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.