Meddling, being honest, and how to keep friendships

Grace was at music camp last week. Choir concert, Grace looked and sounded great, I loved seeing her enjoy herself. Last night she told me that there was some drama during her week away. You know, the kind where the girls all talk late at night in their cabin and one girl confesses her undying love for a boy? And then some of the girls decide to intervene, you know, to help the fledgling lovers out? 'Cause their communication is breaking down? Except that by intervening, the girls make things worse. By the end of the trip, the one girl who was in love asked Grace what she thought of her. Grace was more than blunt. She told her she was being bitchy.

Did I mention that Grace didn't know the girl a week earlier? That she's an incoming freshman?

I told Grace she might not want to be so brutally honest with the girl. And that she shouldn't meddle. I don't know whether Grace is going to take my advice.

The whole story threw me back to my own middle school and high school experiences. (I confess, getting an invite to my 20th high school reunion this week helped the speed of my total recall significantly.) Remember when it was so exciting to be "in the know"? To be the one who was the facilitator? The helper? The one who was just trying to make everyone happy? I do. I seem to also recall stirring up quite a bit on controversy. Which was also exciting.

The point is, being the girl who was meddling oftentimes meant I was the one who caused unpleasant situations to come about. In the midst of my conversation with Grace about the situation, I told her that there are precious few times in which it's worth telling someone what you really think of their romantic inclinations towards another person. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I started challenging my own advice.

Is that true? As an adult, there are so many of my girlfriends who have gone through dating and marriage and divorce and cohabiting and reuniting...and on and on and on and on it goes. Most recently, one of my longest-term friends asked me to meet her boyfriend. Her idea was that I am one of her dearest friends, one of her closest and most intimate friends, and someone whose judgment she trusts. She wanted my opinion on the boyfriend. It's not the first time she's asked. Anyways, the end of the story is that I told her I thought he was great. Was that the truth? I ask you a more relevant question: Does it matter what my opinion of her boyfriend is?

Being honest with a close friend, especially about someone they are involved romantically with, is dangerous stuff. When you're in love, when you're physically close with someone, you really don't want to hear an objective opinion on what someone outside of the relationship thinks of your lover. Sure, you want to hear that your lover is great, fantastic, friendly, kind, smart, clever, funny, generous, thoughtful, or talented. That's the feedback you're looking for -- a confirmation that, in spite of your giggling and silliness and inability to see things objectively, you are being wise and smart and making good choices. But when you're in love, when your heart is spilling over with admiration and adoration of another human being, you don't wanna hear anything negative about him.

So here's my dilemma. When is it safe to be honest with a friend regarding a lover? There are clear times, like if he's abusive or extortive. But what if he's just a jerk? What if you question his ethics? What if he just rubs you the wrong way, over and over and over again? What if you just don't click with him? I find myself weighing the value of what I think is best for a friend versus what is really best for that friend. So what if I don't agree with someone's politics or ethics? Or if I find them a jerk? Does that outweigh a friend's potential for unlimited happiness? Isn't it a bit arrogant of myself to believe that my long lasting friendship with someone is more valuable than someone else's relationship with her?

Of course, there is the other side to this dilemma. Live and let live, que sera, sera, and such. It's so easy to stay out of someone's business. So much easier than speaking your mind and risking the backlash. Then the question of what is more important is between my comfort and a friend's well-being.

Where does the line lay? Is there any way to formulate a rule that works in every situation?

I would love to hear the stories out there. One friend has already given me her sad experience, the moral of the story being, NEVER tell someone what you think of their lover. EVER. And the story really was very, very sad. Another friend, one who was separated from her husband when he was exploring the kinky side of middle age, she just reunited with him after six full years of feuding. They are happy as ever. Unfortunately, I was brutally honest with her and way over-involved in their complications. Now I'm wondering if we'll ever get the intimacy of our friendship back.

I'm just trying to figure out what I should tell Grace, you know? 'Cause like every good parent, this really has nothing to do with me (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say-no-more, say-no-more).

How blogging can save your grandmother's life: A true story

The idea of traveling south to see family for Grace's mid-winter break didn't seem so out of the ordinary. We thought about it, tried on a few sample itineraries for size, and finally decided upon the vacation we had been waiting for. Our little family of four in our little Honda Civic, driving the over 1000 miles south to my grandma's house. The weather would be getting better the farther south we went. We really weren't looking to be entertained by some spectacular spectacle, just get a chance to get away from it all.

Little Miss Sunshine State and I are facebook friends. Since we're bloggy friends too, that makes us about as connected as two people who have never met each other could be. I mentioned the trip to her on facebook. She replied immediately, CAN WE MEET? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!!

She lives a mere 70 miles or so from our southernmost destination. I told her, I would love to meet up with her. It would be GREAT! Yeah, I had a little bit of that feeling of, 'what am I doing meeting up with someone I know only through the words on my electronic screen?' And then there's the whole anonymity of my blog, you know, the one my mother doesn't know about? My mother, who's facebook friends with me merely so she can cyberstalk me in order to speculate every single thing I'm up to? How would I do this? How could I meet up with Little Miss Sunshine State, with the girls, while visiting family, and make sure everything went off without a hitch?

My therapist told me not to worry about things so much, about how they would work out. My husband told me, 'we've got a lot going on during this trip. Are you sure you want to throw in one more person you want to see in 9 total days?' We already had five days of driving in the trips and four different stops. Indeed, it seemed busy. Ok, then. I told Little Miss Sunshine State, 'we'd see.'

Grandma broke her hip a couple weeks before our scheduled departure. After surgery to replace the broken hip, she spent 10 days in ICU. That gave us enough reason to cut out the Alabama leg of the trip to see extended family. It would have been a lot of run-around and, though we would have enjoyed visiting the homestead, it was a better idea to visit with grandma while she was (somewhat) immobile. Fine then, five days in Ocala visiting with Grandma and my parents, my parents who had come up 300 miles from Fort Lauderdale to be with her while she recovered. My little family would enjoy the break. The girls could visit with grandparents and great-grandma, Grace could indulge in long walks and sleeping in. My husband and I could do the same and my husband could even go to the public library for free time reading. All in all, it sounded like a perfect vacation.

In the back of my mind, Little Miss Sunshine State.

By the time we arrived, Grandma had been discharged from the hospital and entered into a nursing/rehab facility. She lives on her own, so she couldn't just go home and become more mobile. It turned out to be perfect. The girls wouldn't have been able to visit with her at all if she had been in the hospital, flu epidemic and all. At the rehab center, we could make ourselves at home while a nursing and therapy staff helped grandma with all her medical needs. Things seemed perfect.

Tuesday, Wednesday. Little Miss Sunshine State and I are exchanging messages while I'm pirating internet off some unsuspecting neighbor in my grandma's neighborhood. I've got her cell phone number but I haven't gotten up the nerve (due to emotions and logistics) to call her. Finally, I decide to just do it.

Voicemail. I leave her a message to call back.

And call back she does. It's like talking to an old friend! Well, an old friend if I had grown up in Cape Cod, that is. She's got vowels I can't even recognize, like Cape COAWD. That's one vowel, not two as a southerner would do it (Cape Caw-uhd!). And it just so happens that the day we talked on the phone was the day that killer whale at Sea World killed a trainer. That seemed like a crazy story to be happening right when we get to talk for the first time. I mean, killer whale killing someone at a water entertainment park? This led us to alligator shows in Florida and snake trainers sapping the venom out of their fangs in front of an audience.

While we're talking my mother comes in and asks, "Are you talking to someone I know?" Little Miss Sunshine State tells me, "Say you're talking to someone you've never met in your life who very well could be a serial killer." I realize this woman is a good, good, woman.

OK, but the point is, we decided to meet up. At the mall. In Ocala, Florida on Friday afternoon. Really. We met at the mall. (gah, I am lame.) I figured it would give us girls a break from the rest of the family and that my little family could visit Grandma that evening.

Friday morning comes and I get everyone ready. Everyone has their requisite serving of grits and eggs, along with orange juice and then I clean up the dishes with Grace's help. Grace reluctantly changes out out of a tank top with holes in it and puts on a purple top from American Eagle instead. She plays stupid with my mom on who we're going to meet. "Some friend of mom's, I'm not sure." Very good, my young child. I have taught you well. I pile the whole family in the car and drop my husband off at the library. He told me to have fun with my mystery friend. And then we girls cut back across town to the mall.

A little bit later, after guiding Little Miss Sunshine State to the mall via cell phone directions, she finds us at Kirkland's. Thank goodness, because Grace had just said it smelled awful in there from too many scented candles.

We visited, we talked, we walked, we ate, we laughed. I heard all about her new training at work. We talked about the kids. We even judged a few outfits Grace had picked out at a local Brazilian shop there. (btw, LMSS, not even in Brazil could she have gotten away with those picks!) And then, the time for us to part came too quickly. She needed to get home and we needed to visit my Grandma before the day got too late. We reluctantly parted with hugs and smiles and said we'd have to do it again before too much time passed.

Back to Grandma. We arrived expecting the time to pass too quickly. It was the last time we'd get to visit with her before beginning the long trek home the next morning. It was getting late, almost dinner time for her (5p), but we wanted to visit even if just for a few minutes. My parents hadn't been able to come over that day due to other details that had to be taken care of before they left two days later. The day before she had been a little tired because she had left the rehab center for an appointment with her surgeon. Good news, but she was exhausted. Before we arrived that Friday afternoon, we had heard she didn't do physical therapy that day at all. When we arrived, she was asleep in bed.

The rest of the family slipped quietly out so as not to disturb her. I sat with her a few minutes before she woke up. She was having difficulty breathing and very tired. She wanted to sit up in her wheelchair.

Within a few minutes, it was clear that something was not right. She told me so and asked me to call the nurse and get her to listen. It took some urging. One nurse didn't think there was any cause for alarm. Grace came back and stood next to grandma. She held her head next to her chest, supporting her. I quickly slipped out into the hallway and called my dad. He said he'd come up in about 10 minutes.

One nurse took two minutes finding her pulse. Her heart rate was slowing. She was having trouble staying awake.

The end of the story? About 7p, she was transported to the hospital via ambulance because her heart rate was dropping far too low. By midnight, she had been stabilized and was in ICU. Dangerous interaction between drugs, her cardiologist said. Through the night via phone calls from my parents at the hospital, it became clear: if we had not been at the rehab center when we were, she would not have made it to the hospital. Had she not made it to the hospital, she would not have survived the night.

Had I not visited with Little Miss Sunshine State on Friday midday, I would have never visited my Grandma so late in the evening.

Follow the logic?

Meeting fellow bloggers can save your grandmother's life. No lie.

Defying ethnic boundaries

Back when Stella was three weeks old, we had a photography session with a local photographer, Lorissa Farr. She posted a couple of the best ones to her blog. We ordered some too. One of our favorites is this:


In this image, Lorissa perfectly captured one of our favorite of Stella's features that make her unique: the birthmark on her lower back. It's not unusual, a patch of skin on her lower back that appears darker than the rest of her skin. When she was born, we thought it was a bruise and asked the pediatrician about it. She assured us it was perfectly normal. It's called a mongolian spot and it is most commonly found in children of black or latin descent. Check, Stella is both of those via her father's heritage. Perfectly normal.

At the same time, we asked the pediatrician about another mark on the back of her neck that we had noticed and were concerned about. Here's a picture of that:


The pediatrician explained, it's another birthmark, called a stork bite. Nothing to worry about. It is most common in babies of caucasian descent. Check, Stella is of caucasian decent via me. Nothing to worry about.

Stella's diverse ethnic heritage is nothing unusual; I'd guess from all the families and children I've interacted with since Grace was born that most kids in this younger generation have the benefit of a rich genetic background. Yet, apparently there are still people in our society who don't understand it, don't accept it, and don't want to see it at all.

A few weeks ago we watched Rabbit-Proof Fence together as a family. It is the true story of three girls in Australia in the 1930s. You can watch the trailer here. The three girls are forcibly removed from their mothers, Aborigine, because they are biracial -- their fathers are white. Though it's rated PG, it's not exactly a movie for children unless they are mature enough to deal with difficult topics. For instance, until 1970, Australia still had a law on the books that "half-caste" children, the children who are biracially white and aborigine, are substandard. For that matter, aborigines are substandard humans. At one point in the film, I was so appalled I spit out, "what the fuck!" I was glad that Grace was old enough to understand my righteous anger. How could a government do something so awful, so unthinkable, so hateful and evil? I believe Kenneth Branagh's character in Rabbit-Proof Fence puts it most succinctly: "Are we to allow the creation of an unwanted race?" An industrialized, 20th century government did it because those in power believed children of interracial couples were substandard and should not exist.

Lest we think for a moment that this is barbarian and behind those of us in the US and in our distant past, the gross and despicable reality of the present hits us right between the eyes. Enter Keith Bardwell, a justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana. On Friday, the story hit national news media outlets: Judge Bardwell refused to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple. He explained his action by saying that such marriages do not stand the test of time and that children of such a couple would suffer due to not fitting into either culture. He maintains that he is not a racist for making such a decision, that he issues marriage licenses to black couples all the time. And he said, "It's kind of hard to apologize for something that you really and truly feel down in your heart you haven't done wrong." WHAT??!?!?!?!?? I react to this with the same righteous outrage that I did to the content of Rabbit-Proof Fence. But I must be explicitly clear about how outrageous this situation is. The judge does not approve of the marriage because he feels that the children of such a marriage would suffer due to their very existence and lack of identity with the culture of either parent. In short, multiethnic children are a problem. We as a society should do everything we can to prevent their existence in the first place. If they come to exist, we'll have a horrible problem on our hands.

I'm getting to the point where I believe that people in the world who suffer the worst racial discrimination are those who are multiethnic. Contrary to this, I have a rather different viewpoint. Rather than being a hindrance, I believe having a diverse heritage actually gives one an advantage in understanding the world and coping with its various social problems. Having the benefit of more than one vantage points enables a person to realize that the world is not black and white (no pun intended).

I guess these ideas of mine shouldn't come as a surprise since I am part of a multiethnic, bi-national family. But I'd be dishonest if I led you to believe that I came to this perspective without any influence. I heard a piece on NPR's Talk of the Nation a few weeks ago about a new production of Shakespeare's Othello, produced for stage in Washington, DC. and directed by Peter Sellars (no, not the one who died more than 20 years ago, a different one by the same name). In his interview with Neal Conan, Sellars addresses the obvious talking point of Othello, that being the ethnic identity of the title character. He's a Moor, traditionally portrayed by an actor of African or Arabic descent. "Moor" does not refer to any specific ethnic group, but rather someone who is dark-skinned and from the Iberian Peninsula. In other words, someone who is likely of mixed race. He is a successful and liked military leader. The poignancy of putting on this production to Washington, DC now is directly connected to Barack Obama and Justice Sonia Sotomayor. Whatever you think of the president's work so far, it is worth considering in what ways his heritage enables him to be a good leader, or at least, in what ways he is able to lead differently than all of his predecessors. Sellars addresses this point directly in the interview, at about 10:22:

We live in the age of Barack Obama and Tiger Woods. You know, what box are you gonna check? You know, the fact is, we're all more than one box. None of us fit into those boxes anymore.

It's that last line that got me. None of us fit into those boxes anymore. How many of us can neatly fit ourselves into a racial demographic? How about our children? I remember that when Grace was a little girl we went to American Girl Place in Chicago. We both looked to see if we could find a Just Like You girl that looked like each of us. Neither of us succeeded. Apparently American Girl still thought that blue eyes only go with blond hair and green eyes only go with light skin. We had difficulty fitting into an American Girl "box" despite the fact that both of us check off the box "caucasian, not hispanic." Stella doesn't check off one box on those surveys, so what luck does she have finding an American Girl that is Just Like Her?

If you find yourself recoiling at the suggestion that the "boxes" in demographic surveys are going the way of the buffalo, why is that? Is it the idea that our comfort zones are dissolving? If we can't presuppose things about people based on their appearance, maybe that makes us feel unsure and a little nervous. We might have to let go of our assumptions, the ones that make us feel knowledgeable and informed. Not all Spanish speakers are immigrants. Not all immigrants are poor and/or stupid. Not all blacks like rap. Nor do they all speak the same dialect of English. Not all whites like camping and corn bread. Nor Eddie Bauer. Need I go on?

As I have been thinking about Grace's friends throughout her childhood, I am struck by how few of them can clearly identify with one and only one ethnic group. This generation of children is, by their very DNA, more ethnically diverse. In a world that is quickly shrinking, a world in which it is an advantage to be not just tolerant of differences, but appreciative and enthusiastic, it seems that these kids undoubtedly are able to understand that world better.

Instead of focusing our energies of making lines and dividing up people into discrete groups that supposedly matter, wouldn't it be more fruitful to think of ourselves as citizens of the earth? Members of the human race? We have more in common with people once we stop and focus on the similarities rather than the differences. I, for one, am tired of the labels.

An honest post about depression during pregnancy

As I've mentioned in passing in the last few months, while I was pregnant with Stella I was diagnosed with clinical depression. This was a big step for me, the going through with seeing someone for diagnosis and treatment. The story of my depression does not begin with pregnancy, though; it begins way, way back long ago in my life.

Very few people who know me would believe I suffer from depression. I have a public persona that is chatty and accommodating. Things have to get very, very bad for me before my public self starts deteriorating and my somber side shows up. That's one of the issues I deal with: how to be "the real me" in public. I also have a quirky problem in that I know what depression looks like and how it gets diagnosed. If I had to sum up the major hindrance to my getting help for my psychological health, it would be to say that I am too metacognitive regarding my own psyche. I usually have a pretty good handle on how I'm doing psychologically, even when I'm not doing so well. Unfortunately, if there's one way to make people believe you are healthy enough not to need help, it's having the ability to accurately describe your own condition and its severity.

Anyways, about halfway through my pregnancy, it became clear that I was having a more difficult time dealing with my own depression in public and in private. And suddenly it became relevant that crying a lot and feeling a lot of anxiety and being unsure of who I really was undoubtedly was not helping Stella in utero. Thus it came to pass that I sought out professional help.

The whole thing was and is a little strange for me. Experiencing depression during pregnancy put me at a 60-80% chance of experiencing postpartum depression. That information was a bit sobering. For the first time in my life I took everything off the table except for my health. That was a VERY strange. I feel better able to cope with things, but wow, suddenly I had time and space to feel some things that otherwise were routinely scooted to the side.

Yesterday I came across this article about depression during pregnancy and some discussion of the effects of various treatments. I emailed the link to my husband. After he got a chance to look at it, he asked me if I really wanted to consider going through a pregnancy ever again. Unbelievably, I have no doubt that it was all worth it. Stella is an amazing gift and she makes my heart melt every time I spy her. The possibility of getting to do it again is almost too wonderful for me to imagine. But you can imagine that from my husband's perspective, he's trying to make sure I'm ok. He's protective like that.

What the source of my depression is I still don't know. Yeah, there's the current trend that depression is largely biological. And then there's my own opinion that one's genetic predisposition to any psychological disorder is exacerbated by past and present stress. I have a BA in psychology, which is enough to know that I don't know much and that I should refrain from any speculation on the mental health of myself or anyone else around me.

FYI, postpartum depression seems not to be my problem. In what seems to me to be some kind of a strange blessing, I know that I feel no worse now than I have at any other point in my life. So it feels like pinning the source on being postpartum would be misguided. I haven't yet checked with my therapist on that conclusion, however.

I figure that at this point in my life, coping with depression is part of who I am. Sure, I'm a lot of other things. But I am finding that if I conceptualize of myself in a more integrated way, it helps me understand myself better and approach problems I face in a more effective way.

So there you go. Journey on...

Witches

Have you ever seen Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine? If you haven't, you really should try to do so. At this point, the musical has not only had an original Broadway and original London cast, it's been reprised on Broadway in the early 2000s and toured extensively. Now it's become the ambitious show of choice for high theatre departments to put on. I had the joy of being 16 years old when I saw it the first time, when the Broadway production opened its first tour in Fort Lauderdale at Parker Playhouse. I'm afraid that first exposure spoiled me for anything less. It was perfect, amazing, and unforgettable.

The plot? Take a bunch of tradition fairy tales, give three-dimensional humanity to the characters and then intertwine their stories in a believable way. It's far too well done for me to even begin to summarize here, so I'll stick to the lead role, originally written for Sondheim's female diva and muse of choice, Bernadette Peters. The character? The Witch.

Now I know that through various artistic genres like musical theatre (Wicked!), contemporary fiction (Wicked: The True Story of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire) and children's literature (The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs!), we have become accustomed to seeing a traditionally evil character reframed in a different light. The new take on the antagonist is that they are grossly misunderstood by society and in the end are revealed to actually be virtuous and good. Sondheim and Lapine are far more creative and realistic than this. The Witch in Into The Woods is not good. She is not wholesome. She is somewhat misunderstood. But really, she's taking in the world around her and calling it the way she sees it. Her way of coping is brutal honesty and confrontation, whether that's with those seeking her help or with those who have tried to take advantage of her or with her own daughter.

Oh, did I forget to mention that detail? That The Witch has a daughter? Well, yes, yes she does. A daughter she dearly loves and protects. And this is a big part of her identity as a person.

Her daughter, as it turns out, is Rapunzel. You know, the witch who keeps Rapunzel locked away in a tower and won't let her see anyone else? Yeah, that witch is Rapunzel's mother in Into The Woods. I'll leave the rest of the origins of that relationship to those interested in looking into the whole plot of the story. She's keeping her daughter in a tower to protect her from the world. There comes a point where a prince comes to the tower and tried to steal the daughter away. Seeing a potential danger to her daughter, the witch hacks off the daughter's locks, tricks the prince, then knocks him to the ground below after blinding him. The daughter becomes hysterical and starts screaming. These are the lyrics to the dialogue that follows between mother and daughter:

"Stay With Me"

[WITCH]
What did I clearly say?
Children must listen.

[RAPUNZEL]
No, no, please!

[WITCH]
What were you not to do?
Children must see-

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
And learn.

Why could you not obey?
Children should listen.
What have I been to you?
What would you have me be?
Handsome like a Prince?

Ah, but I am old.
I am ugly.
I embarass you.

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
You are ashamed of me.

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
You are ashamed.
You don't understand.

[RAPUNZEL]
It was lonely atop that tower.

[WITCH]
I was not company enough?

[RAPUNZEL]
I am no longer a child. I wish to see the world.

[WITCH]
Don't you know what's out there in the world?
Someone has to shield you from the world.
Stay with me.

Princes wait there in the world, it's true.
Princes, yes, but wolves and humans, too.
Stay at home.
I am home.

Who out there could love you more than I?
What out there that I cannot supply?
Stay with me.

Stay with me,
The world is dark and wild.
Stay a child while you can be a child.
With me.

The song makes me cry. I think it gets to the heart of it. This mother is trying so hard to cope with the best way to raise her child, and her child misunderstands. The mother lashes out and acts out of her own hurt and her own struggles. And she shares these feelings with her daughter. As it turns out, the irony of the story is that The Witch is right. The world IS dark and wild. In a moment of chaos in the kingdom, the prince who has married Rapunzel cheats on her while she is suffering from postpartum depression. She flees to the woods, never to be seen again. Not a good end to the story. It's not entirely clear that the daughter would have been any better off with her mother, who, partially out of her sorrow of watching her daughter suffer and mostly out of disgust at the pervasive evil disguised in the world around her, abandons the kingdom in their moment of need. But I think the person of The Witch as a mother and as a person is far too touching to simply write her off as a selfish quack.

I have, at different points these past few days, felt like The Witch. I have also felt like her daughter. I've spent the last week with my mother in town. Grace has also been here with me. I've been both a mother and a daughter since last Wednesday. It is an understatement to say that it has been confusing and emotional. It brings me right back to the root of why I started this blog: to explore my own childhood in the midst of being a mother and living through my daughter's childhood.

How can a single woman cope with loving her mother and trying to make her comfortable and happy while simultaneously needing to stand up for her own needs and dignity? How can one woman simultaneously love her teenage daughter and try to meet her needs while also feeling so weak and human and incompetent at the same time?

I will cut this short as the day is drawing to a close. My daughter is an amazing young woman. She is able to balance her emotions and respond maturely to difficult situations in a fashion far beyond her years. I am in awe of her.

I'm signing off until tomorrow...

Could you give me your opinion?

To any and all readers who find themselves at this, my personal blog:

I am having some time in my life to introspect lately. I know, you're thinking, 'Heather, isn't that all you do given how this blog reads?' Well, not exactly. I mean, sure, I try to think through things and make sense of them in a way that makes the facts around me and my emotions come together. But I don't always feel like I get to an 'a-ha' moment. You know, like when you see things in a way that you never saw before?

I rant about God a lot. I also rant about politics sometimes. And, as the title of my blog reveals quite transparently, I ruminate over my childhood. I got some issues with my self esteem. And now, NOW, I find myself able to reflect on this stuff more. It's coming together in ways I didn't see before.

Here's the controversial part I find myself unsure how to deal with, the part that I need your input on. I could easily write days and days of posts on what is on my mind re: self-actualization. But (and it's a big 'but'), that would require me to dish out some details about people I love. No it's not my husband or my daughter, but it is other people who really matter. Several of my bloggy friends out there (hi, bloggy friends!) have recently had the experience of having someone find their personal blog and go a little ballistic on them. I'd like for that not to happen. Still, something inside of me is tempted to dish out all this stuff because I think it would help me reason through all of it.

Can you give me you advice, and can you vote in my poll on the right, about whether or not you think I should delve into these issues and risk some emotional outbursts should the relevant parties ever find and read this blog?

Thank you, all.

Guest posting - DragonflyMama!!

Today's post is a guest post by DragonflyMama. DragonflyMama blogs at stepmama metamorphoses. She is stepmother to her 11-year-old stepdaughter and also mom to her 3-year-old son. Her husband and she have been at building a stepfamily for five years now. She also deals constantly with her stepdaughter's mother who is, how shall we say, less than accepting of her role in the girl's life. As far as I can tell, stories like hers are par for the course when it comes to stepmothers' experiences.

Awhile back, I wrote a post about how it makes me feel when Grace talks to me about her father and stepmother's kids. DragonflyMama, who is a longtime reader of my blog, took notice and commented. This began a dialogue between us, one much more open and sincere than the one we had already had going. We realized through that correspondence that though we play different roles in the stepfamilies we are each creating (I'm a remarried biomom, she's a stepmother), we have one thing in common: lots of disagreement and friction with the other stepfamily. Though it would be nice to believe it is possible to have it otherwise, both of us have had to accept that this situation will probably never change and have leaned on each other in figuring out how to make it work anyways. We recently decided to have a joint guest posting venture, her here at Comparative Childhood, me there at stepmama metamorphoses. Her post below was a response to my questioning to her along these lines: "As a stepmother who also has a biological child, do you feel differently towards these two children? If it is different, how? Is it different like the way a mother says, 'You are all different and I love each of you in a unique way, but I don't love any of you more or less than the other,' ? Or is it different in some other way?"

I am deeply grateful for my friendship with DragonflyMama and how much I have learned from her perspective on life and circumstances. We both have a young woman in our lives, one we care deeply about. Having her ear and hearing her opinions helps me be a better parent. Enjoy!

Please leave your comments! We hope to have a fruitful discussion about how many of us feel. EVERYONE is welcome in the discussion! post script - I'll be guest posting at stepmama metamorphoses this Wednesday, so this isn't the end!

by DragonflyMama
The day my son was born I became a mom. Yet, it’s hard to define exactly when I became a stepmom. The process of becoming a stepparent has been a very hilly journey full of emotional challenges, and just exactly that, a process. Quite different than going through the physical challenges of pregnancy for nine months and then suddenly one day I was someone’s mother.

I met my stepdaughter when she was just 6, and I was 28. I remember the first activity her father, she, and I did together was make collages on my apartment floor. We sorted through magazines looking for pictures of dogs and cats, and popsicles and flowers. She shyly watched me, and I overcompensated for my own shyness by being rather excited about her creations. I remember that day being fun and simple and easy. As her father and I got closer and more involved, I became more and more unsure of how to be with the girl. My own shyness, jealousy, and fears held me back a lot of the time, but so did her mother’s dislike of me and disapproval of me in the girl’s life. I wanted a deeper relationship with this man I knew, but often his time and energy was directed at his daughter. I also could see throughout that time that the child adored me excessively, and I knew needed to live up to her praise. For about a year, we three sorted through our various relationships with each other and through all our ups and downs slowly came to a place of understanding. I guess when we decided to live together and move towards family life together would be when I would say I became a stepmom. Though my role continues to evolve as I learn how to stepparent well.

On the other hand, when I became pregnant and chose to have the child, there was much less confusion for me. I knew from the first second what a large commitment it would be. I had rights to be with this baby and teach him and enjoy him in a way that I did not have at first with my stepdaughter. My relationship with my birth child did not need sorting out, or lengthy conversations to understand, or asking permission from anyone. It just was, and is. Though it is fraught with uncertainty and fear at times, in comparison it is much, much simpler. Of course, this too I am still learning how to do well.

Being a stepmom is most certainly different than being a biomom. I have been stepparenting now for about 4 years, and bioparenting for 3. And yes, I do love them differently. In the most basic understanding of it, I have no choice as to whether I love my son. I just do, it is in my being to love him. I have never had to fight anyone over him, and birthing him was enough to make me love him forever, no matter what.

Like any relationship that begins with two strangers, I do have a choice to love my stepdaughter. I have had to fight my stepdaughter’s mother every single step of the way to be seen as a valid, equal, and involved parent. Though I wish it were not so, her mother’s negative behavior towards me does affect my feelings towards the child. It has been a long, hilly road for me stepparenting, one that sometimes I have wanted to get off. Yet, I have also found that this fight with the biomom continues to reaffirm in myself my commitment to my stepdaughter. In the constant reminding her mother that I am here, parenting, loving, caring for my stepdaughter, I remind myself too, and I remember why I do it. Everyday that I get her up for school, make her lunch, take her to softball practice, wash her sheets, take her for a hike in the woods, buy her new books, and all the other things parents do, I do not because I have to, but because I choose to.

I love them differently, but I do not love my son more than I love my stepdaughter. I simply have been down two very different paths to become a parent to each of them. I have more time, more freedom, and more responsibility with and for my son, and thus I think the love I have for him is more constant and defined. And the connection between a birth parent and child cannot be denied as extremely powerful and deep. My relationship with my stepdaughter has many more constraints, boundaries, and walls to alter and overcome. From her side as well as mine. My love for her changes and grows. Sometimes it feels fast and sweet, sometimes it feels slow and painful. More so than with my son, it varies from day to day, and month to month.

There has been one ongoing highlight for me in being a parent to these two kids. When I see the two of them play, bond, and love each other my own heart becomes more full of love than I knew was possible. Watching these two sweet young people laugh together I sometimes forget how or why I came to be here and truly just enjoy the moment. I think, it really doesn’t matter the roads we’ve been down and the hills we’ve had to climb. All that really matters is the love.

The Weekly Slug: 26 weeks (I think)

As for names, thank you very much for all the suggestions. My husband got a kick out of it. We've narrowed it down to two names, and we just keep trying them over and over. Each is from one of our families. He likes the one from my family, I like the one from his, go figure. But I think we feel better about the whole thing now.

I can't remember how pregnant I am anymore by the calendar. This is information you're supposed to have at the front of your head at all times so that people know. But I can't remember whether I'm at 25 weeks? 27? 28? Does that mean I'm 6 months pregnant? Or in the 6th month? Is this my last trimester yet? Thank goodness for pregnancy websites that utilize cookies.

There is an issue I became aware of this past week that scared the heebie-jeebies out of me. Though everyone expects everything to go as planned with their labor and delivery, I realized this rarely happens. This includes me. In case you're just tuning in, my OB wants to perform a cesarean at 37 weeks or so in order to reduce any risk of uterine rupture caused by natural labor and delivery. This didn't come as a shock when I got pregnant; I knew this was going to be the case after my last surgery to remove fibroid tumors.

Speaking of fibroid tumors, those bitches are a pain in the ass. I really am going to call my reproductive endocrinologist this week and invite her to come see me when our daughter is born. Then I'll ask her when I can schedule another visit with her to examine how bad the situation has gotten. Every time I have any kind of significant digestion movement down there, there's this excruciating pain in exactly the same place. Ugh.

Back to the idea of a planned birth. It occurred to me that women go into pre-term labor, and because I have fibroids, my odds are higher than average. Even if it's not pre-term, I might go into labor before a scheduled c-section. So then what happens? This isn't my first baby; it's not like I expect this to take 10 or 20 hours. Is it possible I could arrive at the hospital fully dilated and ready to give birth? What does that do to the risk of uterine rupture? More importantly, what does that mean for me actually having to go through child birth again???!?!?!? I'd like to pretend I'm some kind of superwoman who wouldn't be fazed in the least by such a situation, but the truth is, it terrifies me. My birth with Grace was traumatic. It's true; as time passes, you tend to forget how awful it was. But really, it was bad. It was induced, so I don't know much of the difficulty was due to overly severe contractions. But doing it over again really scares me to death. I'm not good with relaxation techniques and lots of pain. Grace emerged from my body as I was puking green vomit. When they asked me whether dad or mom wanted to see and hold her first, I felt barely conscious enough to even parse the question.

So then I started thinking this week, ok, no problem, I'll just enroll me and my husband in a childbirth class and then we'll be prepared no matter what situation presents itself. I did this before when I was pregnant with Grace, and though it had very little good effect on my actual childbirth with her, it made me feel less anxious. But going this route has its emotionally negative repercussions too. We're going to spend 4-6 classes learning all about natural childbirth, getting all geared up for such an eventuality, buying into all the reasons why it's the most wonderful thing in the world...and then what? Have a cesarean? It's bad enough I'm suffering from clinical depression (oh yes, I am, more on that another time); do I really need to throw ANOTHER curve ball into this whole thing that will cause more stress?

I feel like I'm in some kind of a pregnancy and childbirth catch-22, like no matter what I do something won't go right. I'm seeing the obstetrician tomorrow, so you bet there will be a lot of questions about 'what should we do now?'

Help me....

I feel like I have one foot in and one foot out, like the hokey-pokey

At last night's PTSO meeting:

(yes, I am the chairman of a committee in the PTSO at Grace's high school. Does this change your image of me completely?)

The Vice President is sitting next to me. She's a parent who's been in the loop in the district for years. Actually, make that decades; she grew up in the city herself. The meeting goes on and on...and on. 6:30p start. 7:30p comes and goes. 8:30p comes and goes. We're both a little drained from the length of the meeting, seeing as how I came straight to the meeting with a bag of McDonald's in hand for both myself and Grace who was downstairs at an orchestra rehearsal. About 8p, I started using my laptop to write the VP notes and ask her questions, trying to get everything I need to complete for the PTSO finished before I leave the meeting. Between sarcastic commentary going back and forth between us in tiny font and hushed whispers or giggles, she finally whispers to me, we really should go out together sometime.

oh, oh, oh! Someone wants to be my friend! Someone in town! Someone I just met while doing a job at the school and...she likes me!

I said, that's sounds fun!

She says, yes, we really need margaritas. Afterall, you're not pregnant or anything.

Um, well. Hm. Well. How shall I say this. I'm...hm. Yeah, I guess most people don't start the school year with a high school sophomore while also recovering from childbirth. But indeed, that's where I'll be in a few short months. I hadn't really thought about how much this was going to take me out of the peer circle.

See, I was 22 when Grace was born. It took me a few years to realize, but this makes me somewhat of a freak among the parents of her age group. Most of them are either career people who waited well into their 30s to have a child (10-15 years older than me) or were teen moms (not that much younger than me, but still, different). I knew another mom once who was in exactly the same situation as me and captured it perfectly. She said she went to her daughter's elementary school and at some point in conversing with a teacher or another parent, they would say, 'wait, you're young...and you're smart too?' Yeah. And I look young for my age, so it was especially assumed that I must have been a teen mom. When I started aging and went to grad school, no one even came close to suspecting I had a daughter who was closer to the age of the other grad students than I was. Of course this wasn't exactly fun when people found out, because they then realized I couldn't be 23, but must be closer to 33. I cracked the joke a couple times, "Well, I was twelve when she was born," but I stopped because I realized some people actually thought I was being serious.

So now, now that my daughter is in high school, I'm not quite so far behind the game in interacting with the parents of Grace's classmates. Yeah, many of the other parents are well into their 50s and they see me and figure I must be stupid or something due to my youthful appearance, but some of them are great and I've loved having the benefit of their wisdom. I don't mean that as a slam; life teaches you lessons, and knowing people who have had more of it than you have is a very valuable asset! Even though I'm not graying, I have a job at a recognizable office, I own a house now (that was a big distinguisher between myself and other parents that were more established), and I've been around the block a few times. So I still look like about 27, but people aren't so fast to judge as they were when I looked 16 (and was really 25).

The comment from the PTSO VP last night made me realize, being pregnant and having an infant child again will make me completely unlike the rest of the parents again. Sure, by the time this child reaches elementary school, I'll be one of the seasoned parents, just like the ones who have intimidated me all along. But in Grace's life, I'm a very unusual parent.

It doesn't seem like it should be a big deal, but every little thing matters. When you have moved around as much as I have, you hold on to your long-lasting friendships that are far away. The local ones take longer to develop, and sometimes you accept that there's really not anyone in town you really really are close to. I have a couple friends in town who I've known for almost 10 years, but I don't get to see them as much as I'd like. So I don't really go out and have a girl's night out. I'm a homebody, so to speak. It's not that I don't like it; I love being at home and spending time relaxing with my family. But when everything falls apart, I don't sit over coffee with a friend at my dining room table. I call a friend in Ohio or New York or Georgia for that. A perfectly wonderful situation is when the people you see every day, the people you see at your kid's school, the people you work with, the people you live around the block from, just happen to be people who you click with. And when you have kids, this often reduces to the people who are the parents of your kid's peers. Many things factor into the likelihood of success of this: what is the personality or career of your spouse? Do you have a spouse? Did you ever have a spouse? Oh, your child has step-parents? (be careful). What do you do for a living? Where do you live? (oh, you rent?) Where are you from? (oh, you're not from around here? And you travel outside of the country?)

I was just getting to the place where I was feeling normal among the demographic of parents of teens, and suddenly I feel like I'm back to square one again.

Last fall I was on bedrest from my surgery when Grace started the swim season. She was taking the city bus to practices and spending her midday break reading and eating her packed pb&j in the library because she didn't have the time to come home. Meanwhile her teammates were getting shuttled back and forth from practice in minivan carpools back to have lunch at the golf club housing developments they live in. I showed up 6 weeks into the season and introduced myself as the willing, but previously-not-able, swim team mom. This fall we'll start the season with me (most likely) on bedrest again, recovering from a c-section and taking care of a newborn. And somewhere around week 6, I'll show up again as the willing, capable, friendly, but a little odd, swim team mom. And I'll still be driving my 10-year-old Honda and making my kid take the bus when possible and practical. Somewhere in there I'll figure out how to shuffle my responsibilities with the PTSO.

No big deal, except it is a big deal when it hits me. It's not so much about money or station in life or anything else goofy; it's about fitting in and finding friends.

figuring out the next generation

I like to think of myself as being in touch with my daughter's generation, sensitive to the changing world.

In a word -- hip.

But, it happened. I encountered something among Grace and her friends that really threw me for a loop. I mean, something that really confused me and I didn't quite know how to interpret it.

Update on facebook -- if you are a teen, you make it a goal to get as many friends as possible on facebook. If you have fewer than 100, you have got to be more social. 200 is decent. The teens who are getting elected homecoming queen? Try over 500. It is quite a feat, I have to admit. Adolescence is a time when everyone is petty and mean. You might ask someone to be your friend on facebook and they'd reject you. Just thinking about the whole thing makes me so grateful facebook wasn't around when I was in high school.

Grace has close to 400 friends on facebook. Granted, a large part of that is due to switching schools three times in three years. But she is a rather social girl, one who tries not to be in cliques or alienate people. One of her facebook friends was a very popular, very high profile, very privileged young woman she knew in 8th grade. She has over 700 facebook friends. Well, this girl posted a video message to one of her girlfriends on her facebook page. For those of you unfamiliar with facebook, this means every single on of the 700+ facebook friends could view this video. It was about 3 minutes long. She was in bed, listening to slow music, and expressing her deep, adoring, affectionate love for this girlfriend. She said she missed her. She said she wanted to snuggle with her. She said how much she loved her and loved spending time with her and couldn't wait to see her in first hour the next day at school. It went on and on and on.

I was thrown. Has it become commonplace among this generation for all expressions of emotion to become public to everyone they know? I've heard of people proposing marriage in a very public way, but this is something altogether different.

I asked Grace about it. I said, is she joking? Grace said she couldn't tell. I asked her, how do you know how to react to something like this? She said she would usually just ignore it. I asked her, what if someone said all these things about you on facebook? She said she'd kill them and then un-friend them on facebook.

Alright, let me just assure you guys, I'm not freaking out, just completely confused by the whole thing. I'm going back to my freshman year of high school and trying to imagine what it would have been like if the gossip had traveled at the speed of light. I feel the groan deep in my stomach just thinking about it.

Letting it all out

So, here's a moment in which I will bear my soul. I am so emotional over this stuff that Grace is going through at school, I can't hold the tears back. I've been trying all day to hold it in and think rationally and put it all off until later, but I can't do it anymore. I am so so so so so SO much hoping the best for Grace, and just so frustrated by the whole thing.

I was reading through my blog today and thinking, I wish the teacher that was there at the meeting yesterday could read this. No, I wouldn't send along the URL because I frankly don't think it's his business to really know the depth of my feelings towards Grace and about myself. But I just thought, can't he see that Grace is a person? Can't he see that she's struggling and that it isn't just a matter of will? If she's bored in class and puts her head down on the desk and complains that something is boring, it's part of what she struggles with. Yes, I know if she were an automaton she would be able to control these expressions, but she's not! That's the point! She has a disorder that makes it difficult for her to do otherwise. But instead what I heard from this teacher was disapproval and an annoyed tone.

If the student had a hearing problem, would you bring the same kind of attitude to the table in discussing the results of that impairment? What about if the child had mental retardation? Would you bring to the table irritation and anger in reaction to their difficulties in completing all the tasks put before them? Why is it that with a disorder that creates behavior problems, people cannot see past that? It's as if deep down they cannot believe that a disorder evidenced in behavior is something the individual has difficulty controlling. That somehow it's ok to bring an attitude to the table that accuses the individual. WHAT IS THE POINT?

Grace's math teacher is very worried about her. She is so encouraging to me. She goes out of her way to help her. But she very much wants Grace to succeed. When she sees me, she tells me likes Grace. When I email her, she always replies with the kindest, more helpful things. She's not a pansy, I think she just realizes that Grace needs HELP, not more JUDGEMENT!!!! She emailed me twice today and I was holding back. I realized that Grace didn't want to be singled out as 'special.' After telling the math teacher briefly what went on this week at the doctor and at the team meeting, I wrote this:

"There is one more thing I want to make I tell you because it is so important to Grace. She is very sensitive to having people see her or treat differently due to any disorder she has or any difficulty she is having. In all sincerity, she chose in middle school to be completely uncooperative in testing because the school psychologist and the co-teacher were so obvious about singling her out. It got so bad that the co-teacher just said there was no point in having her treated differently at all because the intervention was actually hurting her more than no intervention would. Obviously this was detrimental to her performance in school, but for her it was straight-forward choice: she would rather try on her own and fail than have adults drawing attention to her in what she perceived to be a negative way in the hopes that she might do better. For the last year to year and a half, my husband and I and Grace have spent countless hours as a family discussing how it would be best if Grace would go for help at school. My fear is that if she feels that she's being seen as 'special,' she will ditch the whole effort completely. In fact, given that she did it at a younger age, I can't imagine she wouldn't have this reaction. I assured her that everything regarding her having a label of ADD or anything different about the way she goes about her work and her school day would be entirely confidential. Obviously I know that you and everyone else at the school knows this, but in her case, this is especially important. Her ability to receive any extra help or intervention from the school without sacrificing her self-esteem is of utmost importance to her, and I have to respect that."

It was then that the tears began to fall. I couldn't hold back. I love this kid so much and I feel like her ability to do what she wants to do in life is hanging precariously by a thin thread. One wrong move by someone at the school and she's going to react. It's too much for me to just be cool about. Yeah, I cry a lot about her, I really do. She affects me so much, not in a negative way, though. It's not like she does things and I cry because they hurt my feelings. No, I cry because I just can't let go of wanting the best for her. Her struggles hit me straight to my core. It breaks my heart to see her not get it. Yeah, it's like a mama bear thing, but not in a stupid, 'don't mess with my kid' kind of way; it's in a way where I just long for her to be able to overcome her challenges and it kills me to see her meet hurdle after hurdle and not be able to make it over. And I just can't be objective.

So I'm crying and letting it all out right now. And that's that. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. But right now that's where I am.

Christmas with Mrs. Martin

When I was a young girl, we did scouting at church. My mother didn't like the Girl Scouts, so we were Pioneer Girls instead. My two older sisters were participating for years before I was old enough. When they were in 3rd and 4th grade, my mother volunteered to be their age group troop's leader. There was only one glitch -- me. I wasn't even in kindergarten yet, much less grade school, so there was no troop for my age group. With my dad out of town sometimes, my mom needed somewhere for me to go. And so it was that Mrs. Martin became a special person in my life.

Mrs. Martin was a woman in her 40s or 50s, modest, humble, cheerful. She led the scouting troop for the girls in 1st grade and 2nd grade. When it became clear that I wasn't having much fun at the 3rd & 4th grade troop meeting with my mom and sisters, Mrs. Martin suggested to my mother that I attend her meeting. She gave me a special blue beanie to wear, just like the older girls. I lined up with the older girls and learned my pledges and songs. For the rest of the meeting, I could sit and listen to her lesson, or work on a project they were working on, but mostly Mrs. Martin let me sit and do what I wanted. I would bring dolls or stuffed animals and act out dialogues between them. I would draw pictures. Sometimes I just curled up on some pillows with a blanket and fell asleep. No matter, Mrs. Martin was happy to have me there.

She always had something kind and uplifting to say to me. In my preschooler's view, she seemed like Mrs. Claus -- she had apple cheeks that were always rosy, she was a big woman who swallowed you up when she gave you a hug, she loved children, she made amazingly delectable cookies that she shared every week, and she never failed to give me some treasure she had picked up at the five and dime. I loved that woman so much, I could only imagine that she had been placed in my life just to make me happy.

That Christmas when I was four, the older girls in scouting, those in grade school already, went Christmas caroling in the neighborhood around our church. Even though Mrs. Martin told me I really was in the troop, I really was too little to keep up with the activity. The solution was that my mother took the girls out caroling, and Mrs. Martin stayed back at the church to make hot cocoa for the older girls when they returned. And guess who got to HELP HER? Oh, yeah. I can remember just feeling like I was the most special, most important girl in the world. I was Mrs. Martin's helper in making hot cocoa for ALL the older girls in Pioneer Girls. And of course, there were home-baked cookies to go with the cocoa.

When I was in kindergarten, Mrs. Martin allowed me to be a REAL scout. I had a sash and earned badges and everything. My friend Diane also got to join as a kindergartner. She was a super Pioneer Girl. She always remembered to bring everything she needed to for our troop meetings. The other girls in our age group joined along in 1st grade, and I ended up being in Mrs. Martin's troop until I finished 2nd grade.

One year for Christmas, Mrs. Martin invited us all to her house for our troop party. Mrs. Martin's house? What fun! We were going to have dinner and go caroling, then exchange gifts and have punch and cookies. Before we came, she told us at a troop meeting about her son Richard. (Mrs. Martin had children? I never knew.) Richard was severely handicapped and profoundly retarded. He stayed at home with Mrs. Martin and her husband so that they could care for him. He had no language, he was confined to a wheelchair, and he had to be fed by another person. When Mrs. Martin was at our troop meetings, her husband took care of Richard. And since Richard wasn't able to come to church for Sunday services, she usually stayed home with him and watched a service on television. She told us about Richard because he would be home for our party. She was excited because he would finally get to meet all the girls she had told him about!

Mrs. Martin had a son? And she told him all about our troop? I was nervous. What do you say when you meet someone who can't talk? I thought about it until the night of the party.

Her house was small and modest, and it smelled of Christmas -- pine and cinnamon scents mixed with sugary treats. There were simple lights outside and tinsel and garland throughout the house. On each table were holiday napkins and bowls of Christmas candy, and there was a Christmas tablecloth on the kitchen table where we would get dinner. And in the back room of the house was a Christmas tree, brightly lit and full of silvery tinsel.

Richard was in his bedroom. Mrs. Martin went there to get him. She pushed his wheelchair into the kitchen and introduced each of us. I don't remember what I said, but I remember feeling nervous and a little scared. The hot dogs for dinner were ready, so we sat down around the kitchen table at the places she had set. Richard sat in his chair at the table and ate dinner with us as Mrs. Martin fed him. She explained that his hot dogs were made of turkey because he had a special diet that didn't allow regular hot dogs. I wondered what turkey hot dogs tasted like.

Richard didn't seem to mind being with us. And Mrs. Martin seemed entirely herself as she helped Richard at dinner -- cheerful, jolly, sincere, kind. I suppose you could say it was a new way to see her, as a mother and caregiver, not just as a removed figure of happiness that I had seen before. After dinner, Richard didn't seem to mind returning to his room while we prepared to go out caroling. I don't know what he did in that room, but from what I saw of Mrs. Martin's kindness and gentle caregiving, I can imagine that he must have found himself content with the activities he had available.

That was the only time I ever saw Richard. He died when I was older, in high school or college, I think. Mrs. Martin died only a few years ago. She had been ill for quite some time, and her family saw her death as a release for her, that her suffering had finally stopped. She had children other than Richard, but I can imagine that Richard was a person who brought out a side of her that otherwise might not have been there.

As Christmas was approaching this year, I found myself thinking of so many wonderful Christmases that Mrs. Martin was part of in my life. She brought so much contentedness to my young life. Looking back on it now as an adult, I'm glad that she chose that one Christmas to introduce me and my girlfriends to her son, Richard. I think it makes my memories of her so much sweeter than they would have been otherwise.

I hope in these last days before Christmas Day you find a miracle to admire or a memory to cherish that helps to bring all the hub-bub into focus. As we age, it seems like we lose the ability to see the simplicity of certain details. Remember that sometimes as a child, things are so simple and easy to observe. Savor the flavor of the hot cocoa (even if you live in Florida and it's too warm to drink cocoa) and dwell on the scent of the sugar cookies (even if you're on a diet and can't afford the extra 5 pounds the holidays promise to add) and realize that life is too short not to stop and smile at the small wonders around you.

More Christmas lights

Here's another gem of wisdom about Christmas decoration straight from my desk.

If you find yourself in a home that is colonial style,* and...

if you find that your neighbors are particularly polished in their exterior yuletide decor, and...

if you find that the single candle-like light in each of the windows looks attractive, and possibly a simple and inexpensive option for the decorating challenge you are facing, and...

if you find yourself late at night thinking, it would be so much easier to purchase decorations online than purchase them at the store, and...

if you find yourself tempted by inexpensive plastic battery-operated candles with cleverly designed light bulbs that are really Christmas tree lights but look like flames...


...make sure you consider that the eventually procured electronic candles may be energy hogs. Like, 26 AA batteries and 8 hours later, you may find that every single one of the candles has no more power left and all the batteries need to be replaced in order to provide another night of blissful holiday merriment. And all this after you spent an hour and a half placing each one carefully in each window, including duct taping two to the windows in the garage just to ensure symmetry over the entire house. Oh, and throw into the mix that the temperature is again dropping into the single digits overnight with 30-40 mph winds.

My.

At 11p last night, when it was finally ready and we could go outside to see it from the street, it looked good. For the 2 minutes we spent looking at it. And for the total of 6 hours that it lasted.

*you know, the kind that are symmetrical and have a big door in the middle and windows lined up on the first floor and second floor?

Distracted?

Did anyone else notice that the price of crude oil was just over $50/barrel at close of the New York Stock Exchange today? Just five months ago we were predicting $7/gallon at the pump, and today I filled my entire tank (11.32 gallons) for just over $21. Why aren't we jumping up and down over this? This means the price of everything goes down right?

Oh. I remember. Unprecedented unemployment rates since World War II, evaporation of investments in retirement savings, and a still crashing housing market.

Damn.

Hurt and Anger

You know those girls in middle school that you disliked so much? The ones who traveled together in gaggles and always seemed to have something cutting to say to people who were not so well socially networked? One of those girls I met the first day of 3rd grade when I was a new kid. I saw her last when I was 21, newly married and visibly pregnant. I visited a church (I was church-shopping) and she spotted me. After the service she ran after me and called my name. Now mind you, I was over 1000 miles where she and I grew up and went to school together. I was stunned. She was nice enough and gave her phone number. I never called her back.

We're now friends on facebook. She seems healthy and happy. That connection has opened up access to the mean girls group, though. The pictures started getting posted last week. The poster of the pictures is a woman I have known was on facebook for weeks. I know who she is. I just don't want to have anything to do with her. I know she's a woman now and she's probably a much different person today than she was as a teenager.

The pictures aren't bad or mean or petty or incriminating. They're just snapshots of a bunch of not-yet-highschoolers enjoying youth. It's what I see in these pictures that's painful. I see these images and I suddenly become a 12- or 13-year-old again. I can see their confidence in numbers and smug contentment and not being alone. I can hear their snide remarks uttered quietly during class, designed to make you feel small. I can feel the heat in my face as I feel hurt, then angry, and finally defeated.

It's amazing, really. It was so long ago. The things that happened were so petty and lame. As an adult, I can watch the same things happen between middle school girls and think, what idiots. Despite the elapsed time and the decades of maturity that have ensued, I still see these photos and feel hurt.

I wonder what it feels like to be one of those girls in the pictures. What are their hurts? Who angered them? How did they resolve their feelings?

The rest of the story

Since yesterday was all about the good side of my 4th grade year, today I'll give a picture of the not-so-good side. In the spring of the school year, just after my critically acclaimed portrayal of the Easter Hen, my mother had a hysterectomy. She had many many many fibroid tumors and her last two pregnancies ended in frighteningly fast deliveries. I hear that due to improved techniques which lessen recovery time, a hysterectomy is now an out-patient surgery. Not so when my mother was up for the operation. Five days in the hospital recovering.

So for five days me, my two sisters and my dad made do at the house without my mother. My father was an airline pilot, so in the middle of the week he was gone one night. My sisters and I stayed with family friends. And it was that day that the bottom dropped out.

I can't remember what the infraction was, but I got in big trouble during art class. The teacher was so angry with me, furious. The class ended with me getting spanked (oh yeah, you gotta love parochial school and their adherence to corporal punishment) and being sent up with a slip to be signed by my parents that evening. If I didn't bring the slip back signed, I would be suspended from school. All that would have been bad enough, but on top of that there was one additional stressor: I wasn't going to see my parents that night. My mother was in the hospital and my dad was out of town. It didn't occur to me to tell anyone this situation, and so I just worried all night long about the situation.

When I went to school the next day, I decided to go to the art teacher's classroom and explain why I couldn't return the slip that day. He told me I should have had the parents of the family I was stayed with sign the slip. Or have one of my sisters sign it. He begrudgingly told me that I had one more day. That was Thursday. The next day was Good Friday. Good Friday was a day off of school, as was the entire next week.

My mother came home from the hospital that weekend and we all helped her recuperate the next week while we were home from school. I knew I should have told my parents about the trouble I got it right away, but there just didn't seem a good time. My mom was tired, my dad was trying to keep up with all of us while continuing on his regular flight schedule, and I really didn't want to tell my parents I had gotten in trouble. Again. Because I was on a high. I was a superstar, remember? They finally thought I was somebody, somebody who could do things right, somebody who didn't always mess things up.

Every night I went to bed and I felt scared and sick in my stomach. I knew that eventually I would have to tell my parents what had happened, and they would be very angry with me. I would have to hear how this was the last thing they wanted to hear at this time. My mother needed to hear good news and my dad needed us to help him out, and I had bad things to tell them.

Finally, the Sunday night before school was to resume, I came to their bedroom and told them everything. I was upset and cried; I always cried. They got upset and they scolded me. They scolded me not only for doing something wrong (whatever it was, no one remembers now), but for not telling them. There is no up-side to this tale; I got in trouble, my family was under a very stressful time, I brought home bad news, once again I was the troublemaker of our family.

And so it seems life goes: one minute you're a superstar, and the next you're down in the dumps. No, I don't think I'm bipolar. But I guess through the years I've learned to take the good with a grain of salt so that when the bad comes I don't crash down quite so far.

Happy Halloween

My best buddy when I was a kid was Derek. Derek lived down one street, around the corner, and four houses down on the right. He lived with his older sister Lori and his mom.

From birth to age 5 we spent almost every day together. We climbed trees, we played games, we went swimming together. His family always had cats, and it was at Derek's house that I saw newborn kittens for the first time. I loved going to his house and playing with the cats. Derek's house was one of the places I developed my love for cats. Derek's birthday and mine were only three weeks apart and until we both started having sleepover birthday parties, we made sure we were at the other's party. For most of those years, I was the only girl at his party and he the only boy at mine. But our mothers made sure we each felt welcome despite the gender imbalance, I always getting a special princess hat at his party and he getting a king crown at mine.


There was one event in the year that never was missed at Derek's house -- Halloween. Every year his mother planned the Halloween party to beat all Halloween parties. She dressed up like a witch and Derek and Lori devised equally ghoulish costumes and the three of them transformed their house into a mansion of terrors and screams. Spider webs clung to the walls, those cardboard post-ups of skeletons were on the doors and hanging from the dining room chandelier, and the lights were all dimmed while a haunted house album played continuously on their stereo system. They served good eats for kids, brownies and cookies, blood red Hawaiian punch (I think they added red food dye) and of course, lots and lots of candy. Lots of games, lots of gross games involving eggs and jello and creepy masks and dark rooms, as I recall. Every kid in the neighborhood came. There were so many of us, we were just squirming past each other, spilling out the back door onto the patio and into the backyard. So I went with both of my sisters and joined in every year.

One year Derek's family came up with the idea to transform their garage into a haunted house. It was simple enough; they put up some cardboard dividers to make a maze, played some creepy music and made the room almost pitch black. Derek hid under a table and rattled some chains and then Lori screamed and jumped out and grabbed you at the end. But I didn't know that beforehand. All I knew was that I was dressed up like a ballerina and Derek's-Mom-As-A-Witch told us all that we had to go through the haunted house alone before we could have our treats. One by one, each kid went in and I heard the screams and the scary music. When they emerged afterward they looked pale and relieved. I was standing with my sister Wendy. She had already gone through long before and was laughing again. I just remember thinking, I am not going in there. Almost everyone had gone through by the time I stood at the doorway. Wendy tried to reassure me that it was fine. I said I didn't want to go. I didn't care whether I wouldn't get snacks or if I had to go home, there was no way I was going through that haunted house.

I think it was at that point that Derek's mom realized there was no getting me over this. She said she would check out the haunted house to see how things were and then slipped through the garage door. She emerged a few seconds later and told me I could bring Wendy along. We went through the door and the music didn't sound so bad. Derek rattled his chains and then peeked out from under the table and smiled a big grin at me. Lori was less merciful and screamed loudly, then bared her bloody vampire teeth at me. I ran as fast as I could for the door, out of the Garage-Turned-Haunted-House-Of-Horrors, yanking Wendy behind me. When I burst through the door back into the light, Derek's mom was there in her witch costume smiling. She said she knew I would survive. The other kids (mostly boys) teased me and made fun of me for being a chicken, but I didn't care. And knowing my sister the way I do, she probably pulled them to the side and with a steely glare threatened to beat them up if they didn't knock it off.

Derek's mother remarried when we were about 9 or 10 years old and he gained two older step-siblings. We went to different schools and went our different ways. I hardly knew him by the time I graduated from high school. I have no idea where he is today. Derek's family and my family still live in the same neighborhood. All of us kids have long moved away and our parents became senior citizens together. My parents and Derek's kept a close relationship well on into the 21st century. Derek's mom and stepdad became successful realtors working together, smiling all day together. They could not have looked happier through their life together.

Derek's mom developed pancreatic cancer a few years ago and died within months. Her husband was devastated. They had about 25 years of marriage, built a blended family together with their four children, and then in what seemed like a blink of an eye, it was over. My dad and Derek's stepdad talked a few times and learned that it was a great and sorrowful loss for everyone in their family.

What a wonderful woman she was, always opening her home to me, always looking out for me, always making life a joy for her children and for the other children in the neighborhood. I was drawn to tears as soon as I heard the news, and am now again just thinking about her. I remember her in many ways, but the first memory I had of her upon hearing of her untimely death was of her compassion for me at that Halloween party and how she helped me get past my fear of the unknown without making me feel a fool for it.

Happy Halloween, everyone. I hope your night is full of fun, excitement, and memories to last a lifetime.

I have confidence in confidence alone

Do you remember the scene in The Sound of Music when Maria first leaves to abbey and travels to the van Trapp family estate? In the movie, Julie Andrews packs up her humble belongings and shows her reluctance in leaving. She is nervous and unsure. But throughout the action of the song "I Have Confidence" she sings to herself, smiling, reassuring herself that she is indeed ready for what she faces.

If only it were that simple and transparent. Rodgers and Hammerstein were so much better than to write such a trite ditty.

They made sure that if you listened carefully, you would realize that although the whole song and accompanying travel time are infused with stalwart posturing and broad steps intermingled with skips, it is in fact a front. Maria is scared and very unsure of herself. She doesn't resolve this insecurity by singing about it to herself -- she faces the reality that it exists. The lyrics go like this:

I HAVE CONFIDENCE

What will this day be like? I wonder.
What will my future be? I wonder.
It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free
My heart should be wildly rejoicing
Oh, what's the matter with me?

I've always longed for adventure
To do the things I've never dared
And here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared

A captain with seven children
What's so fearsome about that?

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack

The courage to serve them with reliance
Face my mistakes without defiance
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me

So, let them bring on all their problems
I'll do better than my best
I have confidence they'll put me to the test
But I'll make them see I have confidence in me

Somehow I will impress them
I will be firm but kind
And all those children (Heaven bless them!)
They will look up to me

And mind me with each step I am more certain
Everything will turn out fine
I have confidence the world can all be mine
They'll have to agree I have confidence in me

I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me

Strength doesn't lie in numbers
Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!

It tells me all I trust I lead my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone
(Oh help!)

I have confidence in confidence alone
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

If you're lucky to see a good actress play the part of Maria, it's the last few lines that give it away. "I have confidence in confidence alone." Then she repeats it realizing what she's just said. And then she says plainly, 'oh help.' If she's weren't a nun she'd have said 'oh damn' with just the same intonation. You can tell yourself anything you want, but Maria learns that this doesn't matter if it doesn't stick. If there's something deep inside of you that's standing in the way of confidence, you can't merely talk yourself into being confident. Sooner or later the rhetoric will catch up with you.

Grace is confident. She is sure of herself. I am not confident. I am not sure of myself. She believes she can do anything. I believe I can try anything and may fail. She is not afraid of her peers and walks boldly into tough situations. I get sick to my stomach just thinking about this.

I am more like Maria. Grace is more like, I'm not sure who. But there is one thing I know. In rereading what I have written here and what I have written in my personal journal, I have realized that I wish I were like here. I wish I had her confidence and her bravery. I wish I believed in myself the way my daughter does.

I've been wondering where this comes from. Is it a genetic thing or a nurtured thing? Is it possible to change yourself, or is the attempt to do so as futile as Sister Maria's confidence-building exercise is portrayed as being? I would love to know the answer. If I hope to get past this insecurity of mine however, I think I need to try without really knowing how to do it.

Lesson for life

I have a bachelor's degree in psychology. As many people know who have either attempted and/or earned a degree in the field, there's a big hurdle that must be jumped over early in your career: statistics. When I took introductory statistics, it was my first semester back at college after taking a two-year hiatus to get married and have a baby and to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had scheduled 8a classes for every day and had a full 17 hours load. I wanted to be done with this degree already. My Mon/Wed 8a was statistics lab, with the lecture in the afternoon at 1p. After the lecture, I walked home and hopefully found my daughter asleep at her nap.

I liked the class ok; I got a B+. The course was what is referred to in the trade as a "weed-out" course, though -- a course that is designed to challenge students at the start of studies so that only the strong survive. In a field like psychology it made sense I guess because tons of students come to college thinking psychology is what they want when it really is not. Nonetheless, stats was something you had to approach with gusto and courage.

The course was taught by Dr. Roger E. Kirk. He wrote the textbook used: Statistics: An Introduction. He headed the PhD program in psychological statistics. He was one of the most senior colleagues in the department and in his field. He was an expert in a field that charges a pretty penny for its services. He could have done anything other than teach 220 reluctant undergraduates introductory statistics every fall and spring semester. But he was clear to tell his large lecture every semester, he continues to teach the class because he feels it is important for him to teach beginning students.

The course material is dry and Dr. Kirk knew it. He was not a charismatic teacher, but he was sensitive to the attention level of his students. When he sensed that a good portion of the class was tuning out, he would stop and go down what he called "a bunny trail." He would tell us about his wife and a ballroom dancing event they attended together. He would tell stories about his own experience as a student and how he reacted to pretentious leaders of the field when they were less than kind (names withheld ;-) ) Or he would just say what was going on in his garden or some inconvenience in his daily life or a recent cooking experiment he and his wife cooked up. He cared that we as students were there and that we would likely not succeed if we saw our instructor as insensitive to our struggle to even pay attention.

Perhaps the best lesson I ever learned in a classroom I learned from Dr. Kirk. On the last day of lecture, at the very end of the lecture, Dr. Kirk set aside 5 minutes to give us one last lesson. He stood in front of the classroom in his same humble and reserved posture and addressed us all. As we had learned from him before, he reminded us that he had finished a bachelor's degree and a master's degree in music. He played the trombone or the trumpet, I can't remember which. He had thought his entire life he would be a professional musician. But he said that he realized he wasn't very good at playing the instrument. Yes, he could understand the principles he had learned, but he had to face the fact that he wasn't good at the career he was pursuing. It was at this turning point in his life that he applied to his PhD program in psychology and went on to become one of the leaders in the field of modern statistics. The moral of the story, he told us, is that we may have struggled through the class and found ourselves questioning our value, our worth, and our ability to do anything right. But the important thing to realize is that our success in one course in college is not indicative of our overall abilities. Maybe we just hadn't found what we were really experts at yet. He said, I am glad to have gotten to teach you, and I look forward to what each and every one of you will do in your life, regardless of what that is.

In all of my studies and training, I'm very grateful I got to hear that lesson. It helps keep everything in perspective.

First Homecoming

The dance is tomorrow night. I am more prepared now than I was a week ago.

Blue dress, halter top bodice. Black heels. Straightened hair. With a $150 flat iron, I might add. Oh yeah, we don't take this hair straightening lightly, ladies and gentlemen. If we're going to straighten our hair, we do it right.

I am not chaperoning the dance. Oh no, not I. I will trust Grace to tell me about what happened.

If I get through this, I think I will feel as if I've accomplished something. Like I've gotten into the groove of being the parent of a high school student.