Grey Days

I've experienced days with my children - golden days - those days where every parental directive is obeyed and each utterance they make is laced with childhood wisdom rather than shrill taunts and abject desire for candy and potato chips. I love the golden days (who wouldn't) and after each one am utterly convinced I can recapture those moments if I do EXACTLY what I did the day before. I've wasted a lot of energy on that - I'm a slow learner.

In contrast to the golden days, there are the grey days - the days that provide both parent and child with endless fodder for therapy, both now and in the future. Yesterday was a grey day. I doled out oodles of those therapy-inducing moments, and walked away with one or two myself.

Yesterday both members of the under-five-club spent the lion's share of the day with me as I worked from home. A recipe for disaster to most. For me, ever-optimistic in the face of reality, the chance to spend a few extra hours with the toddler brigade was inviting. Then reality came to the party, and brought disappointment as her date.

I've toured yesterday over and again in my head, replayed the moments, sworn resolve to "do better," but the grey will not lift. Those who love me have already granted my pardon and commuted my sentence, yet I continue to sit as judge, jury and executioner of my actions and parenting skills. Yesterday was the day I told my four-year-old son to go live with his father. And I meant it.

I acknowledge that this particular crack (crevasse) in my armor appeared after eight hours of energy draining, non-stop skirmishes, a full day's work for me, no nap for him and one particularly well delivered roundhouse blow to the head (my head, his wind up). I'd like to hide behind a personality-altering concussion, but can only claim human frailty that led me to proclaim, exclaim and defame... "You can go live with your father!" Followed immediately by his wails and sobs, and then quickly by a hardened resolve as he delivered a blow of his own - verbally this time. "Fine mom, I will." Again, he's 4. At that moment I think we were both 4, locked in a battle of wills that every parenting book tells you to ignore, without a lick of advice as to how you do this. You just do - all "good" parents do, anyway.

Yes, I know - the parenting books are often not worth the ink and lives of countless trees it took to produce them. And Oprah, Dr. Phil and the other talking heads can kiss my corpulent, jiggly ass. Gosh that felt good. Still, I can't shake the feeling that, in spite of the exhaustion and stress I operate under, I crossed a line - blew past it actually. And I don't have the foggiest how to avoid that particular trap again. And, honestly, I don't know how I'm gonna foot the bill for college for these two mini-geniuses, let alone therapy. We all have scars. But do we need to start getting them at age 4? How young is too young? And how old is old enough to know better*?

*Please let the answer be older than 38.

Art? Art Who?

So, I got the (four year) old video camera working and uploaded footage (please don't let me regret this later). Tonight I was meant to start a new series of art work, but there was fail on many levels. Not the least of which, I could not get the canvas I needed *anywhere* in the stinko suburbs. That will be remedied tomorrow.

Secondly, while it was a lovely - albeit tiring - evening, I did not get the minis settled properly in bed until almost 10:00 - too late to cover one's body in paint and roll around on anything (well, at least too late to do by myself). So what I've captured and uploaded tonight is the preview to the action, rather than any action itself. Ah, the story of my life lately - all talk, no action. Regardless, I'll leave the bulk of the explanation to the video below. 

In parting, I can confirm this truth: the camera adds, like 25 lbs. Seriously! It's so not that I haven't been to the gym in 2 months, or that wine and chocolate have comprised the bulk of my diet over the last few weeks. It's the camera. The four-year-old, dilapidated, weight-adding camera. And the lighting. Yup, definitely. Okay. I'm done.  :)

Reflections (or My Email Turned Blog)

I have a friend with whom I email most every day. A few lines, some short paragraphs - "just to check in" kind of emails. Sometimes I think some of my best writing is in these emails - it's so effortless, writing to one person whom you know will accept it without judgement. I was going to write another, but decided to blog instead. The email would have gone something like this:

Hey -

It's almost 1:00 AM and I'm still awake. I've no idea why as I'm utterly exhausted and Friday's projected grind promises to be no less grueling. I hope your day got better - my karma never seemed to readjust.

The kids are (thankfully) asleep. I just checked on them and lingered for the longest time in each of their rooms, just watching them sleep. Do you ever do that? It's almost a mind-altering experience. Not the least of which, because they're mine. There's something otherworldly about seeing pieces of yourself laid out in slumber. It's almost out of body. I feel like it's the only time I'm really seeing them - seeing who they are without the filter of emotions, which run so high at this age. They seem so small and naked - not physically of course - it's like I'm seeing them from the inside out.

Then I had a truly ugly and horrific thought. It was so vile I could taste it - bitter on my tongue - but I couldn't push it away; it persisted and crashed in on me like a block of concrete. There are people out there who would take these small, gorgeous beings and hurt them - defile them. People are out there doing awful, unspeakable things to children right now, and parents are sick with worry hoping for the best but fearing the worst. I'm the only one who can keep them safe. There's no margin for error. There's no handbook for this - what if I fail? Do you worry about that? I guess every parent does - but perhaps not as gruesomely (I've toned down the level of my description - no reason we should both be completely horrified).

Huh, I suppose it's no wonder I'm still awake with those notions roiling around my skull. It seems so totally random to be wrestling with this right now. Although maybe not. Today was a day of innocence lost. Icons from my youth vanished. For years I've not been able to think of Michael Jackson without mourning the loss of his childhood. It seems no one stood and fought for young Michael - the boy in the plaid jumpsuit with the broad smile, singing with his brothers on prime time variety shows. And Tehran - a day of more bloodshed, unrest and uncertainty. How can a child exist in Iran right now and maintain his innocence?

Mortality spreads fat as moss
over the touchstones of yesterday.
Souls collected like Augers and Shooters
dropped one after the other
into a sackcloth bag.

Okay, I don't know where that came from either. I'm now rambling poetry. It's time to turn in. Hope to catch up tomorrow - well, later today. Good morning to you (by the time you read this). I'm going to try and get some sleep - some face-plant and drool on my pillow kind of sleep. I need it. Talk to you later.

x

Shades of Grey (and Brown, Tan, Yellow)...

When my daughter was born and my son started pre-school, my mom asked me how I was going to have them identify themselves. Not one to pass up the opportunity for a smart-ass remark, I quipped "Preferably by their names." This response was met with the (usual) exasperated snort and eye roll. I knew what she was getting at - the topic of race.

Honestly, I'm surprised that race still *is* a topic in 2009, but it seems to be at the fore now more than ever - especially here in the United States as we are led by the nation's 'first Black President.' Since the first U.S. Census in 1790 race has been prominently measured and while it's now optional, every government form has a 'Race/Ethnicity' section populated with little boxes to tick off - so one can be put into a nice, neat little box. I realize that I may have a naive view of the world, but is this still really necessary? What value does this data provide?

But race is still a topic. It was a topic amongst some in my family when I married a man who was 'of a *different* race.' Merely because no one in the family had done this before, I was reassured, and for no other reason. Um, OK...really? It's a topic among co-workers who don't take the time to make eye contact in the corridor, but casually prop themselves in my office door frame to see the pictures of my beautiful children (and yes, they are beautiful). Their eyes dart between me and the pictures and they utter "Ohhhh." This riveting monologue is usually followed by a few pointed questions about their father ("Where is his family from?" etc. Answer: Georgia and North Carolina - there will be a quiz later) before the inquisitor ambles on.

I recently made an appointment for my young daughter at a medical specialist's office, and was asked in dulcet tones over the phone "And what is her race?" I think I replied "Erm. Um. What?" or something equally as baffled, and finally asked the scheduler if she could just report 'other' and move on. We finally landed on 50% African-American and 50% Caucasian (I'm not a fan of the term Mulatto and don't use it). Now, I understand that certain racial or ethnic groups are more prone to some disease than others, but I'm still a bit flummoxed as to how this percentage breakdown will provide the medical establishment with necessary information to diagnose whether my daughter does or does not have a disease. I'd like to think time will tell, but I'm doubtful.

I am still hopeful that as my children age, they'll grow up in a time where they can comfortably "identify" themselves by only their birth names (and sports teams) and move on. Although it has been pointed out to me that my daughter has a boy's name, which will inevitably be a problem for her. To which I reply: she has a poet's name, which is as beautiful and indefinable as she.

Musings Hodgepodge

I haven't written a post in over a month, mainly because I can't settle on one subject to yammer on about. That said, I've decided to let it all fly and the ideas can land where they may. Here we go...

Mother's Little Helper
I've been swimming upstream against the demands of parenthood and life in general, swallowing my share of water and flogging myself for lacking the freestyle skills of Michael Phelps. This exercise has left me with more than a couple of new gray hairs, circles under my eyes and - what's this?! - frown lines! No more. It's occurred to me that I'm not the only one getting pulled under by the tide.

Result: I'm starting a *working* support group for parents, called Mother's Little Helper. [If we get dads who join and object to the name, we'll change it. Until then I like it :-)]. The idea: create a coalition of parents willing to swap free babysitting for time to get things done! I don't know about you, but grocery shopping with two midgets under the age of 4 is not only counter-productive, but I'd rather poke my eyes out with a hot skewer...and my eyes are my best feature. Bitching, moaning and stress-eating will also be on the agenda as needed. The Philadelphia chapter's first meeting will be at my house on July 25. Email me, tweet me or leave a comment if you'd like to join the Philly group or for support to start a group in your area.

The Society of Twitter
Twitter fascinates me. Beyond the interesting people I meet and tweet with, Twitter itself is a sociological smorgasbord. Usually I just log on and wait for a break in the conversation to jump in - or fire off an all-tweets rant or greeting. Most of the time, not much thought goes into it, I'm sorry to say.

Some time ago I had a twisunderstanding with a friend over a tweet/DM exchange. 'Twas cleared up quickly and amicably enough, but beyond that it led to a revelation of said friend's 'Twitter manifesto'. I must admit than when Eduardo* first revealed that he had a 'manifesto' (my word, not his), I rolled my eyes and thought, "Um, Eduardo, it's only Twitter for fuck's sake - just get out there and chat." But as usual he's proven to be well ahead of me in his thinking of Twitter as not merely a ranting place for our "look at me! follow me!" overblown egos, but a society unto itself. Luckily, I don't mind that my friends are smarter and more clever than I, and regularly beat me to the punch on...well...everything. [Note: I'm not publishing Eduardo's manifesto as it was revealed in a private conversation. Hmmm - I guess I have a blogging manifesto of my own].

This has led me to think about *how* I tweet. My perspective has become thus (warning: if you're tired of my dinner party analogy, skip ahead a bit!): for me, Twitter - and web 2.0 in general - is like a large international dinner party. The room is softly lit, the wine and food are flowing and conversations buzz around the table. Lovely.

As you pan around the table, a myriad of conversations ensue. You listen with delight and interject when the mood strikes, the time apropos. As with any dinner party, there is etiquette. If someone asks a question directly, I find it polite to answer. It's also best not to interrupt when someone else is talking, and all points of view are welcome and treated with respect, if not agreement. Oh, and don't speak with your mouth full or dribble wine down your front, and remember that forks are used in order from the outermost to the one closest to the plate.

As I don't have a webcam, I am a bit lax about tweeting with food in my mouth and have spilt the occasional drop of wine (oops). But otherwise, I like to tweet as I would converse with someone face to face. I don't reply to every reply I get, but do answer direct questions. I don't filter between my RW (real world) and Cyber tweeps. That's my comfort zone. And so I wonder, do others have a Twitter manifesto and apply different rules of engagement to how they tweet? Do you tweet RW and Cyber friends differently? Tweet me (or post a comment) to carry on the conversation. I'll tweet back with respect, but not respectfully cause that would just be boring!

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

P.S. - I asked these questions last week and @Itxi_Itx, @karacornflake, @sarahjpin and @julirose each brought a unique and informed opinion to the table. Thanks for the conversation ladies.

Wanted: Serenity Now!
Anyone who watched Seinfeld will remember this as Frank Costanza's oft-shouted mantra to quell his anxiety - usually with disastrous but hilarious results. I now sit in my office most days and shout "Serenity Now!" with the same result. I've decided to do something about this.

I'm reinstating my mantra "I have everything I need. I accept the conditions upon which I am living and I'm at peace with it. I accept the way things are, but I don't have to like it." This mantra is shamelessly stolen from Jay Pausch, the widow of Columbia University professor Randy Pausch who last year lost his battle with pancreatic cancer. [If you've not seen Professor Pausch's brilliant Last Lecture, check it out here: http://www.cmu.edu/randyslecture/].

If Mrs. Pausch can live this mantra in the face of the death of her soul mate and the father of her children, then who the hell am I to wallow? And so I renew a commitment to myself to not worry about that which I cannot control, but to control how I react. I accept the way things are - but I don't have to like it. Serenity now. @BrainStorey recently reminded me of the importance of this, and for that I thank him.

That's it from me - for now. And really, isn't that enough?!

Quirky Obsession Confessions

Quirks. If we're honest we all have 'em. The way he holds a cigarette, the softness - or extremity - of her head tilt when in deep thought or conversation, the way we absentmindedly swirl the ice in a rocks glass as we sip the elixir. All could be described as quirks - I'll leave more lurid descriptors to your imagination - this time.

Me, I've been dubbed the "Q" word more than once - and for a host of things far too boring (read: embarrassing) to list. But what gets the Marlena Dietrich eyebrow-raise reaction more than others are certain confessed likes and dislikes. Here are a few, in no particular order and for no particular reason:

Jeff Goldblum: I Tweeted about this the other night. I absolutely *love* Jeff Goldblum. I have no idea why, and don't even question it (much) any more, I just do. I think he's hot. Not nearly on par with Jeremy Irons mind you, but still...steamy. Which is odd on so many levels, not the least of which that it breaks a simple and unyielding personal rule: not to fancy a man whose thighs are thinner than mine. This guiding principle is one I hold dear, and it helps my ego survive the many other blows it takes on a regular basis. There is a caveat to the Goldblum quirk - The Big Chill-era Goldblum does nothing for me. The Jurassic Park Goldblum - another story completely.

[side note: Speaking of The Big Chill -and I'm not sure why I still am - the next person I overhear in a coffee shop - or anywhere - utter "Oooh, it's that song from The Big Chill" as 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' is playing over the speakers *will* get more than a sidelong dirty look from me. This happens more than it should and this is also why it's best not to eavesdrop.]

Eavesdropping: seemed like a natural segue. I *love* to eavesdrop. This may not seem that quirky or obsessive, but I can't turn the ability to eavesdrop off - and I honestly don't want to. It starts out harmlessly enough - picking up a stray fragment here or there as an idle word or passing syllable ambles by. As the clock ticks though, I've unwittingly become engrossed in the wall paper choices of the couple behind me, the extra-marital affair of the blond to the right and the post-office challenges experienced by the shy-guy two tables over when he tried to return his mail-order porn. Where it gets me into trouble though: when I start to nod in (dis)agreement or answer those I'm listening in on.

Chick flicks as salve for a broken heart: again, on the surface, this may not seem a quirk to the casual observer. Maybe it's not to others, but this ranks high on my self-diagnosed list of oddities and makes my eyebrow arch skyward. On any given day, I'm not a big chick flick fan. Queue me up for Bond (except the Dalton lost years), a Hitchcock revival at the local movie theater, Batman/Spiderman/Iron Man (attempts) at comic classics, suspense, action, sci-fi - you get the idea. But after a few rounds in the ring with misery and despair over the shattered remains of a once-vibrant love life, you can find me pawing through the DVDs to those in the *way* back for anything with Hugh Grant in it, hoping his exceedingly-blinky blue eyes will put me on the mend. [Another side note - come to think of it, side notes are another quirk: About a Boy - Nicholas Hoult, Nick Hornsby's original story, and the fabulous soundtrack elevate this film beyond chick-flick status. Four Weddings and a Funeral with that Dreaded Andie MacDowell (in my mind this is the title of the movie) - this film will never make me anything but annoyed and is never a contender].

And these are the less embarrassing. Imagine what I would have revealed had I written this post last night after a few glasses of wine...

Me and Francine

In the U.S. Mother's Day is May 10. Personally, I think Mother's Day is a shit holiday, invented by Hallmark to trade on the guilt of prodigal children and befuddled husbands. Mind you, I say this as a mother and person who *loves* a good holiday. And I will be there to celebrate my mother and all the fabulous women who've *mothered* me through life. But that's the thing - I know so many fabulous women who deserve more than one day of pampering, lunching, and kudos - and until they add 364 more days to this Mother's Day hullabaloo, Hallmark can keep it.

Grousing aside, a very worthwhile and rewarding event takes place in Philly each year on Mother's Day - the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure to raise money and awareness for breast cancer research. This year I've teamed up with a bunch of lovely, altruistic women to run the 5K race and stomp this disease into the ground. We'll raise money, limp through training, and rise with the sun to compete; we'll bravely stare down the monster and - for a moment - feel like we've won. We'll do our part for all the amazing women who deserve a 365-day celebration.

One of the most glowing, mind-blowing, amazing women I know is my friend Francie Scott. Francie rocks. She's a journalist, a mother, a grandmother, a friend. She's New Zealand-born elegance with a lilting, ephemeral accent; she loves Garrison Keillor, Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, Jane Austen, and has a *huge* crush on Michael Ball. She's my *proper* friend - with a naughty streak - who makes room for my bawdy humor and snarky temperment in her warm and inviting world - all while battling breast cancer. 

When I first got to know her, she was five years in remission. The disease had weakened her, but didn't break her. When we look back on that, we shake our heads in disbelief at all that came after. In cancer-speak, five years of remission is a turning-point to increased survival rates, and decreased rates of recurrence. We all thought, "Yay, five years!" - hurdle cleared. Or not.

Time passed. Francie's cancer came back. She dragged herself to chemo and back to work with the rest of us at the magazines. The chemo managed the disease and Francie managed the chemo. Life continued to happen - there was a wedding, the birth of a grandchild, moving to a more manageable space, and readjustment. Then cancer started juicin' on 'roids and upped the ante, attacking her bones, wearing away her hip, weakening her spine.

Again, I remind you, Francie rocks. She rocked through the rattling pain of cancer completely devouring her hip socket, she rocked through the agony of her right foot dropping inches lower than her left as her leg migrated south with nothing to keep it in place. She rocked through her hip replacement surgery, through her physical therapy and the well-meaning-visitor-filled hours in the chasm in between. She just plain rocked, all the while keeping her cancer at bay. But cancer is a greedy fucker, and it came back for more, this time snacking on her spine. I remember Francie at my wedding, only weeks after her spinal surgery, a regal turtle inside this ungodly contraption of an upper body cast. But there she was, front and center and wishing us well.

Now it's just a haze. Dinner parties, brunches, trips to the cinemas all mingling together with the hand-to-hand cancer combat. Me fighting back the ants-in-my-pants as I struggled to cross the finish line of the last 30-minutes of The Insider - while she was riveted to every minute of Russell Crowe's whiny angst masquerading as drama; she containing her disappointment in Baz Luhrmann's MTV-style Moulin Rouge, while I was riveted to *everything*. So much more than cancer, chemo, and surgeries. So much to laugh about.

And then she died. In early December 2001 - I can't even remember the exact date - she died. I remember the phone call from her son Aaron to my then husband. 'Better come see her now,' he said. 'Come see her' - before we left for our weekend in New York City, to celebrate my birthday and comfort the city who'd lost so much 3 months before. But first, go see Francie. Go sit by her bed, hold her hand, kiss her head, say we love her, hold back the tears, and say goodbye. We did. 

Then we got on the train to Manhattan. We spent the weekend in our favorite hotel. We sat 10 rows back in the Broadhurst Theater and watched the trifecta of Ian McKellan, Helen Mirran and David Strathairn deliver powerhouse performances...in Strindberg's Dance of Death (talk about timing). We had the obligatory drink in Sardi's, we sulked, we fought, we blamed our inner-blackness on each other. We didn't visit the gaping abyss left in the soul of the city where the Twins fell - bodies were still being removed, the air was almost solid, and the hole in the skyline cast a shadow of unbearable grief. We'd had enough.

Home then. News of her passing. The mind-numbing funeral. The family asked Michael (aforementioned-then-husband) to deliver the eulogy. His eloquence is unmatched to this day. Tear-stained mourners became groupies and he their rock star as they flocked to his side in droves after the service. He spoke of Francie in the past-tense - he'd already let her go.

This brings me back to the beginning of this post and to my speaking of Francie in the present-tense. This is not grammatical error, but unyielding stubborn-ness. Francie is still with me. I don't even have to close my eyes to smell the vindaloo wafting from the kitchen, to feel the weight of the wine glass in my hand, the embracing curve of the wing-backed chair in her living room - the one I'd always claimed as mine, or the warmth of her (mostly) Siamese cat Darcy in my lap, which he'd always claimed as his. She's with me. She's fabulous. She *is* not *was*. And she's so going to kick my ass for going on about her like this!