctuated by a banshee yell from C as he ran screaming away from a bug on the sidewalk right next to the windows of the fireside room.  I cringed, everyone else just laughed. 

We do, however, try and get them to keep the noise level somewhere below "thundering," and so on Easter Sunday, one of the ladies in the audience went out to the stairs to see if she could make a dent in the shrieking. 

C was, as I understand it, yelling at the other little girl for using a crayon that he had been using to color with, but then set aside.  As we all know, the Book of Nonsensical Children's Rules Meant to Drive Parents Insane, states implicitly that whether or not you are currently using an item is immaterial, only that you had been using and possibly meant to use it again at some point in the future - "future" being defined as anywhere between today and your eventual death from old age. 

The nice lady offered C a different crayon as a substitute, which he promptly rejected.  (The crayon that you were using that has been so rudely stolen by the other child is always better than the replacement you're being offered, regardless of condition or color.  Duuuu-uuuh.) 

She tried reasoning with him. "You know, it's just a crayon.  And besides, you don't really want to be yelling at your friend anyway, do you?"

My son looked up at her, cocked his head and said, quite matter of factly, "But I DO.  I really DO want to yell at her."

SO THERE. 

On friends and gay teen suicides and other random things

I haven't written a blog post in so long you probably all thought I'd skipped town with a hot young Flamenco dancer.  You did, didn't you?  Admit it.

I didn't mean to take a vacation from blogging, but honestly, I didn't have much to say.  My friend Jaimee, the original vagabond, finally showed up on my doorstep after a meandering drive West from New Jersey.  I wasn't sure when she'd arrive or how long she'd stay.  Unfortunately it was horrible timing work-wise, so I couldn't really take any days off.  When I was home and got done slogging through all the other stuff I needed to do, the last thing I wanted to do was sit at my computer when I could be spending time with one of the most lovely people on the planet.

When you're me, or when you're like me, friendships and people aren't easy.  As Jaimee would say, I'm crunchy on the outside but the crunchy layer is only there to mask my soft nougaty center.  I'd like to think that as I get older I get more comfortable with who I am and less afraid to show my feelings, but I'm sure I'm not as far along that path as I'd like to be.  People scare me.  I don't trust easily, and I have a terrible phobia of being made to look ridiculous.  The end result is that I will twist myself into the most convoluted of knots to avoid allowing anyone to see how sensitive I truly am. 

Jaimee is one of those people that can get along with just about anyone.  She's part tree hugger, part hippie chick, part beautiful, sophisticated center of attention at parties and she can put on a dress and heels and have every guy in the room wishing she'd dance with him.  In many ways you would think that we have nothing in common aside from our mutual love of nature and the outdoors.  When I left New Jersey for Washington Jaimee gifted me with a beautiful necklace - a Yin/Yang symbol made of a white and a black pearl on a silver circle.  She told me that she thought it was symbolic of our friendship. 

What we found, though, when we were comfortable with each other to actually talk about the important stuff, is that we are inwardly very much alike.  She's just far better than I am at masking her vulnerability.

So we've been hanging out a bit the last week and a half.  We didn't *do* much, really, just sort of hung around.  Sadly I was unable to convert her into a Cowgirl.  I like her anyway.

 

It was good times. 

~@~@~@~@~@~

On the home front, C started medication two weeks ago.  We've been gradually increasing dosage, and he's been doing better.  He had two days last week that he didn't get written up at aftercare, which was a first.  He's still apparently not doing all that great fitting into the routine in Kindergarten, or at least that's what the prinicipal observed to me, since his teacher hasn't communicated a damn thing.  I requested last Friday that I get an email from his teacher just letting me know what kind of a day he had - even just a sentence or two so that I could communicate that to his doctor.  Its Thursday.  Guess how many reports I've gotten from his teacher?  Yeah.  I requested the IEP testing be conducted and that's underway.  I know a bit more now than I did when this started with A a few years ago.  I now understand that the IEP is not only to address cognitive function but life-skills as well.  So even if the testing shows no cognitive impairment, under the I.D.E.A. he is still entitled to assistance in social and life skills. 

And because I'm in a good mood at the moment, I'll refrain from discussing the nightmare arguments I've had with the insurance company over coverage and refills. 

I have friends and acquaintances I've met who are very anti-medication, and friends who are pro-medication except when it comes to their own children.  Lest anyone think that my very first avenue of approach is to medicate, let me clarify a few things.

From my perspective, medication isn't always a requirement when behavioral problems are present.  As an adult with ADHD, I'm not even certain that medication is a necessity for all children who have the disorder.  I had no idea I had ADHD until I was almost 40 years old.  I spent my whole life learning how to live with it with no pharmaceutical help whatsoever.  It CAN be done...but I can tell you from experience that it's not easy. 

When it came to my own children, my first steps were to find out what was wrong and to understand how much it was a problem.  We tried things prior to going the medication route, and honestly, I'm almost sorry we waited as long as I did.  My daughter's quality of life before Focalin and Lamictal was so awful compared to how it is now that there I times I feel guilty for not pursuing it sooner.   We actually waited a little bit longer to medicate C than we did with his sister.  His issues have manifested much differently, and I wasn't really certain how he would react to a school environment. 

For my family, medication has made a colossal difference.  But I also respect that it is not the avenue of choice for every family.  At the best, though, I hope that parents of children who have ADHD, Bipolar illness, Anxiety disorder or any other neurological disorder that affects corporate governance and cognitive function will at least consider looking into medication. 

I've heard so often, "Medication just turns your kid into a zombie."  I can't promise that every medication out there won't turn your kid into a zombie -  but I can tell you that there are very likely many that won't.  We did find one medication that had results we disliked - weight gain, general listlessness - and very few positive results, so we discontinued it very quickly and found something that worked better.  I can't imagine any parent that wants their child to be a zombie.  I mean, can you imagine how hard it is to clean all of those brains out of their school clothes? 

 

~@~@~@~@~@~@~

Finally, if you've stuck with me this far, I will weigh in on the hot topic of the news, blogosphere and twitterverse this week - suicide amongst gay teens.

It is distressing and disheartening that even with all we know now about sexual orientation being an integral part of a person's hardwiring, with LGBT stars living open lives, with television shows and movies and reality shows either featuring LGBT cast or at least having them as key cast members.  Unfortunately our growing awareness and acceptance hasn't reached every family, particularly people in small, conservative towns, and the social conservatives among us have only stepped up the hate rhetoric in response to such wide acceptance. 

I hope that the hard of heart among us will be moved by the recent attention to this issue, that anyone who is a parent or an aunt, uncle, grandparent, teacher, classmate, or spiritual leader will read the following statistics and if they have been unsupportive before, will mend their ways:

According to a recent study, LGBT teens who have experienced rejection from their family are

• 8.4 times more likely than their non-LGBT peers to attempt suicide;
• 3.4% more likely to use drugs; and
• 3.4 times more likely to engage in unprotected sexual activities than their peers who have received family acceptance and support.

There are people who want to argue that the bible preaches against homosexuality.  I'm no biblical scholar, and I won't pretend to be.  There are plenty of respected scholars out there, though, who have researched the etymology and original context of the earliest writings the bible was translated from, and who have concluded that the writers may have been speaking about something entirely differently than the current commonly accepted meaning.  Issues of biblical scholarship aside, as a Christian, I find that my understanding of God and Christ are so much bigger than what one can find in a book.  If you want to see the love of Christ in living color, all you have to do is look at the eyes and hearts of the people around you.  In my belief system, each and every one of us is a child of God and each and every one of us is loved equally.  I could say more about my opinion of people who aren't biblical scholars, have never researched its many translations or read all the many versions and scholarly treatises regarding it, but are absolutely willing to take the word of some pastor or religious commentator that it is the unequivocal word of God and only the one translation they're reading from is the "right" one, but I won't.  It would be a waste of breath.

Science has taught us that being gay is not a choice, that it is the way people are born.  How can it be a sin to be born gay?  Seriously.  God doesn't make those kind of mistakes.  If God thought being gay was sinful, people wouldn't be born that way. I am so tired of Christians who need to feel morally superior to other people.  Stop being so damned judgmental, will you?  Your hatred and fear are, literally, killing our teenagers. 

~@~@~@~@~@~

 And finally, in other news, the chicken is off the nest and happily wandering around the yard eating worms like all good chickens should.

I know this was long.  I'm sorry.  I missed you.  How have you all been?

 

I guess I'm not done talking about this (Newt Gingrich sucks. Hard.)

A friend sent me an email this morning, one that I have declined to answer or forward. It contains a statement from Newt Gingrich from July of this year. 

Newt Gingrich's  statement reads, "There should be no mosque near Ground Zero in New York so long as there are no churches or synagogues in Saudi Arabia . "  It goes on to impute evil intent to the builders and supporters of the mosque and to imply that it is being built to create inroads in America for Muslim extremism.  For jihad.

Dear Newt Gingrich:  Of course there are no churches or synagogues in Saudi Arabia.  Saudia Arabia is not America.  We?  you and I?  We live in a democracy based on freedom and liberty.  We don't operate like Saudi Arabia because we are NOT Saudi Arabia.

We have a constitution that guarantees us freedom to practice (or not practice) any religion we choose.  In fact, Mr. Newton Leroy Gingrich, your own website, on the page devoted to Religious Liberty, states:

"Religious liberty in America is under assault. The secular socialist left – who hates the idea of an authority higher than the government - has used its domination of academia, the courts, and the media to twist the meaning of the first amendment from a right that protects religious liberty to prohibition on religious expression in the public square. The consequence of this campaign is that people of faith have been systematically marginalized in America through a sustained effort by the left to change our common culture and give secular values the authority of law."

Let me see if I understand this, Newt Gingrich.  You are implying here that the government should be protecting our First Amendment right to religious freedom.  And yet, your statement regarding a Muslim cultural center and Mosque at Ground Zero implies that you do not believe Muslim Americans are entitled to the same First Amendment rights as you and I. 

The moment you request that any local or federal government block the building of a mosque in America, you are in effect demanding that we violate the First Amendment. 

What happened on 9/11 was horrific, unbelievable, tragic.  The people who were in those towers were of every race and religion.  I'm not sure if people are even aware than in the Twin Towers, on the 17th floor of the South Tower, there was a room set aside as a prayer room for Muslims.  That's right, a prayer room for Muslims.  Observant Muslims, not jihadists, who happened to be in the towers going about their work just like everyone else, who died or managed to escape with their lives when the terrorists attacked and the towers fell.

I was in the final weeks of my first pregnancy on  September 11th.  I was working for an insurance company in Neptune, NJ, and my manager's husband was on the 104th floor of the South Tower.  She did not know until after 3PM on that terrible day whether he had lived or died.  He survived, though many did not.  J was also working for the same company, and until the company released us to go home, I spent most of the day going back and forth between my floor and his, to see if Kim had heard anything about her husband and then going to give and receive hugs from my husband because I could. 

I hate the terrorists who planned and carried out the attacks in New York and Washington DC on September 11th.  I cannot understand the mind and thinking of any person who hates another person or a group of persons so much that they would give their own lives to see them dead.  But whether I hate them, whether I believe they were wrong, whether I think that anyone who carries out a terrorist act should die for their crimes (I do), I am still capable of separating jihadists from peaceful Muslims.  Just as I am capable separating Catholics from people like Timothy McVeigh, Christians from people like James Kopp, Scott Roeder and others like them. 

The anti-Muslim rhetoric in this country has risen to a terrible screech.  It calls to mind the McCarthyism of the late 1940's and 1950's:

Remember our treatment of Japanese Americans during WWII?  We are still making reparations for that. 

Hate rhetoric is disabling this country piece by piece.  There is no logical, lawful reason for it, and yet it continues.  If it is not toned down, if the people who are spreading this hate like a black poisonous cloud over our airwaves and on our street corners do not stop, I fear it will take root and rise up like some awful, tentacled Beast from hell, taking what is left of our humanity right along with it. 

I have not responded, cannot respond to the email I received this morning.  The person who sent it to me is someone I care for, she is the close relative of someone I care for even more.  I don't want to have this argument with her.  It is heartbreaking to think that someone I know and like can even think about participating in this campaign of hate and lies.  But there it is.  People I know, people I even like, they may think this way.  I could weed them out of my life, but would I just be closing my eyes and ears to what exists?  Or is there some way that I can reach out to them, not in anger but in love, not in the arrogant belief that I can change them, but in the hopeful optimism that the God I believe in, who loves us all, who cares for each and every person in His creation as if they were his own child, that maybe He can reach them, even if I can't?  Maybe.

I keep wondering when God is going to come and save us from ourselves.  Soon, please.

First and last post on this subject

If you read me you know how I roll politically.  I don't use this space to make a huge amount of political noise, nor do I want to.  I have loved ones and relatives (read: in-laws) who are on different ends of the political spectrum, and that alone is sufficient reason for me to not wish to antagonize or offend you.

Today, I'm going to cross this line and so if you are going to no longer love me or read my blog because of this, then I am very sorry to have offended you, but this is something I want and need to say.

Very often when there is a controversial issue in the public eye, I lean toward the logical argument.  I lean toward the constitutional argument.  I'm drawn to the argument that while possibly rhetorical, is drawn from fact-based argument.

I've been watching and listening and thinking very much about the controversy in New York City over the group that is attempting to build a place of worship in near proximity to the site of the former Twin Towers.  A Mosque.  I've not commented much about it.  I don't wish to hurt or offend anyone.

My argument stems from a position of acceptance and love, but also from a strong dedication to the ideals upon which our country was founded.  I look at our first amendment rights, and I wonder why this is even an argument.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise of...

Thanks to this same first amendment, which goes on to protect the right of free speech, those who are vehemently opposed to the mosque's construction, have every right to express their concern and anger and...I want to use the word hate, but I don't want to offend.

I believe that the men who flew their planes into the towers on September 11, 2001, were no more "religious" than I believe that the guy on TV who is asking you to send him money for his "prayer ministry" is religious.  I believe there is a different between faith and religion.  I believe that the majority of Muslim Americans have the same American values that you and I share.  Because a few exceptions to this rule exist is no reason we should prevent people from worshiping in the way their faith dictates.  Timothy McVeigh was raised Roman Catholic, and he was a registered Republican.  Should we then prevent the Catholic Church from constructing a cathedral in Oklahoma City?  Should registered Republicans refrain from conducting political activities near the site of the bombed Federal Building?  When we take even one step down this slope, we end up restricting the rights of everyone.   Not too many hundreds of years ago Christians were conducting torture, pillage, murder and rape in the name of the Church.  If we restrict the right to worship for every denomination who has ever been involved in violence or intolerance, there'd be no churches in America.  Except for maybe the Scientologists, but I hear they're a cult and not a religion. (THAT WAS TONGUE IN CHEEK, DON'T GET MAD)

And so I start getting mad, and I can't understand why people don't get this. And I sort of lose any chance of making headway in the discussion because the very second you lose your temper you lose your audience.

And today, I read possibly the most lucid, ego-less and loving commentary imaginable on this issue.  Please, wherever you stand on this issue, go to the following link and read Faiqa's words.  Comment if you like.  Try and understand from a different point of view, one that has nothing to do with politicism or legality.  Her post and her words are the best piece I've read on this issue yet.  If we can come together in a place of understanding and acceptance, maybe we can start to heal this damnable rift.

Faiqa's Follow Up on Ground Zero

 

The Grand Scheme of Things

It's a good thing its Friday.  That means tomorrow's Saturday.  That means tomorrow is the day I can go ride for a few hours, and right now I really need to go be on a horse.

As much as this was a productive week (I cleared out the jungle in the front that used to be a vegetable garden.  Cleared it to the ground.  Go, me) it has also been a very difficult week emotionally.  First there was this, and believe me it has been a very difficult time at work. Everyone is emotional, odd things and comments set off random bouts of tears.  Not only that, but someone close to me is having an enormous personal struggle, and I'm worried very much about their safety and well being.   And frankly, when I read the news, I sort of understand why people feel so damned hopeless. This is a hard world we live in, and we are in frightening times of late.  On top of everything else, my dog Lady has really been on my mind lately.  I'm missing her so much it takes my breath away sometimes. 

Friday nights are hard, as well, because the kids are at their dad's, and even though I often relish my quiet time, and I get my time to ride on Saturdays because they are spending time with J, I still miss them.  I always feel a little at loose ends on Friday nights.  I don't go out much, so its just me and the critters.  Half the time I eat a bowl of cereal standing in the kitchen, watching Olbermann and wondering why I'm such a pathetic homebody. 

In this little corner of the world, I look at all the voices clamoring for attention.  I know I'm one of them, a speck among the multitude, seeking relevance, seeking understanding, seeking connection.  At the beginning and the end of it all, and most of the time in between, we are truly alone with ourselves.  We suffer pain alone.  We can seek out comfort from others, we can receive solace from the support and love of those around us, but ultimately each of us bears our own pain in our own way, and no one else knows its depths or its breadth.  Thinking of the pain of others often releases me from the necessity of dealing with my own feelings.  It tends to remind me, as well, that even when my life seems very small, insignificant and challenging, I have many blessings and that spending time dwelling on what is painful isn't really a helpful way to spend my time.  Still, its there.  For all of us.

How do we find hope and meaning in all of this?

Faith helps me.  I don't know if there's a "grand plan" for my life, but I have the hope that there's something more, something greater.  My friend Charles tells me there is.  Actually, he tells me a lot of jokes, too, and you know those help. 

My children help me.  How can I not look on these faces and feel that my life has meaning, has purpose?

 

I can also look at the kindness of friends and family, like Michelle, who every Saturday blesses me by coming by with her horse trailer and taking me out to the trail.  Like my brother, who every time he comes to visit me takes my kids to play for a couple of hours and then cooks me dinner on top of it.  My online community, who send me tweets and leave me comments, and give me so much support just by being there.

And I see things like this .  And I remember that despite all in this world that is painful and hard and scary, that there really IS love and hope.  And sparkly unicorns that leave glittering piles of happy. 

And I still get to ride tomorrow. 

Against the tide

A coworker took his life last week. 

His story, mostly unknown to me, is not mine to tell.  Events like this, though, tend to send even the most callous of hearts deep into pools of introspection, and I'm no exception.

How many times have you been there, where he must have been?  In that dark pit of hopelessness, where there seemed to be no hope, no help, no acceptable course of action other than.  That.  That place.  Like a lot of you, I've been there a time or two and managed to climb back out.  I claim no special insight as to why.  I just know I made it back past the edge, even when everything inside me was screaming out to just let go of all of the pain and make it stop.  MAKE.  IT.  STOP.   Fear of what might happen to my children, my beloved animals, my parents - effective tools against plunging off the cliff.  Fear of what lies on the other side of the veil, also effective.  In the most gut-wrenching despair, there has been the voice of God in my mind, the sense of arms holding me tight, a presence that seemed to say "You are not alone." 

What in life is so insurmountable that we cannot move past it?  I have no answer.  And the response is different for every single one of us.  Why do some people look at the darkest of circumstances and attach themselves to the one tiny speck of shiny twinkling light that they can find, and others can't even see the light, or worse yet, reject it in favor of the blackness? 

I'm not a Pollyanna.  I know that there are times when the only way is farther down because there is no apparent up.  I know that there are times when there is simply NO acceptable alternative.  There are times when the only thing to do is pick the least of the worst case scenarios and turn the switch.  I would think it rude of me to assume that simply telling someone "There is hope" is the answer.  BUT I BELIEVE THERE IS HOPE.  Always.  Its just that we have different ways, all of us, of finding it.  Some of us cannot, will not find it on our own.  Sometimes it takes help to be able to work around the Bad Thing that is pulling us into the current.

When we are caught in the undertow, it can become impossible to struggle against that tide, to find safety.  Sometimes we need to be carried awhile, to be pulled to shore by strong and caring hands.  I wish this man had been able to reach out and I am so heartbroken for him that he was not. 

If you are at the end of your rope, please find someone to talk to.  If there is no friend you believe can listen to you, call your local crisis line or suicide hotline.  Call your pastor, your mother, your sister, your high school Spanish teacher or your doctor.  Call me, if that's what it takes.  Just call.  Let someone help you find your way back to shore.

 

Of Sand, Mist and Memory

 

 

12 years since I've been to that beach.

We arrived late in the evening, too late for little feet to go into the water.  Early the next morning, while my children and my parents slumbered, I tiptoed out of the bunkhouse and found the wooded path to the dunes.  Over one rise and then the next, dew from the sea grass soaking my sneakers, and there it was.  The Pacific Ocean.

The last time I was here heralded momentous changes in what eventually became my Old Life.  I walked on the sand in the predawn light and thought about that old life, the events of the long weekend at the ocean.  There is no regret.  My life has unfolded and grown and taken the twisty byways.  I regret nothing.

Eventually I stopped and turned to head back.  As I did so, a juvenile bald eagle flew right over my head and landed on the sand some distance away.  I watched him for a few moments, then continued walking.  As I crossed back over the dunes to the wooded path, another eagle, a mature adult this time, flew over me and landed down on the sand next to the shore. 

An omen?  A welcoming?  Perhaps.  Perhaps nothing more than the typical morning fare for the local eagle population, but seen through the eyes of an infrequent visitor, a special slice of time to be treasured.

For four days we went to the water at every opportunity.  We dug toes in sun-kissed sand, shoveled the water right out of the ocean into our buckets, marveled over the amazing designs God puts onto the shells of sea creatures, chased seagulls screaming and flapping into the air.  We light fires at night and savored the sweetness of chocolate, marshmallow and graham cracker all melted together.  We told stories.  We listened.  We laughed and we lived in the moment.

As all things must come to an end, so did our sojourn by the sea. I am Home.   I return full of thoughts and emotions to sort through; conversations with my parents, vignettes of my children playing on the beach etched into my mind's eye.  I am glad to be home.  And somewhere, deep in my subconscious, my feet are still standing in salt water, being one with the ocean.

 

 

The Less I Know

Converse of that old saying, "The older I get the more I know," I believe my life is teaching me that the older I get the LESS I actually do know.  At least, the less I find I that I will fight you to the death to be right about.

I have begun to find that I am a woman who likes it when her ideas are challenged; likes it when she has to admit she's wrong.  I do.  Its painful sometimes, but I still like it. 

Its not that I don't have opinions, thoughts, beliefs.  I do.  There are still, in my outlook, some things that aren't so flexible.  Protecting children.  Mandatory castrations for rapists and child molesters.  UW tops WSU.  Basketball trumps football.  Life is a journey.  Voting is a right people died to attain for you so get off your ass and do it.  That sort of thing.  But a lot of the other things I "used to know" -  they've changed and evolved over the years, my thoughts on relationships, parenting, politics, faith.  When I was in my 20's I would take a stand and prepare for battle.  I KNEW what I knew. If you didn't agree with me you were questionable. I was absolutely rigid in the strength of my convictions and my knowledge of the future.  Every life-altering decision I made was right for me - whether it was or not.  I played hopscotch on the landscape of my future, firm in the unwavering resolve of my immature mind.  Humility was an infrequent, perhaps completely absent companion.  My life was an adventure written on scraps of paper then cast willy-nilly into the air.  I didn't realize then that it was paper I was casting, I believed it was stones, stones that would stay where thrown and sit tight under the weight of my will.  But paper it was and paper it remains. 

Paper swirls and dances and tosses on the wind of chance and whim.  Paper might stay still if you can put your finger on a corner and hold it there, but if you are distracted even for a moment, off that paper flies to dance and skitter across the yard.

Consequence.  It was a word I struggled mightily to avoid, large, unforgiving, crushing.  As long as I could avoid consequence I could live in the denial that my ego demanded.  Eventually, like chickens come home to roost, consequence found me.  Picked me up and body-slammed me to the ground.  As I lay there, gasping for breath, realization dawned that the consequences were not going to end quickly or painlessly.  No wonder I had avoided them for so long.

The amazing thing about having your life fall apart is the opportunity that it creates. 

It has been the end of my assurance to self and others that I have it all figured out.  It has been the acceptance of my humanity and all of the simultaneous strength and frailty that term encompasses.  In the last year I have learned, slowly and painfully, that I'm not always right.  That just because I have an expectation doesn't mean that it is reasonable.  That if someone disagrees with me I don't have to argue them down into the dust; that I can listen to their thoughts and beliefs with my ears AND my mind open. 

It was when I realized I knew nothing that the path to learning everything opened wide. 

Listless Monday: Things I've Lost/Things I've Gained

I take a great deal of satisfaction in having come to motherhood at what the doctors like to refer to as "advanced maternal age".  (And the doctors can just smooch my butt, by the by.  Ageist douchebags)  I know plenty of women who procreated young, married young.  Women I went to high school with are grandparents already, while my youngest isn't in kindergarten yet.  I know that parenting can be harder when you don't have the energy you had, but in many ways it can also be extremely satisfying.  Unlike my friends who by necessity became mature adults when they were in their late teens/early twenties, I enjoyed more than a decade of doing whatever the hell I wanted whenever I felt like it.  I wished I'd traveled more.  Wished I'd written that novel.  But still and all, those were very good years.  I don't have the lingering feeling that I missed my youth.  Now that I'm approaching middle age, I don't have any desire to get a fancy car or a younger boyfriend, or even to go out and hit the party scene as I see too many women my age doing.  I know many of them are trying to make up for a youth they never got to fully enjoy thanks to the responsibilities and fiscal burden of being young parents.   I got to sow my wild oats - and then some, thank you very much. 

No, the things I miss now, as a mom, are not the things that one might expect.  But there are things that are gone from my life, things I really wish I still had:

1.  Language.  I have a B.A. in English.  I have been reading since the age of 3.  I LOVE words.  I like nothing more than reading a deft turn of phrase or a scene described so vividly that I can smell and feel it.  Words used to roll off of my tongue and pen with the ease of a well-oiled hinge.  No longer.  With the onset of my first pregnancy, I fell victim to the dreaded cerebrus maternus-- MOMMY BRAIN.  This insidious disease has taken root deep in my system, and the most prevalent symptom is complete dyspraxia.  I KNOW there is a word that I want to use.  I just can't REMEMBER IT.    And so I have gone from being what I used to gloatingly consider an eloquent person to one who stammers and says "SHIT!  What was that word?  SHIT!"  constantly.

2.  Abs.  I am pretty sure there are still muscles inside my abdomen.  But I can' find them.  Endless crunches, yoga dvds, leg raises and shredding a la Jillian Michaels have failed to cause them to reappear, so I must finally accept the fact that they are gone forever. Along with whatever used to resemble skin tone being my navel and pubic bone.  Seriously, is the skin there always going to wrinkle and sag? 

3.  Money.  Sometimes I have this great dream, wherein I go get a pedicure and have my legs waxed, hit the salon for a good haircut.  Then I go to Barnes & Noble and drop $150 on books, and stop and have a grande nonfat vanilla latte at Starbucks.  On the way home I fill up my tank with premium gasoline, and when I go to the grocery store I buy WHATEVER.  I.  WANT.  Then I wake up.  I cry.  The end.

4.  Coherency.  I believe that the loss of logic and deductive reasoning is a secondary symptom of cerebrus maternus.  Along with the inability to speak, I have lost the ability to remember things like math and people's names, follow simple directions or respond appropriately in social situations.   I try to yell at my dogs and I call them by my children's names - I try to yell at my children and I call them by the dog's names.  I have solved this problem by simply yelling "HerculesRoscoeFosterDogChildAChildB - STOP THAT!!!!"   I put milk away in the cupboards, I pour coffee on my cereal, and on more than one occasion have arrived at work to find that I have two different shoes on my feet. 

5. Me Time.  Its not that I was ever the kind of girl who was into meditation and quiet moments.  But I have always enjoyed having time to bury my nose in a book or sit and watch a movie without interruption.  In the past 8 years, the only time that I have been able to read more than one paragraph of a novel without hearing "Mommy!  I have to go potty!"  "Mommy, I'm hungry"  "Mommy, the dog ate my Barbie and then pooped out her shoe!"  have been when I was traveling for business and staying in a hotel room by myself.  J used to think that my work trips were my chance to go live it up in strange towns with strange men.  In truth, the strangest thing happening was that I would run myself a nice quiet bath, get a glass of wine from room service and fall asleep in a warm tub while reading a book.  I know, you're thinking "Good God, that woman's a HELLION!" 

6.  Music.  They may finally be getting over it, but I have not been allowed to play the piano or sing since my daughter could speak.  Music has always been a part of my life - fourteen years of piano lessons, singing at weddings or whenever I could, teaching myself to play the guitar.  There was a time in my life when I sat at the keys nearly every day.  When the Amazon Girl was a baby, there didn't seem to be time, and the last thing I wanted to do if she was giving me a few minutes of free time by napping was wake her up with my piano playing.  When she was a toddler and could entertain herself, I thought to myself "Finally!  NOW I can play!"  I sat on the piano bench, selected a nice old jazz standard and started to play.  No more had the first notes of "It Had to Be You" left my mouth, when suddenly a curly-haired virago appeared next to my chair.  "NO MOMMY!!  NO SINGING!"  I patiently invited her to sit on my lap.  She refused.  "NO!  Mommy NO SING!"  And so it went.  Every time I sat at the piano for more than a few minutes, a tantrum ensued.  After the second child arrived, any attempt to enjoy a few minutes at the keys resulted in a fight erupting, something being broken, or an emergency which required my immediate attention.  I have been forced to acknowledge that my children were born with an internal radar which informs them the moment I have decided to play the piano.  I can prove this, because last weekend they were playing at the neighbors and after I finished my housework I sat down at the piano.  No sooner had I started to play than daughter fell over and skinned both her knees.  I could hear her screaming from half a block away.   I'm going to try it next when they're at their dad's.   What are the odds they can hear me then?

The price tag for parenting is high, in many respects.  And when I take the time to think about the things that I miss most about being a child-free adult, what strikes me more than those things I no longer have is the presence of new things in my life that I cannot imagine living without.

1.  Purpose.  Before I became a mother, I wandered aimlessly through life.  I did whatever I felt like doing at the moment, I took the opportunities that came along, but I had no direction.  The arrival of my children changed that, not just by necessity, but by the awakening of the realization that I had found my place in the world.  I have identified myself with many titles in my lifetime, all of them meaningful and profound.  Daughter, Cowgirl, Athlete, Adoptee, Friend.  Of all of the titles I hold dear, I cherish "Mother" the most.  And because it is so important to me to live up to all that being a Mom means, I have no choice but to have a direction.  To know where I'm going and what I stand for. 

2.  Flexibility.  Nothing used to annoy me more than when my Grand Plans for things got screwed up.  I always know how I want things to go, and rigidly following plan was also a way of coping with my ADHD.  Any mother knows that while children want and need structure in their lives, that in the grander scheme of everyday, Plans, while noble in concept, are only meant to be adapted to Circumstance.  A Plan is a good thing.  Start with one and do your best to follow it.  If you have children, be prepared for your Plans to be disrupted.  Constantly.  The bigger challenge to me was to learn to be OK with that.  On the large and small scale, I have learned that one of the kindest things I can do for myself as a parent is to learn to be flexible.  To learn that MY plans aren't always going to happen, and to be OK anyway.  My children have given me a great gift by teaching me flexibility. 

3.  Relaxation.  And I don't mean the "spa weekend" kind of relaxation.  Technically falling under the category of Flexibility, relaxation is what happens when you stop trying to be on time for everything, when you stop watching the clock and panicking because you're going to be late for work/church/dinner/appointments.  Relaxation is when you take a deep breath and decide to live in the moment and not care that you didn't make it to the movies because your kids decided to dismantle your washing machine and throw your car keys in the garbage.  Its a survival skill - Relax or lose your mind.  You pick.

4.  Love.  I know, its such a cliche.  It can't be helped.  I thought I knew what love was before.  I thought the love I felt in my relationships was the ultimate kind of love, that needing-wanting to be with someone all the time, that desire for closeness and rapport.  The kind of love I felt for my parents, needing, wanting to please.  The kind of love I felt for my dog or my horse, having someone I could be around who loved me without an agenda, who liked me for me and made me feel good about myself.  Certainly special, but nothing compared to the depth of love you feel when you hold your child for the first time.  When some mechanism deep in your soul that you never realized existed awakens and you realize that THIS is the person you would die for.  This is the person you would sacrifice everything for.  This is the person that no matter what, you will do whatever you can to ensure they are protected, happy.  There is no moment in the world that is so perfect as that moment when both of my children are near me.  None.

5.  Faith.  It was easy to walk away from faith before I was a parent.  When that changed, my perception of the entire universe shifted.  How could I not look at the perfection of my baby, feel that upwelling of joy and fierce love, and not understand that there indeed WAS a greater purpose in life?  Not feel intimately linked to Creation?  My faith has been shaped by my experience as a parent, my understanding of Who I believe God to be honed by my own relationship with my children. 

6.  Family and Friends.  My boundaries and definitions of family were refined once I became a parent.  I began to appreciate and enjoy my own parents even more, because I was finally able to understand what the challenges of raising children can be like, I was able to see how a parent might be doing just the best they can in a difficult circumstance.  I stopped having resentments about the things they did that I didn't agree with, because I got to experience how it felt to have other people question your choices or your parenting style.  My relationships with other certain members of my family deepened, because we finally had some common ground.  Children are life's great equalizers. You might meet someone with whom you think you have nothing in common, but if you are both parents, suddenly you have everything in common.  Interestingly, the people in my life with toxic qualities suddenly became easier to say "no" to.  I no longer have the luxury of tolerating bad behavior, I have children who are learning from me about what friendship means.  I want to model healthy relationships, which means I have to HAVE healthy relationships.

7.  Self Esteem.    Physical perfection no longer matters.  I have to learn to accept myself so that my daughter will not be twisted by my own body dysmorphia.  But even deeper than learning to accept my imperfections has been learning to recognize my strengths.  My children (at least for now) think that there is nothing I can't do.  I can bandage every cut, soothe every hurt, I know how to operate the lawnmower and how to drive a car.  In my children's eyes, I am Superwoman!  Its hard to buy into negative perceptions from others when the people who matter most in the world to me think that I am beautiful, smart, powerful, amazing.  The opinions of the outside world fade into just so much noise, and I can hold my head high, because I have the antidote to the poison of their negativity.

And there you go.  Two lists for . Have yourself a nice day, now.