Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Her.meneutics: What You Don't Know about Obama's Mama


That Dunham lived life with an open and broken heart, seeking to empower some of the world’s most resource-poor people, is admirable. Perhaps more of us could follow her example of questioning some conventions and dislodging our desire for the things that moth and rust destroy in favor of living authentically and serving others...
Read entire post here: Her.meneutics: What You Don't Know about Obama's Mama

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

No...

I am grateful.

I am grateful that my children – today – are healthy.  

The girls play softball.  They spend their summer days biking down to the pool or meeting friends “downtown” for deli sandwiches and penny candy or giggling on the sofa - the two of them - half wrestling, half bickering, but choosing to be right next to each other for hours at a time. Hours and hours.

When one complains about the other, I say, "Honey.  Remember: the opposite of love isn't hate. It's indifference. You two aren't indifferent to each other."

Last night, I asked my youngest: "You know how I ask that?  What the opposite of love is?"

"Yes.  'N-diffrance," she answered, the good student nine year-old.

"Do you know what that means? Indifference?"

"No."

Then I launched into a lecture about how if we went out for ice cream at Graham's - her favorite place for ice cream at the moment - and she ordered mint chocolate chip and I ordered bitter chocolate chip - would she mind that I chose a different flavor? One, actually, she quite hates?

"No, of course not!  Because I don't have to eat it.  You.  You can have whatever you like.  Even that!" She said.

"That's indifference!" I said.  

And then it all seemed clear to my nine year-old.

"Oh."

Oh.

I'm grateful that this is the kind of thing we talk about these days.  I'm grateful that these constitute our biggest issues right now.  I know it's not like that in every home of people I know and love. And I know it won't always be the case for me.

I know too many parents who have lost children. Whose children are sick or struggling or hurting.  I have been there before - I cross my fingers that we'll not be there again. But life is a mystery and I know no one is spared suffering.  

Often this summer, when I see my kids teasing each other or swinging out back or heading out for a bike ride or sitting across the kitchen table from me managing their Scrabble letters, all I feel is gratitude.

No, I’m not cynical. Even when I'm hurt or feel misunderstood or struggle, I understand -- I've got it good.

No, my life hasn’t been perfect – neither when I was growing up nor when I was grown and found myself a married person in the suburbs. No, I am not blind to the injustices and horrors and sorrow that so many people live with every day.

But does that mean I can’t be grateful?

No, I don’t think so.

I'm not indifferent.

I am grateful.

I do see the light.

And I do look for it.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Eugene Cho, List-Making, and Singing in the Shower

Every morning, one of my daughters sings in the shower. I mean, she really sings, belting out songs by Adele, Norah Jones, and Jason Mraz (a few of her current favorites) so soulfully that sometimes I get goosebumps. This is a girl, though, who doesn't like attention drawn to herself about such things, so when she emerges into the hallway, dressed for the day, towel wrapped around her head, I just smile and ask her what she'd like for breakfast.

It was a particularly prescient preschool teacher (this alliteration's for you, R.L.) who told me not to make a big deal of her gifts. The teacher was originally from Missouri or whatever state makes sure its residents "warsh" their hands and throw birthday "pour-tees."   

I had noticed that when I praised three year-old Isabel for completing a puzzle that her older brothers were still trying to find the edges for or for swinging much higher than all the other kids on the playground, she would just scowl at me. Her response was no more confounding than many other parts of raising four little kids, and I would never have understood it were it not for this teacher. 

"I was that way too," the teacher said. "Still am. I like doing things well, but I don't like it when people talk about it. I just want to enjoy my gifts. Myself. Privately."  That, of course, made writing a thank you note to her at the end of the year a challenge.  Anyway, after this confessional moment in the conference, she switched gears and asked me whether I would like to volunteer to organize the Christmas "pour-tee."

I thought of that today - not only because of my daughter's morning performance - but when I read a wonderful article by Eugene Cho.  Among other things, Cho is a blogger, pastor and advocate for the world's poor. I like his writing - it's smart and funny. Cho asks, on Sojourner magazine's blog, readers what are their "life-giving questions." 

He asks several questions of himself in order to regain balance in his life and on his spiritual journey.  I love his list - he looks at his parenting, marriage, prayer, and also whether he's doing things he loves. Like fishing, exercising, and singing. Things he doesn't need praise for, but from which he gets nourishment (and a restored mojo). The fact that self-care -- or the lack of it -- is an "evergreen" topic in women's and parenting magazines indicates that a lot of us, a lot of the time, are not in balance.  

What are your life-giving questions?  What would you add to Cho's?

What brings you balance?

Do you remember to sing in the shower or do other things that make you happy?

(I hope my daughter always will.)   

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

All Washed Up - on the Demise of Soaps

Why are soap operas going away?  
Don’t reality shows provide even more titillation than the soaps do? Maybe people changed channels from the soaps because our culture is dishing up so much real scandal, cynicism, and hyped-up stories that not even the most stylized soaps can compete. If a culture is already inundated with news of the real-life bad behavior and lavish lifestyles of celebrities, perhaps soap characters seem less shocking to us now. Noah Drake, as portrayed by pop star Rick Springfield in the early 1980s, is as tame as Anthony from the Wiggles when compared with Charlie Sheen living with multiple partners in Sober Valley Lodge.
To read my post on the "demise of soaps" on her.meneutics, click here.


What do you think?  


Will you miss them? 
 

Friday, May 6, 2011

Before I got married I had six theories about 
bringing up children; 
now I have six children, and no theories.  
- John Wilmot

Motorcycles, Uma and Motherhood, the Movie


As my husband and I walked out of the theater after seeing “Motherhood,” he turned to me and asked, innocently enough, “Did you ever think you’d see a movie that would so closely resemble your life?”

The smile fell from my face. I looked around to see if anyone heard what he said, hoping they had not. Thoughts raced into my head, noisily, like kids running in the back door and letting the screen door slam behind them. My life, like “Motherhood?”

Its central character, Eliza, is played by Uma Thurman – so that’s flattering enough. And despite the fact that the movie gives us a day in Eliza’s life that, if anything, is “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” for mommies, her character somehow keeps her sense of humor. Most of the time, anyway. I should be grateful for the comparison, right?

But, no, Eliza and I are very different. I don’t live in a walk-up in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village. I have four children; and Eliza has two. My children are past the pre-school age, so at this point I don’t even have to think about whether to quench my thirst by stealing a swig out of their sippy cups. And I don’t wear my pajamas under my raincoat when I’m rushing my kids off to school in the morning. (Well, usually not anyway.) 

Wait, though…like Eliza, my bookshelves do hold literary journals that contain writing I did twenty years ago, heavily symbolic poems and stories that drip with meaning. And it’s true that I do often steal out of the room, leaving my girls playing at the dollhouse, and hunch over my laptop. Like Eliza, every day I tap away at writing projects in little snippets of time.   

The first part of the movie, comprised of comic scenes in which Eliza muddles, hour by hour and task by task through her morning, seems almost unbelievably over the top. It would, anyway, had I not lived such days many times myself. As she, Sherpa-like, makes her way home with laden with boxes and bags after getting supplies for her daughter’s birthday party, the filmmaker adds a nice touch. Around her neck, further weighing her down – and bringing to mind Dickens’ Jacob Marley – is a thick, steel bike chain.

And then there’s the scene in which Eliza almost snaps and for a moment actually thinks she will flee the reality of her life and escape to New Jersey. As she drives, looking panicked and desperate, I turned to my husband and whispered, “Oh I know just what she is feeling.” And I did – it made my chest hurt.

Throughout the movie, I kept thinking: No one talks about this stuff. The extreme highs and lows that occur every single day as a parent. The worry that you are losing your identity. The mind-numbing number of details to manage.  The way your heart crumbles inside you when you are able to see through all the craziness and you fall in love with your child all over again.

Not long ago, I was driving home at the end of a long day. In front of me was a guy on a motorcycle. As I followed him through an intersection, we passed another motorcycle that was going the other direction. The other rider raised his hand to the guy in front of me, in a show of solidarity. The man in front of me returned the wave.

The simple fact that they both rode motorcycles was enough for them to feel a connection and greet each other. As I pulled into my driveway, I thought “Moms should do that.” As we pass each other in our minivans, seeing the silhouettes of little kids in the back seats, we should make eye contact, raise our hands, and wave. Just to acknowledge that we see each other, that we are on the same journey, that we aren’t on our own.

Motherhood, the movie, is like those guys on the motorcycles. It’s a friendly wave, an acknowledgement. As we laugh at Eliza’s predicaments (and our own) and as Eliza haltingly expresses the complexities of what it means to be a mother and to find herself again after spending years focused on the needs of young children, we can take heart that we aren’t alone on this journey. 

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Ordinary Life: Remembering the Virginia Tech Massacre


A few days after the Virginia Tech massacre in 2007, I wrote about appreciating ordinary life with my kids as I felt the weight of that awful day during a quiet, uneventful evening at home. April 16 is the fourth anniversary of the murders; I wish peace and comfort to all who were affected by the tragedy.
--


4/19/07

Tonight, after dinner, I find myself in a fairly typical moment. My eight year-old son begins the long opening argument of why he should have more dessert. He points at his empty dinner plate. He suggests options. Just a bit of sherbet. One square of dark chocolate. That last cookie. He is walking around the kitchen, looking in the pantry, examining the shelves in the freezer, and ignoring my offer of a banana or yogurt. 

The other children chat about their school days. My first grade daughter loved the hot lunch that was served at school. She lists everything she ate. A blue Popsicle. A big salad with croutons. A blueberry muffin. A bag of carrots. Her velvety tone sounds like a waitress listing the specials at a five star restaurant. “And chocolate milk,” she says with a sigh. Her little sister is consigned to her chair until she finishes her milk. My oldest, who turns 11 in a few weeks, goes down to the basement to a bin of cleats, baseball socks, and pants. Tomorrow night he has his first game.

When he was a very small boy, he insisted on wearing a Cubs shirt every day of the week. Intermittently, every day whether it was winter or summer, he would soberly announce:  “I got a game tonight.” He’d toddle out to the backyard or the playroom and use his little plastic tee with the enormous white ball and stubby little bat. “I got a game tonight.”

He emerges from the basement with a few pairs of baseball pants. I ask him if they are the right size. “They’re fine,” he says. “I wore them last year, all the time.”

He’s gained something like 15 pounds since last summer. He’s a few inches taller than the last time I marked his height on the wall by the back door.

“Let’s try them on,” I say.

He shrugs and disappears around the corner.

My younger son continues his negotiations.  He notes that there is only one cookie left in the package. Maybe, he wonders aloud, it would be a good idea to split it with his brother. Finish it up, you know, and recycle the package?

My littlest still hasn’t drunk her milk. She picks up her glass and raises it, but before she takes a sip, she again tells us about the newborn baby goats she saw that morning at Cosley Zoo. “They were born last Wednesday. In the evening,” she says with authority.

“Drink your milk,” I say.

My oldest returns, wearing a pair of the baseball pants. They are uncomfortably tight and barely reach to his knees.

“I’ll get you new ones tomorrow,” I say.

He nods and then comes in close, putting his index finger on an eyebrow. He notes that his brows are growing thicker. “See, here?” he says.

“People get hairier as they grow older,” I say. That little boy with the Cubs shirts is disappearing before my very eyes.

“You’re getting hairier because you are turning into a monkey,” my littlest explains, glass of milk in hand. We all break into laughter, but she nods to herself matter-of-factly, glad to have clarified the situation. And, as a youngest child, she is rather pleased to have made everyone laugh.

I look at each of them, my heart aching with love. I wish I could grab hold of the evening, freeze it in time. The repeated requests for more dessert, the outgrown pants, the milk dribbling down my daughter’s chin, the dirty dishes still on the table, the upside-down bottle of Ranch dressing, the dog wandering in and out of the room, checking under the table for fallen bits of food. It's beautiful to me and I'm aware of how precious it all is. But I can’t keep this moment.

Usually when time is frozen, it’s because something very sad has happened. A tragedy, a loss. Otherwise life moves on in its ordinary way. Gray hairs appear at the temples where they hadn’t been before. Kids grow taller between the times we stand them against the wall and mark their heights. The bulbs we planted last fall send shoots up overnight and, when we aren’t looking, they bloom. The tragedy at Virginia Tech freezes that terrible morning always in time. Earlier in the day, I've looked through the snapshots posted online of the people who died. They are all children, someone's child, and precious and loved like my own. Children whose parents limited the number of cookies they could have for dessert, made them finish their milk, kept them in clothes that fit, and experienced countless moments of ordinary life with each one of them.

My sons erupt into laughter, yanking me from my thoughts. They repeat their little sister’s pronouncement over and over:  “That’s because you’re turning into a monkey!”

My littlest smiles and finishes her milk.