Sorry, Life Got In The Way

I've been meaning to write for the past week, but life happens.  Nothing major, just the little things--an errand here, a craft there.  Dinner, the dog, laundry.  It wouldn't be a problem, but I've been noticing lately (okay, pretty much for the past 9 years) that I don't let life get in the way, I seem to PUT life in the way. 

What I mean is this--before I can sit and cuddle or read or draw with my daughter, I've got to vacuum up the dog hair.  Before I can build the next great Star Wars gun ship with my son, I've got laundry or the bills.  It's not that I don't want to do these things (I do!, I do!), its that I want everything else 'perfect' before I do them.  For some reason I seem to think that "it" will all be better if I sit down to do these things in a clean house, glowing with soft candle light and smelling of lavender and Beef Bourguignon.

I think part of it comes from this self-induced perception that I don't pull my share of load at home.  I work outside the house, my husband inside the house.  And I get worried that I'm putting it all on his shoulders--the house, the kids, the dog, etc.   The reality is that we've got a pretty equitable split of the load that is life:  he does the dishes, I do the bills.  Everything else gets done as we do it--sometimes its me, sometimes it's him.

I think part of it comes from another thing that is self-induced--the dream of perfect motherhood.  I know, I know...I can hear the cackles  and guffaws already.  There is no such thing--and if there were, would we know it when we saw it?  I don' t think so.  Perfection, much like beauty, is totally in the eye of the beholder. 

And let's face it, on this subject, my eye is totally skewed because no matter how much I may want it to happen, there is no way my kids would sit up after a marathon game of Monopoly and say, "This was perfect because the floors were so clean they reflected the candlelight, and the Chopin during my drive to build on Park Ave was instrumental in my success--and finally mother, the repast of French chocolate and Ladyfingers really helped me deal with being sent directly to jail, without passing Go and collecting $200."

It's just not going to happen. Ever.  Unless they read this and then mock me about it over the Thanksgiving break.  Now that would be perfection in their eyes.  Good enough.

According to my phone, I may be pregnant

I'm not sure how it came off to the other people in the meeting, but looking back I'm prety sure it was, without a doubt, a rediculous sight. Yes, the moment I nonchalantly powered up my iPhone during a meeting, as we all are wont to do when things get slow, only to have it flash a message to "see my ob" as I was probably pregnant. The eek!, the dropped phone, the scrabbling under the table to pick it up, the hitting of my head on the underside of the table, the stand up, the sit down (fight, fight, fight! say the cheerleaders).

Eventually I got out of the meeting, into the ladies room and, with a couple of deep breaths, assessed my reality. "I", I announce to the bathroom, "am not pregnant!"  "There is no possibility I am with child!" I say again (dramatic language supplied by Regency Romances).  "No friggin chance," I say, looking at myself sideways in the mirror--which was, quite frankly, not helpful at all.

Back to the phone, the message is still there.  I do some sliding and tapping and voila!  My phone now confirms for me that I am not pregnant.  Duh!

But to be fair, it wasn't the fault of my iPhone.  All blame, without a doubt, should be placed entirely on my husband's shoulders.  Oh, not the pregnancy, because there isn't one, believe me.  (He was getting snipped before our youngest was barely cleaned up.)  But everything else?  Absolutely!  You see, now that he's got his iPhone, he is the King of Apps.  He's always showing me this cool one or that helpful one and today at lunch, it was the one that "helps you with your period."  Frankly, I should have thought this statement through a bit, mostly because on this subject, I define "help" vastly different than he does. 

Anyway, this app, which I admit I promptly downloaded, tracks your cycle for you, complete with happy and sad faces for good and bad days---and lightning bolts for crampy days--just in case you don't notice them yourself.  I tried it out by entering some data and then, realizing what time it was, scampered off to my meetings for the afternoon.  Two hours later, because of this hurried, incomplete data, I scared myself--and probably a few others--silly.

Look, I love my iPhone, don't get me wrong, but haven't we gone a little ape with the apps?  According to 148apps.biz, "the" reputable site on all things Apple, there are currently 98,401 ACTIVE apps, with another 10,156 inactive ones--created by over 23,000 unique app publishers.  We spend, believe it or not, $2.4 billion per year on apps according to AdMob.  I have to ask:  Were we, as a human race, that needful of help or entertainment?  Were we missing opportunities, experiences, or dare I say it, pregnancies because we did not have the right app?  Or were we not maximizing, enhancing, tracking, journaling or mashing our lives up enough? 

And how much more inefficient or stressed are we with all of this now in our lives?  If I download enough apps, it makes sense that I'll eventually have to download an app organizing app, right?  If I don't, I'll likely get stressed because I won't be able to find anything. But luckily for me, there are a number of highly rated stress-busting apps...which once I download, I'll not be able to find as I did not purchase the app organizing app.

aarrrgh.

Luckily for me, in my real life there is always the yummilicious husband at home who, when the time is right, the kids are asleep, the dog isn't barking and the shower isn't leaking, is my own free "de stresser app". And, if he needs a little kick-start, there is always the highly rated, fully customizeable foreplay game "Sexytime Fun Pro" that we can download onto my iPhone.

Which is, I believe, right where this all started.

Oh Body, My Body

There are moments when I catch sight of myself in a mirror or a window and I do not realize who the person is staring back at me.  It catches me off-guard rather stunningly each time.  That's because in my mind I am thinner...much, much thinner.  Or taller, much, much taller.  It's not as if I'm actively fooling myself, but the physicality of "me" that I believe I am is vastly different that the "me" I actually am.  I read a science journal once that described this situation and apparently I'm in good company--if I remember correctly, about 90% of people interviewed held a very different perception about themselves than what the reality was (whether this perception was about weight, wrinkles or the size of their nose).

As well, doing research for a client, I stumbled upon something called the "Teachable Moment", which is a moment when something happens that alters your thinking about a very important behavior.  When it comes to women and their weight, these teachable moments supposedly happen up to 3 times a day.  Which is good in that it provides us a lot of moments to learn from.  But on the other hand, it's like our mothers got together and passed on their nagging capabilities to the inanimate objects in our lives...It's on the days that I find myself telling the store window, car window or dressing room mirror to fuck off that I've know I've reached my limit of teachable moments (on that subject and on that day anyway).

Here's the thing--most of the time I can laugh and learn from those moments and I'm happy to say that I'm actively engaged in creating a 'me' that won't be caught in front of a Nordstroms window cursing it with a string of profanity likely to cause the writers on Family Guy to curl up shaking in fetal positions.  But there are moments that just fucking kill me--I mean grit my teeth, burst into tears, eat chocolate and KFC mashed potatoes with gravy kill me.  Two examples to follow.

First, not too long ago my daughter asked me to come read to her class.  I said I would and she went on talking about what I needed to know, do and not to do. I was nodding along until she mentioned  that it would be her job to tell her friends not laugh and hurt my feelings. I asked her to re-wind and she explained that she didn't want her friends to laugh at me because I'm fat.  Damn.  I went from 'fluffy mama' to embarrasing in one single instant.  These are the moments that remind me for all of the right reasons...health, family, responsibility. 

There there are those like in example number two.  This weekend, opening night of the Opera season, our 14th wedding anniversary outing to La Boheme and the (supposedly) extra special "Montemarte Experience".  Strolling outside at intermission with a glass of champagne, looking at the skylights and the mini-Eiffle Tower they had put up, surrounded by caricaturists there to capture us in all of our black-tie glory-with a hint of humor.  Well, he might of thought it was funny, but there was a reason my husband moved us away from the 'artiste' rather quickly.  I went from feeling seriously curvaciously, Rubenesquely hot to Carol Channing drag-queen in two seconds flat.  I mean, the guy took extra time to put in the four double chins and tiny beady eyes.  These are the teachable moments that remind me for all of the wrong--or vain--reasons why I want to lose some poundage--how other people see me.

(Luckily, with a few well placed gropes and solid kisses from my tattooed hotty of a husband I was quickly back on track and we had a really lovely, funny, loving night despite said artist and some surprisingly bad food.)

But back to the issue at hand.  Here's where I net out:  These teachable moments, whether right or wrong, positive or negative, meant or not meant--they are a tool in my ongoing fight with myself and my body.  I just have to learn which ones are more effective tools for me. Secondly, my weight is about more than me--it's about time I faced up to that.  And finally and in some ways, most importantly, I need to get over it.  For too long it has been too much a part in how I define myself and how I've let, even demanded, others define me.  Seriously, I can imagine that for those of my friends and family who don't see the weight first, that it's downright boring.

So I guess the next time I catch a glance of myself in the window and wonder who that person is, the answer is simply, me.

Cry Love or Parenting through John Hiatt

John Hiatt said it best, even though he was coming at it from a different context...tears of an angel, spilling all over your heart.  That's how I feel when my kids cry 'that cry'.  The one the comes from the deep, scary hurt of not understanding. When a friend, a parent or even a stranger does something (purposefully or not)that is so antithetical to how they view the world this pain pours out from them, sad and melodious, soft and old, fearful and yet searching for new, solid ground.

This cry, THIS cry, this cry!  It slays me. I ache inside knowing that another bubble has burst for them, another lesson learned, a new understanding of the perfect imperfect.  I want to fix it.  I want to rail at the universe even though I know that in time--whether it's 10 minutes or 10 days--they will have forgotten or assimilated or whatever little ones do when they face such an experience.

In the face of this cry I push down my eternal need to fix, to help them run from the feelings by logically talking them through it--because those are my issues, damn it!  Instead I curl silently around them, soft and squishy, surrounding them with the feels and smells of the familiar and safe. (I don't smell, according to my daughter, as good as the burnt toast smell as my husband, but I come in a close second with a 'donut powder' smell.)

Sometimes we just sit there quietly until they get up silently and run away to play.  Sometimes they fall asleep, the wet, sobby hiccups making them feel smaller in my arms then they actually are.  Sometimes, depending on the act that precipitated this, I'll feel my way into the subject, trying to put the pieces together for them, and me, and the other person (typically the other sibling). 

But what I love the most is when they start talking--sometimes about the incident, most of the time not.  Just quiet chatter, about nothing and everything.  Eventually a few giggles, a more certain tone, a straighter back.  It's not a 'teaching' moment, but at the same time it isn't not one.  It's organic and self-directed and it--calming, and soft and lovely--grows, pushing the ache aside, leaving a bright, clean energy like what exists after a good, cleansing rain.  And best of all, we both feel better for it, and life moves on with a different, better perspective.

John Hiatt says it best: have a little faith me...when the tears you cry are all that you believe, give these lovin arms a try...from a whisper start, have a little faith in me.

While obviously not written as one, this is a parenting mantra I can get behind--no matter what form or face it takes, families having a little faith in each other is a pretty good place to be, especially during times when a lot answers, time and certainty feel scarce.

Building a Generation with a Voice

My son and I were looking at a recent picture in the New York Times showing a man spraying a policeman with milk from the teat of a cow. It definitely grabbed your attention--the physics of the act alone made the picture astounding, not to mention the skill of the man doing the spraying. It garnered a good laugh and the subsequent conversation about all of the different animal/policeman combinations was (disturbingly) illuminating to say the least.

Unfortunately the story itself wasn't as engaging to either myself or my 9-year old son--and that's the problem. The article--about dairy farmers taking to the streets in support of their livelihood--should have been interesting to us both in terms of the issue and the action the farmers took to try and create the change they wanted. But, as my son said as he ran out the door "...it sooooo isn't cool Mom".

But why not? We are a country started with the ultimate of all protests. Our founding 'bad boys' thumbed their noses but good at the powers that be. Rosa Parks, the march on Selma, the march on the Pentagon in '67 and Stonewall in 1969, Kent State, the Million Man March, the road blockades in January, 1991 against the first Gulf War--all of these were powerful, effective movements driven by a collective desire for an idea or ideal.

Today these ideals have been corrupted. We feel righteously cool just by 'opting in' to the Darfur group on Facebook or 'signing' the latest Move-On letter to our Congressman. We show up to a Tea Party organized and staged by others, stand where they tell us to and say that it is a genuine movement.

I'm not advocating for violence, but rather against President Lincolns 'sin of silence'. We should teach our children how to be heard, to feel confident in standing up for what they believe, to follow their heart--and feet--to a crowd of other believers. And they should know they can change the world that way.

I know--I better watch out what I ask for. I'll have little Parks and Kings and Ghandi's bringing my household to a standstill. But what they do to me today, is what they do for me tomorrow. I'm thinking it's a decent trade-off.

On Becoming A Woman or Why JC Penny Makes Me Shudder a Bit

So my daughter asked me the other night when she would become a woman.  Given her previous disgust at being a girl, I was actually excited by this question, thinking that we may have turned a corner. 

Then came the flashback--Summer of 1977, JC Penny dressing room, Medford, OR.  I explain to my mother that 'something happened'...she gets all flustered, runs out (leaving me in the dressing room I might add with no explanation for 20 minutes) to a store to buy "something", comes back, we do 'something' and we all leave.  It's over.  Thank God.  Then we get into the street and my Dad gives me a hug and says, "I'm so proud of you, you are a woman now".

At the time I was just to embarrased to say anything--much less think this whole thing through.  As the years went by my thoughts were mainly centered around "JC Penny?"  I mean seriously,  JC Penny?  We had to have the whole giant pad discussion in a JC Penny?  Not to mention the fact that I learned that I couldn't use tampons until after I was married...for "obvious reasons".  Actually, at the time they weren't that obvious to me I am embarrased to say. I can laugh now, in a crazy high-pitched way, but at the time...

Now, faced with this question from my daughter (who had just turned seven) I realized on some level I had been thinking it through over the years and the fact was I didn't want  to give that answer--because I think that answer is complete and utter shite actually. Pure bunk  I wasn't a woman just because my body had begun to complete certain biological changes.  I also didn't become a woman when I had sex for the first time (sorry Regency Romances).  Or had my first orgasm.  Or fell in love.  Or had my heart broken.  Or broke someone's heart. Or really fell in love. Or really, really fell in love. Or got married.  Or had a child.  Or another child. Or sent someone I love away.  Or when I welcomed him home. Or in the million other moments in between these. 

I don't understand the"tah dah-I am now a woman" moment. I do understand one of my favorite characters, Margaret Simon in Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret (on the Banned Book list, btw) wanting to feel more womanly by getting her period. I get that idea, a moment/experience/event that is of feeling something more in terms of what you already are.  I'd be interested in hearing from other women on this though, but for me, I don't believe in the  "exact moment" theory of womanhood. 

But of course it did happen somewhere in the midst of or in the culmination of time between 1977 JC Penny and This Minute.  Somewhere in there or along the way, woman became more than a modifier...just like mother, wife, daughter or employee.  And like each of those titles, I know there were moments where I felt more of or less of a woman. I also know there were/are/will be moments when I feel I am the woman I was meant to be--however I define it.  And that's the thing I want to teach my daughter--that's it not about when you become a woman, but what type of woman you become.  And, for once I'm not turning to books (only because I did once and I found the group of books telling me  how to be the woman he wants, the woman God wants, a woman with a voice, a boss, not a bitch, happy, Mrs Potato Head, Barbie, sexy, fabulous, rich, thin, good, bad to be a tad overwhelming and angst-creating to say the least). 

So, instead of telling my daughter when, I asked her what kind of woman she wanted to be.  She said she wanted to be the kind with boobs--and a motorcycle.  "Awesome", I said.    

My Brain has a Brain of its Own OR Viggo, Jon and Chocolate

Last night around 10:30 I informed my daughter for the umpteenth time that it was time for her to sleep. She said her brain wasn't tired. I told her to tell her brain to go to sleep—that she was the boss. She came back with, 'Mom, you know I can't do that, my brain has a brain of its own."

It's hard to argue when she thinks she is making perfect sense and according to neuroscientists at UCLA, she's kinda-sorta right. According to a recent WSJ article, these neuroscientists found that we have specific neurons in our brains that are each dedicated exclusively to one specific idea, person or thing. The examples they gave (they are from L.A. ya know), were people with neurons dedicated to people such as Halle Berry, Oprah Winfrey, Madonna and even Homer Simpson. (Doh!)

My daughter obviously has a nerve cell exclusively dedicated to NOT sleeping. It makes sense, she is never tired, doesn't nap, is extremely active and only needs about 7 hours of sleep per night as opposed to the 11 that the experts says she needs at this age.

'Mom, since you are up now, let's have a conversation." So I told her about these doctors and how they found these things in our brains that only 'thought' about one thing. And I asked her what were the things her brain were focused on. Here is her list of thing-specific neurons:

Chocolate, eating lunch, Daisy (our dog), playdates (or lack thereof), Esme/Jada/Emma, Grandpa John, Turkeys, Questions, Not Sleeping, Chocolate (yes, she has two things that think about Chocolate), swimming and finally, Commander Gree (who is a Star Wars persona that she 'is' a couple times a day…fun).

Given that the article stated that the researchers believe that the neurons were responding "to the distillation of an experience" -- and not pictures, per se – this list makes perfect sense for my daughter. This list is the distillation of her experience at this exact point in her life. It is inevitable that this list will shift and change as she grows and as her experience in total grows—but there are certain neurons that will stay only about certain things—in her case, probably chocolate and turkeys…which is a whole other thing.

Anyway, she then asked me what my brain thingies thought about. I found my list mostly not-surprising…here it is:

Daughter/Son/Husband, Chocolate, family, travel, work, friends, weight, books, creativity, Husband, cheese, 'what ifs' and then to be honest, Viggo Mortensen and Jon Stewart.

Besides the fact that she thought that it was gross that I thought they were "cute", I'm totally going with my daughters reasoning here—my brain has a brain of its own. And, there are days when my brain spends what is probably an inordinate amount of time on one or the other, or both of these men.

The thing is, if these neurons are about the 'distillation of an experience", then Viggo and Jon make complete sense in that they are simply the "face" to a distilled experience in total for me….in this case, the experiences of my husband that rev my engine the most, so to speak…the combination of the brooding artist and the politically-focused funnyman. Viggo, for me anyway, brings the brooding artist to life—the craggy face, heavy lidded eyes, the perception of being a 'loner', painting, poetry, music, a great ass (essential!). Jon Stewart—the smart satire, ability to laugh at self, the laugh itself.

That I've personified these experiences with people who are attractive to me is not out of the ordinary—Lloyd Saxton speaks to the personified ideal in his book, The Individual, Marriage, and the Family. And, you could say that our whole obsession with celebrity culture is about finding and associating with the ideal as defined by your specific needs.

So, back to the list—it's obvious, from a scientific point of view, that having Viggo and Jon on my list is just like my daughter having Daisy and Commander Gree on her list. Completely innocent with no reason to worry.

Until, of course, I have a neuron that is all about the one idea of "What if Viggo, Jon and Husband were covered in chocolate?"

Writing with My Son, Or Not.

It is a rainy Sunday and Son and I are writing together while Dad and Daughter are out getting invitiations for her coming birthday party.  Son needs to write in his journal more for school, something he doesn't like to do oddly enough, and so I told him we'd write together. 

After discussions on various topics he decided on writing a poem about weather.  Me?  I decided on writing about how we both hate it when the person on the screen doesn't look anything like how the book described him or her.  So while he went upstairs to get his almanac to help him with weather words, I started writing and now I fear I'm on to a different topic.  Why?  Because he came down and showed me the Kids Almanac and how on page 73 there is a list of books that are in trouble of not being read these days and the reaons why.  He was using it to make the case that the reason he didn't want to read The Diary of Anne Frank is the same reason it is one of the most "attacked" books in recent years:  Too Depressing.

Well, yeah.  That's kinda the point--in an uplifing, let's never let this happen again sorta way.

It also says that Blubber, by Judy Blume is attacked because "the characters curse and the leader of the taunting is never punished for her cruelty."

Again...well, yeah.  Because that's real life.  Sometimes the mean people never get what's coming to them--or what you think should be coming to them.

Oh, I love this one. The reason that is given by people for why Shel Silversteins' A Light in the Attic is bad is that it has "suggestive illustrations that might encourage kids to break dishes so they don't have to dry them."

Really?  I mean, seriously, Really?  I read every Nancy Drew there is at least five times each growing up and I'm pretty sure my parents were never worried I was going to pair up with two of my friends and start solving crimes around town so I could become popular and date Mr. Wonderful.  Although it is possible looking back that they wished I had instead of well, the other stuff.   

The bottom line is that I will never understand thinking like this and I'm not sure I know how to explain it to others, i.e., my kids, except for the old fall back, 'they are idiots'.  Logically I could probably spin a paragraph or two, but I'd look at it like I look at some of the writing I do and just want to slap myself silly because it would be crap.

So, I do what I do, trying to find a way to make sense of this for myself and so I could help my kids make sense of it.  I was amazed to find that I had just missed "Banned Books Week" (9/26-10/3/09)!  Go figure.  I also learned that book banning is quite the little industry--no matter what side you come down on. Did you know that you can even shop Amazon.com by 'banned books'...yes, they have lists--which are both cool to look at, and scary as hell.

The whole thing kinda turned my stomach and so I stopped trying to make sense of it from a bigger picture point of view.  I'm just going to do what I normally do (whether it's National Geographic or a book or a television show), reach/watch with them and then talk about it with them.  Novel idea that doesn't cost me a thing.

My daughter is reading "If you Give A Mouse a Cookie", which we should finish fast before it gets banned for having words and pictures that could encourage children to be nice to rodents by giving them what they ASK for.

And, the weather poem turned into a battle of the wills, which I'm pretty sure we lost.  So much for the entire plan.

So, in order to feel like I might have accomplished something, here is a list of the 10 most banned books according to the ALA.  The wierd thing is, when I first saw it, I thought it was a list of the 10 books your child should absolutely have to read.  Again, go figure.  Happy reading everyone!


1.  1984 by George Orwell
2.  Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
3.  Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut
4.  Harry Potter Series, J.K. Rowling
5.  To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
6.  Ulysses, James Joyce
7.  The Chocolate War, Robert Cormier
8.  Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
9.  Forever, Judy Blume
10.  Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
.

Bras! and Jocks! and Cups!, oy vey

My daughter is fascinated by my bras.  Me, not so much.  I could go as far as to say that I despise them.  From the training bras from JC Penny's to the lace demi of today, I've never found one that doesn't show under a t-shirt, fits perfectly or doesn't make me want to rip it off in the middle of an airplane after a day long up and back trip for work. 

So it was with little to no sympathy that I faced my son who was experiencing his first jock strap and cup for his stint as catcher on his Little League team.  First it was too big, then too small, then it made him itch and sweat.  Ten minutes later he was still going on about walking funny and sounding funny.  After telling him he wouldn't have to worry about sounding funny if he'd stop "knocking" on his cup, I tried to tell him that he'd get used to it, that he'd be experiencing a lot of new things in the coming years...blah, blah, blah.  I mean it sounded trite to me and by the look on his face, it sounded more nonsensical than the parents in the Charlie Brown specials to him.

And then I found myself saying, jeez, it's a just cup for goodness sake--wear it!  And then something to the effect of , "And look, the pain of not wearing it is far more than the pain of wearing it."

Not my worst moment as a mother, but not my best. The reality is that sometimes it's hard being a mom to a boy.  I founder when trying to talk to him about 'boy things'...I fear I'm too soft, then I overcompensate by being too hard.  It's a bit of whiplash for the both of us, rarely satisfying.

Luckily at these times I have my fall backs, two books that help me regain my equilibrium as a mother of a boy.  The first, Raising Cain by Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson, has both depth and clarity on the issue of 'indoctrination' into the male culture, something I know/knew nothing about.  The second, Boys Should Be Boys by Meg Meeker is a common-sense look at how all the 'snails and puppy dog tail-ness' of boys is fine and how to encourage it with purpose in mind.  I've never been big on the self-help book train, but these are a life saver not only because they teach me new things, but they also remind me that I'm not marring him for life when I hover or share or whatever a bit too much or too little.

So, after practice and dinner, when he thrust his cup into the air and shouted, "let the glow of the cup light our way home", I was happy to yell back, "And the bra shall guide our way".   I think at that moment both of us hated our respective garments a little less than before.  And I'll take that as a check in the win column.

Smell and Memory/Joy and Trouble

Last night our son was telling us about this book he is reading Alvin Ho:  Allergic to Girls, School and Other Scary Things, by Lenore Look.  Alvin, our son explained, is trying to figure out how to do a lot of new things without being scared--and without talking.  He is, as he tells us in the book, as 'silent as a side of beef'. (great line!) Somewhere along the way we get to the part where Alvin takes his dad's ultra favorite childhood toy--a Johnny Astro figure--to school and things go horribly, horribly wrong.   At this point our son asked if I remember getting into trouble when I was little.  I swear, as soon as he asked, both he and his sister sat up straighter in their chairs, their eyes bright with hope, their little ears wanting all of the gory, painful details.  (Face it, your children love hearing stories about you getting into trouble--morbid curiosity at it's most innnocent.)

So laughter ensued when I told the story of when I was around 5 and I was playing Superman with a towel for a cape. I told how I ran into my parents room and up onto their huge bed--jumping and swooping, generally being the best Superman ever.  I remember feeling perfectly joyful, light and bright and the next moment knowing that I was in so much trouble that nausea roiled and knees knocked.  I had, in the midst of a perfect twirl of my cape, swept all of the beautiful bottles of perfume off of my mother's dresser. 

I know I got into trouble, who wouldn't?  But I don't remember the details of my punishment...my memories are of everything that came before. 

The sound of glass breaking and the smell of the different perfumes blending together in a closed room are perfectly preserved in my memory. I can't smell White Shoulders to this day without being transported back to that room.  To me White Shoulders is the color of the bedspread, the carpet, the drapes.  It is the feel of the room, of being in that room alone, the indescribable perfection of jumping on a big, bouncy bed and watching myself float and fly in the mirror, my towel/cape fluttering behind me like the tail of a kite.  It brings to mind a child feeling safe, surrounded by the sights and smells of her parents and yet also feeling the fear of a curious adventurer, being someplace you knew you weren't supposed to be, but being there, and wanting to be there, anyway.

Of course, I had lost the interest of my children by then.  They had no desire to hear about smell and memory, they just wanted to know what Grandma had done to me.  So, we went on talk about Daddy's exploits, Uncle Johnny's exploits, more of mine...needless to say, they were amused and satisfied by the end of dinner.

But I was stuck on the issue of smell and memory, and how smell is such a big part of my most vivid memories, both bad and good.  The heavy, sharp smell of pine trees and cut hay on hot, still summer days remind me of Nancy Drew, Pippi Longstocking and Anne of Green Gables.  The smoke from a wood fire of puzzles and Monopoly.  Wet rabbit fur (don't ask...so embarrasing) of my first date with someone who would turn out to by my first boyfriend.  I walked into a neighbor's garage the other day and was struck hard by the smell of my grandparents garage in Princeton, Illinois circa 1974-75....the place where they kept the olives....joy, joy and double-joy.

Diesel makes me think of a broken generator, the smell of feathers a chicken coop, rock salt reminds of haying time and my skin prickles.  We all have these experiences where one simple, or complex, aroma can bring to life a moment in time, a memory to cherish or shudder away.  Avery Gilbert in his book, What the Nose Knows, does a really wonderful job bringing this whole phenomenon to life in a fun way--the Journal of American Medical Association (JAMA) didn't call him the "Mark Twain of nasal passages for nothing". It is science as story, much like Guns, Germs and Steel and my all-time favorite, Cod:  Fish that Changed the World. (I also just like saying the title, it's fun.)

Two other artists/authors come to mind when I think of the smell/memory combination.  One is Memories that Smell like Gasoline by David Wojnarowicz. His book of autobiographical drawings and writings about the AIDS epidemic is stunning and difficult.  I read it one day in a coffee shop so oddly enough I associate it with the innocent cinnamon of coffe cake--the one I left untouched as I was so not in the mood for it after this book.

The second one is really a book about design, but also about aroma  and a person's experience of a city, Kyoto, and they combine beautifully in KyotEau:  Bottled Memories by Della Chuang.  There is a small sample of the actual perfume Kyoto KyotEau in the back, which makes the story complete for the reader.

For me, the smell of KyotEau will always remind me of sitting in my office reading something so wonderful, daydreaming about being someone else, overlaid by the angst of getting 'caught' because I should have doing something else. 

Smell and memory, joy and trouble...I'm right back where I started.  Lovely.

Decisions, Decisions Or, What Would Unicorn Do?

In our household, probably like any household with kids, the discussion on 'decisions' is a big one. We are trying to teach (while still learning ourselves) how to make good ones, how to learn from bad ones and that sometimes no decision is a decision--and that can be both bad and good.  It can become very confusing.

"So, you made a decision to pour water on your brothers bed?"

"No.  I didn't, my brain did"

"And why do you think your brain made that decision?" 

"Because it wanted to"

"Was that a good or a bad decision?"

"It was a good decision until I got into trouble.  And then it was a bad decision."

Lord help me, but I can understand her logic trail.  It didn't stop us from continuing this conversation about decisions and it was a valiant effort right up until I just told her it was a bad decision and why.  Reasoning with a 6-year old and her brain can be as much of a time and energy suck as well, trying to make the right decision.

I'm not talking about the big moral decisions, with the right groundwork those should be easy.  I'm talking about the little everyday ones.  The ones that Barry Schwartz talks about in his mind-bending book, "The Paradox of Choice".  That in our 21st Century world we have more choice than ever before, but few truly unique ones.  And he is right.  It is exhausting being in a supermarket trying to decide between Shampoo A that will add shine and bounce and Shampoo B that will add luster and volume.  Or the detergent that will soften your hands versus the one with antibacterial or the one for $3.50 more that does both.  And those are the 'easy' decisions what about health care plans, college, retirement funds?  Again millions of choice, very little difference.  He contends that there comes a point where choice becomes debilitating rather than liberating.  He's right.  And lord knows when I'm talking to the kids about choices and decisions, we are all feeling that way, even though we'd probably articulate those feelings differently. Or maybe not...a loud arrrgh, followed by an eye-roll and a dropping of a head onto the ktichen table would probably work for all of us at that point.  Let's hope it doesn't hurt their little heads when they copy Mommy.

So it was with all of this in mind that I found myself sitting at my desk, trying to decide something.  And there it was on my office wall, below the 1992 Hillary Clinton for President t-shirt, with the Leonard Cohen song, 'A Thousand Kisses Deep' on one side and 'The Good Mother' a poem from Husband on the other.  It is a funny little toy called WWUD? (What Would Unicorn Do?).  For the last year it has sat there amusing my kids when they come to the office and, now I believe, oh-so-mutely mocking me for not taking it more seriously.

And I made a decision.  I finally took old Uni down off the wall and spun him, telling myself I'd abide by his decision.  (I have no idea why I assigned Gender, nor really any reason why I made it a he, but never-the-less, here we are).

Back to spinning.  He landed on "Believe in Miracles".  So, I sat for a while trying to earnestly believe in miracles.  Someone would see my coffee on top of my car and bring it to me.  Then a slew of emails came in and suddenly I realized that it was about 90-minutes later and voila!  I was no longer missing my drink!  Miracle! 

A co-worker called not much later and asked me for some help--and I really didn't want to do this.  It was not something that was interesting  AT ALL to me.  But I had somewhat promised to help out.  While he was explaining the details over the phone I secretly spun Uni and he landed on "Majestically Gallop".  So I did.  I sat straighter in my chair and grandly pushed through this project, bringing it to a stately end. Mah-jes-tic!

I was beginning to feel like a happier version of Luke Rhinehardt (he's the narrator and the real author's psuedonym) in the screamingly funny "Dice Man".   A 1971 cult-classic based on the premise of 'letting the dice decide'.  As I remember it didn't end so well for Luke, but hey, I was letting a cute and magical creature decide for me, not a cold, hard die.  The premise is the same though, use a random, completely unbiased object to decide, allowing you the ability to live all sides of your personality.  Talk about freedom!

The next test was lunch.  Eat the veggies I brought with, OR, cross the street and get a sandwhich while reading at the bookstore.  Spun, and...."Leap a Large Ravine".  I interpreted that to mean cross the street.  And so I did, having a very enjoyable sandwhich, diet Dr. Pepper and a chocolate chip cookie while reading for the second time the wonderful, "Hakawati" by Rabih Alameddine.

After lunch, feeling pretty sure of myself I found myself in a position where I could walk away from a discussion, doing what the majority wanted.  OR stand my ground and defend what I thought was a better approach.  (no laughing here for those that know me too well).   Uni, spin!  And spin he did, landing on "Whinny and Rear".  Clearly he meant for me to stand my ground, defend my turf.  And so I did.  And, I did--successfully defend my turf that is. (It really was the right thing to do.)

I could go on forever, but this is a blog post, not a book so I need to quickly wrap this up. But how...the choices are endless? :)

I find myself wondering, in this culture of continuous and often meaningless choice, what would life be like living the freedom of  Uni?  Would I be happy doing something antithectical to the moment because I was given abject permission to do it? What about the bigger, more meaningful decisions?  Would Uni provide me with more time and freedom in my life by taking from me and my brain the pain of choice? 

It's a liberating idea for about a minute, but in the end the idea only works on a page.  Why?  Well, first, it's a Unicorn for Pete's sake.  Second, and more terminal,  I'm a pansy:  I don't have enough guts to walk around with a 'spin the unicorn' placard.  And third, in all seriousness, I believe the how, what and why of your choices do define you--from the supermarket aisle to the voting booth, to your brothers bedroom with a jar of water.  Whether the consequences last a second or a liftime, they are still a representation of who you were in that moment, and that shouldn't be lost. 

So, the 'decision discussions' will continue on the home front.  And, Uni is now back on my wall, in the same place, but with one difference.  He is now fixed to be constantly pointing at "Race The Wind", which, in my book, is a damn good thought for any one on any day.

I Love Baseball

For as long as I can remember baseball has been a big part of my life with some of my most vivid memories centered around America's past time.  Summers at my Grandparents, floating in their pool with the radio blaring the Giants game for my dad and grandpa while they played cut-throat cribbage in the shade.  In fact, anytime I hear baseball on the radio I can smell the chlorine and eucalyptus combinations of those Northern California summer afternoons--long dwindly days pushed along with the voices of Lon Simmons and Russ Hodges doing the play-by-play, the crowd at Candlestick a comfortable, warm droning buzz in the background.  These afternoons were punctuated by loud, happy whoops from inside the house--the men exlclaiming over some play from either the board or the field.  Happiness.

A few years later I would start stealing into my brother's room to grab two books in particular--one on Satchel Paige whose name I cannot recall.  The other, a book called "Catcher with a Glass Arm" by Foster Caddell.  I would read and re-read these books again and again.   One a history of a man who played baseball for about 50 years: 22 seasons alone in the Negro Leagues before getting to the "bigs" in 1948 with the Cleveland Indians.  But what I remember most is not his move to the big leagues, but rather the stories of his time in the Negro Leagues, especially with the Kansas City Monarchs.  It felt simple and real--a combination of the comraderie of the team and the art of baseball--a perfect combination in my 10- or 12-year old mind.

With the Caddel book, it was about a boy who had all of the skills, but none of the confidence...always worried about what other people would say if he messed up.  I knew that feeling to the bone. Where I lived, there wasn't a 'girls' or 'boys' program...just a few of us girls who played on the boys team.  I don't know if the other girls felt like I did, but on taking the field every time it was always with the thought of 'prove yourself', 'don't mess up'.  That was in my head--what was going on around me was what I saw in the Paige book:  fun and, for us, a messy art.  And looking back, when I remembered to get out of my head and just 'be there' on the field, it was--and was always to be--some of the best moments of my life.

Today with my son playing ball for the first time in his life I find these feelings about baseball are so visceral and close to the surface.  The love of watching the movement of baseball--entire teams in a choreographed dance to the call of the ball.  The pure beauty of a double play or a smooth pick off--or at this age, the beauty of an attempted double play.  The joy of little boys and grown men dancing the same exact steps when their teammate hits a home run.  Of listening to them chatter in the dugout, sometimes about the game, most of the time not.  Of standing and yelling, "Go, go, go", only to realize that his coach remembered (thank goodness) that my son is a pretty methodical base runner and maybe it's not a good idea for him to steal home right now.  But still wanting him to know that split-second rush of freedom and power combined--regardless of the end result. 

Of the corndogs and RedWhips from the concession stand.  Of the arm around his shoulders walking to the car.  Of listening to him tell his Grandpa about a very different game than the one I just watched. Of letting him stay up late to play a quick game of cribbage with me, rehashing the game and giving him the advice he doesn't want to hear from his mother in front of the boys (Dude! You are choking up too far on the bat!). 

And then, finally, watching him crawl into bed (take those disgusting baseball socks off!) to read or re-read his version of 'my' baseball books:  The "Aurora County All-Stars" by Deborah Wiles; "Don't Look Back" by Mark Ribowski (on Satchel Paige) or Michael Chabon's "Summerland."

And that is when I love baseball the most.  Seeing/remembering a dusty/tired body in a bed with a book, reliving the moments that just were, and dreaming of those moments that will be, on the field, with friends, the day dwindling away.  Happiness. 

Yes. It is time.

I woke up this morning thinking, "Are they ready?".  Ready to read about 'that' subject on my blog.  "They" of course being you, the hundreds of readers I believe I have cultivated in a...but I digress.

"That" subject being s-e-x.  Heck, am I ready to talk/write about it?  Let's review:  If I did write about it, today would be the day that my sisters would get my mother to read my blog.  The principal at the school where my children go would stumble upon it.  Boss. Check. Clients. Check.  Mean Mommies. Check.  Excellent.  Oh well.  Let's do this thing!

Now that's decided let's move on to which part of  this subject I should cover.  The part where my son comes down stairs asking about the dancing purple angel he found in Mommy's room?  Nope, that about covers that story.  The part where a woman complains about being at her peak (according to all literature) with a husband whose mind is on other things.  Done to death...seriously.  And--refer to earlier possible story line.

What about kids and "the talk".  Nope..again, done, covered, read it.  (If you need them, two great books are:  "Kids 1st Book About Sex" by Joani Blank and "S.E.X." by Heather Corinna for those of you with teens.)  But how about the aftermath of 'the talk'.  Hmmmm.  Yes, I believe that will be the intrument with which I flog myself today.

We've had the first of what will be many talks with our 9-year old son.  He and his dad went out and layed the groundwork, to to speak.  They talked about body differences, how babies come to be, that it's okay to feel things (literally and figuratively) and the need to respect women and that always, with no exceptions, no means no.  I asked how it went later and my son mumbled something about dad drawing pictures, 45 hours and the park.  Sounds like it went perfectly.

With our daughter, we've had to have the conversation many times.  She is very curious, very straightforward and very honest in her opinions.  In talking to my own mother, she was very concerned that we were being too open with her, giving her too much information.  Given that her "talk" with myself and my two sisters was "You will be a virgin when you are married or else", I figured that to my mom, even the word s-e-x was too much to share.  (We won't cover the silence that met my mother's proclamation...).  To make many, many long stories short, when our daughter asks questions, my husband leaves the room and I give honest, short, answers using the real words for everything.  No funny names, no whispering certain words, no lies by omission.   It's all good.

And then recently we went on a short vacation.  To a resort with many pools, white fluffy towels and yummy, fluffy, cozy beds with stark white comforters.  Yes, I had my period.   So, the end of the second long day of lazy rivers, water slides, pool football, with the kids showered, lotioned, fed and watching a movie, I settled in to take a bath in the giant tub with all of my bath salt, loofahs, face creams, romance novels, chocolate and candles.  And that is when it all came back to bite me in my lovely, Reubenesque ass.

Since I had left my book out in the other room, I yelled (trilled, warbled, melodically articulated?) for the closest child--who happened to be my son--to bring it to me, please.  Utter silence.  I warbled again.  Nothing.  Resorting to "the mommy voice', I finally got an answer:

"Mom," says my son.  "I don't want to come in there because then your egg will 'splode and there will be blood everywhere and then you'll have another baby."  good god.

"Well," I said, not really wanting to get into whatever the hell that was about right now.  "Can you ask your sister to bring it please?".

"I did, but she said no and you guys told me that no means no.  She never does anything anymore cause she is always saying No and then I have to do it."  for the love of....I mean, a lot of things about the last few weeks had just been explained.  He had been very industrious lately with both of their chores.

Out of the bath, into my comfies and sitting down with HER.  "Sweetie....what did you tell your brother?".  She gave me 'her look' (really good for a 6-year old).  "Mom, I just told him that you had your sentence-thingy.  And, that because you are a big woman you grow eggs.  And then the egg gets too big--which means its is really big with you--and splodes inside your body and the blood comes out and you have to use shiny pink things to keep the blood from going all over.  And that if the egg doesn't splode there is a baby."  And her little face was very serious, her hands were flayling around and her head was bobbing back and forth and the only thing she left unsaid after all of that was, 'duh!'

And with that, I did what any good mother (or me) would do: I got us all snuggled up in the hotel room with Lara Croft's Tomb Raider and just enjoyed good kick-butt movie with my kids.  See previous post to understand why.

Everything else will wait another day.  Or year.  Or Two.  It's all good.

Complete and Utter Validation

So this visual has been floating around the office lately, I think it is from the June or July issued of Wired.  I've got two things to say to this.  First, LIAR-LIAR-PANTS-ON-FIRE!   There is no way that these men are only spending 1 hour gaming if there is any kind of gaming system within 100 miles of them.  Second, Hello?  Where are the women?  According to the Entertainment Software Association over 40% of gamers are female and the 40+ group of women is the fastest growing group of MMO gamers in the US if not the world.  

Yeah, we are not talking passive word games here, but rather games like "World of Warcraft", "Everquest", "Halo" and more.  You can read study after study and there is a lot to be said about the communal aspect of these games, the strategic problem solving and such that attract women, and the fact that there are a lot of fashion/cooking/gardening titles out there which helped grow the over-40 segment by 43% last year (Pew). 

But here's the thing, I think we like kicking some hard-core butt wearing skimpy, curve hugging clothes that in real life wouldn't last crossing the street, much less if we threw a left cross-shovelhook-haymaker with a twisting chin kick combination.  I think we like the fact that in Mortal Kombat when your opponent is bleeding on the ground, your makeup is still perfect.  And I think we definately like unloading a clip into the obviously evil (but still totally hot) guy who is standing between us and the prize.

Or maybe it's just me.  I'll cop to it.  It feels really frickin' great.  It also feels good to say that it's not just the violence.  When I beat the clock on WordRoundup, HOOYAH!  When I get a smoothly impossible ride on LineRider2 or when I hit all of the beats on Rhythm Heaven I'm happy to admit that I get a little Austin Powers-thing going...'yeah, baby!' And on the Xbox, when I was rockin' the old school pinball games, The Who was urging me on with, what else, 'Pinball Wizard'.  Heck, I'm a little pumped right now.

So when my kids ask why I like to play these games, I have no shame in telling them "...because it makes me feel good".  And then I put down the oh-so-obsessive Bejeweled2 and get on with play/read/clean/cook/etc life.

Right after the deep Bejeweled voice tells me, "You are Amazing", "Incredible". 

Yes.  Yes I Am. 

 

The Power of the Written Word or A Commentary on How Mothers Think Everything is Their Fault.

So as most of our good friends know our daughter wants desparately to be a boy.  At age 6 she still wonders when her penis is going to 'show up'.  Not long ago after watching the XGames this year, she mentioned wanting to use her winnings from being a skate board champion to get her 'boobs cut off'.  There is a female chef on Top Chef this new season that '...has hair like a boy.' And sometimes late at night when she isn't sleeping (like her dad) she'll cuddle up to me all soft and yummy and she'll say, 'Mom, let's have a conversation."  I'll bite, like I always do--"What about Monkey Bit?".  She'll say, "About being a boy.". 

"Why do you want to be a boy"

"Because they are better/cooler/funner".

At this point, depending on where my own head is at.  I'll reply with "No they are not!" or "Ha!  Good one" or "Knock yourself out and have fun with it.  Let me know how that goes for ya."  I know that my answers at this point don't really matter, and I know that with an older brother that she adores, plays with constantly and so very well, that this is normal.  The grass is always greener....all girls do through this (according to most mothers.)  Don't worry.  She just wants to know that we're cool with whatever she wants to be, I guess.  She could also just be really good at pushing my buttons.  Or both.  Okay, it's both.

Anyway, there is a good chance at some age in the future we'll wake up and she'll be trying to go to school or the mall or wherever with short shorts, make-up, heels or some combination that will turn her dad's face green regardless of who she is interested in.  Boys may well turn out to be something she wants instead of wants to be.  Or not.  We'll be fine with whatever and that's not really the point of this.   The point is, and this is where things get really pathetic, is that on some level I believe that because I read "Middlesex" when I was pregnant with her, I brought all this on.

Yes.  Because of just one of the many books I read when I was pregant, I've managed to pre-determine my childs life. As mothers we grant ourselves many powers and blame ourselves for many things, but this takes the cake. 

And why this book?  Why not one of the Romance novels?  Or one of the many Brother Cadfael books by Ellis Peters?  Or even "Sense & Sensibility"?  I read all of those while preggers with her.

Or is it because it was the one that stuck?  Is the fact that I remember this book...the words, the scenes, the tempo of it so vividly to this very day, the reason that I believe I've transformed by daughters life by the mere ingesting of a story?    Was it that powerful?  Or am I?

Sigh.  I know it's neither the book or me.  It's her.  She has free will and her own lovely brain with it's own lovely, odd, brilliant and frightening thoughts.  And it is so clear that while we will teach her many things and expose her to many more, in the end it is who she is and what she does with it all that will ultimately make her the person she becomes.

Which means that I am not all powerfull as a mother and nor will it be all my fault.  And right now, neither of those two realities sit that well with me.

War Is H-E-Double Hockey Sticks

Today while talking with my 9-year old son about his current favorite book, Band of Brothers, he said something that really got me thinking.  "Mom," he said.  "We've been at war since I was 4-years old and I didn't know what that meant until I read this book.  That guy was right...war is H-E-Double Hockey Sticks."  In the conversation that followed he told me that the worst part of the book for him was the Battle of Bastogne.  He also said it was the best part--because of when the two sides started signing Christmas carols together.  When I asked why, not arguing the details, he said simply that it made him feel happy and sad and that is what war must feel like all of the time for the people in it.  The last thing he said before running off to play war with a new giant cardboard box, his sister and some Lego's was that he wondered why he didn't feel that way about 'our' war?

Yikes!  It was a great question and I wasn't sure how to answer it.  I grew up with stories of war--my Grandfather was an Admiral in the Navy in WWII.  My father was a fighter pilot in the Navy and was in the Red Sea somewhere when I was born.  And, people in my generation grew up in a culture where the visuals of war weren't so hidden like they seem to be now. Yes TV brought the war into our homes, but it also brought it--the issues, the pain, the sorrow, home for us. We were, for better or worse, closer to the reality of war and I think that was a good thing.  It wasnt' a lesson in a classroom where you tried to remember the salient details, you absorbed it with context and commentary and filtered it, slowly building your own perspective. 

My education on war continued to be built over time.... I have those startling visuals in my head--from the Vietnamese Napalm victim to the nose camera video  in the missles hitting Baghdad from the first Gulf War overlaid with the protesters in the streets of San Francisco, Seattle, Washington DC.  I guess my question is, have we identified those cultural touchstones from 'our' war that will help this generation build a fully realized perspective on war?

Personally I don't think so.  My son and daughter, for all their awareness of the war, don't know what it means.  And that is my job I guess.  So, I'm not going to answer his question.  What we will do is expose him to it.  We are going to start with old William Tecumseh Sherman who was right when he said "War is Hell".  We'll read his memoir, "Memoirs of William T. Sherman, By Himself" and talk about how a guy who was so good at war actually really hated it.  We'll read a little known book, "They Were Expendable" about the Phillipines in WWII.  My Grandfather is in there somewhere.  We'll move through "Alan's War.  The Memories of GI Alan Cope" a great graphic novel.  And another, "Persepolis".  And I'll probably introduce "The Bang Bang Club" which is an excellent book about photojournalists and war.  And, he is going to write up some questions to interview his Grandpa with.  He wants to write those answers up and send them to his cousins.  (Heck, Iwouldn't mind a copy either.)There will be others, and as well, the newspapers of course.  And we won't do it all at once.  We'll read, talk and then let it simmer and then start all over again.

And in the end I hope we end up where we began, with him understanding that yes, war is more than the game he plays with a box and some Legos.  That it is,  in all reality for the people in, around and beside it, H-E-double hockey sticks.  And maybe, hopefully,  he'll be a voice in the future that helps us stay out of one. 

And so it begins...

So, where do I start?  I guess like I do most things.  Jump right in, regardless.  Husband, love of my life, back in hospital. His body giving him hell as usual.  Child 1 and 2 over at friends, loving every minute...of course. (And thank God we have friends who will take them for two days.)  Me?  The flight or fight mechanism is in full swing and I'm running or gunning at any given moment. 

Walter Canon first wrote about the Fight or Flight response in a paper titlted "Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear and Rage", in 1929.   The scientific field quickly realized that this theory was too simplistic. Animals, like us, respond in complex ways...some will try to flee then turn and fight when cornerd.  Some will stand absolutely still hoping that the predator won't notice them.  Some will change colors.  And then there is the desire to flee toward safety, not just away from danger.  And then again, there is the idea of escaping physically and mentally--disappearing into something else, say a book.

And women?  Well, as usuall we have to complicate things even more.  While we tend, according to science to want to flee, we will also turn back, but not to fight but to "tend and befriend".  Really?  And then, if we are a mother, then the whole 'mother bear' comes out and we want to protect our young or anything else in our realm that needs protection.

And that is where I found myself all weekend. Right smack dab in the middle of all of those feelings and often feeling multiple needs at once.  Fighting to get Husband to the emergency room because, well, things were just not right and he didn't want to see it. Then fighting to get the right attention at the emergency room.  (God love nurses!)  Then, when settled, wanting to flee to get children or to my lovely two-headed shower with a pint (ha...gallon) of Rocky Road.  And there is the where I flail, stuck in the 'coulda, woulda, shoulda' moment.  Instinct tells me to get my kids because they need me.  It's a stressfull situation and they'll have questions and I should be there for them.  Yet everything else tells me--run to the bookstore, get a 'bad' book (Regency-era bodice ripper with super hot sex scenes and funny dialog), go home and 'disappear' for a while...crawl into bed for two hours before I have to be back at the hospital.

The answer?  Yes to it all.  The more I think abot it, the more I stand still not doing anything.  So, I put one foot down and then the other.  I get Husband settled with magazine, book, food and a kiss.  I check on kids....Mom who?  Heck, one yells in the background. "I don't want to talk to her cause she'll make me come home".  Resilient little buggers.  Bookstore, hot dog place, home, shower, bed. Heaven.

And, just as I get to a really good part in the book, nurse calls.  Husband on drugs playing 'hide and go seek' with their phones. "Can you come and sit with him honey?".  And back to the hospital I go.

And that's fine. Kids are good.  Husband is walking at least, and thinking he's funny.  Right?  And, with the good part in the book just one page away, I can hide in plain sight when I get there.  No need to fight tonight.