Friday, December 21, 2012

Suffering

“Guns are not the problem, Evil is the Problem.”  That was my facebook status last week.  Most of my “friends” liked it and agreed.  Some disagreed and likely went to bed thinking I was an ignorant pig. Either way, I believe my statement did not accurately represent what I meant.  I, like most, have reacted to the shootings and am angry and bothered because that’s just what happens when pain is obvious and innocence is killed and we see suffering that we can relate to.  It’s first world suffering that tends to grab us in the USA.  More so than genocide in Rwanda, or current rape and torture of children in the Middle East. That suffering feels so “other” and difficult to relate to.  A shooting of Kindergartners in a white suburban town: We get it. It grabs the jugular. It grabbed mine too. Though somewhat novel to our current life experience in America, it is still real suffering. Quite frankly, every time I cut the crust of my daughter’s  PBandJ this week, I felt like barfing.  I can’t imagine the loss of my little girl. Damn anyone that kept me from getting to pack her lunch and watch her grow.  I have imagined those parents and wondered about them.  I believe, if in their shoes, the only thing that would keep me from crawling into the coffin with my daughter, would be my love and want for my other daughter.  Shy of that, I believe the pain would be too great to bare. 
I believe that evil exists. Not the scary bloody Halloween devil monster evil, but the real kind. The kind that massacred thousands of Native Americans during and after the “pilgrims” settled America.  Or the kind that stole thousands of human beings off another continent and enslaved them on American soil; Enslaved them, dehumanized them, raped them, beat them, hung them and destroyed human rights for generations.   Or the kind that murdered millions of Jews (babies, children, men, women and the elderly) by torturing, starving, gassing and burning them.  Or the kind that creates hatred of all kinds:  war, divorce, abuse, pedophilia, lies, manipulation and jealousy. Or the seemingly benign kind, like gossip, and white lies and sarcasm and name calling and the time/s I have been impatient, mean or careless with my husband and children.  It’s all evil. 
I see it at my workplace too. As  a worker in the mental health field, I see (daily) people weep over loss and shake in fear, or grieve in a fetal position in my office because their boyfriend raped them or they are scared to be with family over the Holidays because Mom is mentally ill and abusive.  And I see it when one’s mental illness is so severe and their pain so great, they tell me they want to kill themselves and other innocent people too.  I saw evil last week when we buried my Aunt. Cancer.  That damn cancer. It took her precious life. And cancer is evil.  I see it on the news too and I drive past it daily; Through the “ghetto” in New Orleans.  I have friends who teach at schools that are scary.  The teachers and the kids walk through a broken metal detector that sometimes works, in fear that being shot or stabbed is a realistic possibility every, single, day.  And they have seen students stab each other and their lives have been threatened.  But these children live in the ghetto and this is “normal” so we don’t hear about it and people don’t cry about it when they pack their child’s lunch the next day.  Nobody does random acts of kindness on their behalf or in their memory. And nobody lights candles for them either.  I know people who have no electricity and go to bed every single night holding their babies tight on the floor away from windows, because “fireworks at night” are the norm.  They and their babies risk being shot every evening. So do their neighbors. And their neighbor’s too.   
I suspect the watching world, (if they have the technology to do so) in places where it is assumed their child may be killed any moment because of random crime and/or their culture or political climate and laws allow it ,  are a bit confused by our reaction to Sandy Hook. Not because they don’t identify with the pain but because they do.  Because this pain is the norm and there is no hope of it stopping.
The shootings in Connecticut demand our best reaction and deepest sympathy and willingness to act on behalf of all those who suffer senseless death and pain.  And evil is the problem. May we debate till the end of time how to combat it.  But please, for all those who have suffered, are suffering and will continue to until the end of time, let the loss of innocence at Sandy Hook move you to awareness, sympathy and argument on behalf of ALL.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Summertime Sanity



Are you sane? I'm on the fence. Summer in these parts brings heat, mosquitoes, bored children who complain and more heat.  Here is what is keeping me from falling into insanity:

Paper Products: bowls, spoons, and forks. No dishwashing.

Two-3 words: Go play. Go play outside.

The fan on my porch

The water hose on my porch

The baby pool on my porch

The wine on my porch

The beer on my porch

Watermelon

Cute kids eating watermelon

and a Trash can in my den (keeps the dirty diapers, bananna peels and subsequent fruit flies off the window sill and end table.... at lightning speed)=GRANNY GENIUS


Monday, May 7, 2012

Beautiful

I didn't write this: http://nurshable.com/2012/05/04/i-am-not-a-human-pacifier/ My heart skips some beats though when I read it.  My bebe and I are gearing up to end our one year + nursing relationship...  A relationship that has taught me more about the love of our Heavenly Father and the gift of life than all else I have experienced. I do say, the privilege of nursing your baby is almost a whole picture of the Lord's creativity, sensitivity and tenderness toward people.  People are miracles.

Enjoy!
http://nurshable.com/2012/05/04/i-am-not-a-human-pacifier/

Monday, April 16, 2012

Facebook, Blogs and Beauty


My sister keeps asking me if Granny retired. I was decorating my daughter's Birthday cake Friday night while the husband drank a beer and kept me company. He too, asked the same question." I don't know", I said. People want to see pretty things and I'm too lazy with the camera. Mostly, I think I piss people off, which I admittedly enjoy but not enough to push the upload or cut and paste button when I write. So, I think maybe Granny did retire. Or maybe she's just in a season of crotchedy-ness. (which has been known to happen here and there.)
In that vein, I have found that I don't really like the blog world very much. Similar to Facebook, and People.com, and Etsy and Pinetrest and US weekly, it seems like there is a false sense of inspiration or encouragement. Like the time when I was looking at an US weekly and my husband asked me if I felt good about myself when I read it. "Oh please", I said.."it's silly entertainment." He said," Uh, huh. I bet you don't feel one ounce of inadeqaucy about yourself when your done." " Ok, I said, maybe I do wish for buffer arms and some Penelope Cruz sex appeal ." Just maybe.
And just maybe I'm too Grannyish. And just maybe I'm right. People do want to look at pretty things and pretty people and pretty children and pretty food and pretty gardens and interesting gossip. And people want to present the pretty in their life to others. Even if it paints a false reality. Been there. Done that. I get it.
But neither reading it nor blogging it or taking pictures of it gives it meaning or value or beauty. Maybe it gives some pretty to make others pause and wish for what they don't have...Like that pretty kid, family, or that fabulous sofa but not the real stuff. And most often the reading and the blogging and the picturing and the facebooking and pinetresting does just the opposite. It steals the moment and cheapens the value of it. I think. It has for me, anyway. I can assure you, for most children, it does as well. Introduce me to a child that likes it when his parents are tweeting or facebooking a special moment they are sharing. I have never met one. Most children hate the camera, hate their moment interrupted, hate their moment exposed, hate posing and especially hate it when their parents are distracted by a telephone or computer.
I'm glad for technology and all the new social media venues. Partially, anyway. I am grateful to connect with old friends because of it. But life and kids were cute and valuable long before they were "liked" on facebook or validated on blogs. And daily rehearsal and comparison of ones' self to other's superficial external world is affecting. (reading and re-reading facebook, blogs, pinetrest, etc.) Most of the time, the affect is not positive or simple.
So here is my Granny advice to those of you who struggle with life in cyberspace:
1. How much time you spend in cyber space greatly affects you and those around you.
2. When and where you check email/FB/twitter etc. affects relationships. ** If you are out to dinner with your spouse...Be at dinner with your spouse. FB does not need to know. Your spouse needs you in the moment.
3. Your children need your attention. Playing with them while texting is not playing with them.
4. Your friends need your attention. Stop texting other friends and co-workers when you are having coffee with your friend. Drink your coffee. Talk to your friend across the table. Not the one on the phone.
5. Don't read blogs or websites that make you hate your furniture or your life. Period.
6. Remember that just because families look pretty dressed in all white on the beach does not mean that their life is void of problems. They have issues.
7. When you pick your children up from school. GET OFF THE PHONE. They need you to be interested in their day.
8. If you need a break from your children that are on your nerves: Drink a glass of wine or breathe some fresh air. Don't go look at other people's children on facebook. It will irritate you more.
9. Turn your phone off here and there. Run some errands without it. Leave it in the car while you are at the park with your kids or while you are excercising. It's not as bad as being naked in front of a crowd. Really.
10. Get off facebook and blogs etc. for a month or more and see how much you gain or lose.
In the meantime, I'll be rocking on my porch, bitching about technology and staring at my beautiful children.
Love to all,
Granny

Friday, February 10, 2012

Barbie


Did you play with Barbies as a child? I had a few. I survived. I don't remember much about playing with them other than feeling jealous that my cousin owned more than me and that I liked their hair. My maternal eyes, however, view them as really horrible toys. Call me crazy granny, but I much prefer some blocks and an etch- a- sketch to a plastic porn star. (see above). Recently, while washing my hair, I was staring at her (she was hanging out of the toy net on the shower wall) and hating on her and her big perky breasts, while I washed the crusty milk off my own. I yelled for the husband, and asked him if Barbie turned him on when he was washing his hair. He said, No. (good answer). And then I continued hating her and wondering about the cost of a boob lift.
I never planned on the Barbie craze because I found them so ridiculous. I figured if my girl likes to play with dolls with Barbie-ish hair, a My Little Pony would suffice. And then the relatives did it... A nice sparkly Barbie and her posse all wrapped up under the tree. And my daughter loves her Barbies. Mostly, she takes their clothes off and turns them into Mermaids and gives them car rides and hair cuts. (See above) And, I still hate them. I have asked myself if I am cowardly buying into the whole sexualization of little ones and should go ahead and buy her stilettos and a bikini to seal the deal. I didn't buy the bikini (and won't) but I did consider letting Shelf Elf make a special trip from the Pole to steal all the Barbies. I didn't do that either. Instead, I just continued ranting to God and other mothers about it. Then I did this:
I asked her what she noticed about each of them. Mostly, she commented on their coloring or their cozy squishy-ness. Reportedly, Barbie even looks like her good friend (who is a snaggle tooth, chubby cheeked, round, precious 7 year old). Then I commented that none of them really looked like real people. My daughter agreed then resumed her play in the yard. And, I swallowed my pride and resumed cleaning my house.
I still believe childhood ought to be protected from certain toys and media images (and my children's are). Barbie, for now, is not amongst the villains. She's taking her sexy seat next to Egg head, Pinkpurple, Dora, Heavy baby, and an innocent game of Old Maid. And I'll direct my neurosis elsewhere, while I covet her perky breasts.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Baby Wise-dom










Top Katrillion(20) Thoughts on the Insanity of Letting Babies and Children Scream Themselves to Sleep:

1. I believe that no person of any age should ever be left alone to cry. Ever. (Unless they have the emotional and vocal ability to ask for solitude.)

2. Parents are THE source of strength and comfort for a baby. The notion that babies can comfort or soothe themselves is asinine. If you don't believe me, take a course or read some books on brain and emotional development. Babies don't soothe themselves to sleep while screaming, they give up.
3. Ever walked in an orphanage? I have. In Russia. It's eery. The babies don't scream and hardly cry. They are calm because they have been trained that they will not get picked up if they cry. They gave up. It is the EXACT same reason "sleep trained" babies go to sleep when placed in a crib, alone.
4. I have zero interest in teaching my child that I will not comfort her when she is terrified.
5. Babies screaming = terrified babies. How would you like to be a vegetable, with no capacity to move or walk or talk and be locked in a cage in the dark.?
6. Parents do not get to pick the hours of the day that best suit their schedule. Nighttime parenting is not a choice. It's your kid's right. (yes, they have rights too.)Your kid does not stop having needs because you are tired.
7. Don't have kids if you want to feel rested within the first year or two of their life.
8. More than most things, waking children seem to make parents feel out of control. Welcome to parenthood. Go to counseling if you can't manage your anxiety around your children not sleeping like you want them to.
9. Letting babies scream actually messes their brain chemistry. Permanently. In short, you run a high risk of letting your child suffer with one of (at least) the following: generalized anxiety, social anxiety, ADD, and sleep disturbances in later childhood and adulthood.

10. There are no mammals in the world that do not sleep with their young. Watch the Discovery Channel.
11. Mothers need to follow their instincts.
12. I have heard people rant that having a strict sleep schedule is a means of safeguarding one's marriage: marital intimacy, sex life and also instates God's desire for order in the home. This conversation has digressed into a discussion that parents need to establish "who's boss."
First: WTF, people? This talk makes my head explode. As it relates to God: Last time I checked, Jesus was walking around with lambs and touching lepers and healing sick people and feeding the hungry. I'm not sure what version of the Bible these people are reading?????? Someone please tell me one thing about Christ's character and life that leads one to believe that he would condone not tending to a screaming child???????????? Good marriages and sex lives require much intention and thought. If your marriage is good, you will find a way to nurture it while also tending to your babies. If your marriage is rocky, children's sleep habits are not to blame. Go to therapy.
12. Rocking a baby to sleep and/or cuddling them does not spoil them. Children are spoiled by material items, not love. Duh.
13. Parenting requires creativity and there are not always easy answers.
14. Sleep training works. Dogs and humans can be trained. Humans and dogs have much different needs. (But even dogs sleep very close to their babies and comfort their whimpering pups.)
15. "Oh it was a heart wrenching while we did it (let baby scream) but she/he sleeps now and is such a happy kid...Im so glad we did it." Want a cookie? You will never be able to judge the hurting or lonely idiosyncrasies within your child. Ever. For me, I am not interested in knowingly contributing to the wounds within them.
16. The notion of sleep training is being promoted by many many pediatricians: Dr.'s are not the authority on any and everything. Most Dr.'s operate from a medical model that is interested in producing results. It is difficult for most pediatricians to not give a definitive answer to tired or concerned parents. (ego?) Most Dr.'s are not educated around emotional development, which is why they will refer you (should) to a professional in the psychological realm when you have concerns about issues related to emotion and behavior. Sleep is NOT their expertise.
17. Parents would be really well served if their Dr. and peer influences would serve as reminders to new parents that "you shouldn't expect to get great sleep within the first year or two of your kids life...if you do, your lucky."
18. Research after reasearch proves that there is a link betweem SIDS (that's death, people) and letting infants cry in stress alone.
19. This issue should not be taken lightly. Period. It's a big freakn deal.
20.-katrillion: Don't have kids if you want to be rested or feel in control.


or in my Mother's words: "What in the hell happened to just rocking a baby to sleep?"





















Friday, January 6, 2012

Splits





Last year I had two New Year's Resolutions:


1. Help clean dishes after dinner at our family gatherings (instead of watching my mom, aunt, sisters, and cousins do it while I drink my wine/coffee)


2. Stretch daily until I can do a split



It's 2012 and I still cannot do a split and I really enjoyed watching my family clean dishes while I drank my wine over the holidays. Whoops.

Seems as though I blog like I resolute (even though that isn't really a word). I was hoping this blogging would beam me to the beach in my whites and khakis with my perfect family and provide an organic garden, amazing crafting opportunities, tasty recipes, fine home furnishings and a kick ass camera but instead my life stayed normal. I've been drinking my wine and watching bad TV (and my relatives clean) instead of writing (or stretching).


On January 1st I resoluted to write and blog regularly. We'll see how it goes.


Happy New Year!

Monday, November 14, 2011

Ask For Help

I traveled to see my sister this weekend. To do this:









The stranger lady (with ginormous bosoms) who sat next to me on the plane was very drunk. She stunk like last nights’ beer and I am confident that her bloody mary was a substitute for brushing her teeth. Before, during, and after take off, she took great interest in my baby. She professed her love and vowed not to steal my daughter and repeatedly promised me that she was not crazy. And then she passed out and snored. And then she woke up and asked if she could watch me breastfeed, while trying to crawl under my nursing cover. (No lie) I told her NO. And then she passed out again. And I giggled to myself and felt hyper to relay this story to my friends and family. I watched my baby sleep in my arms and then I watched the stranger. Her face and fingers were swollen and her face was pink in those places that tell me alcohol is in her system and rarely, if ever, leaves it.

I drifted off into humoring myself with my earlier venture through the airport and my shameless solicitations for help when I venture into public with my children: 'Excuse me stranger, will you hold my baby while I tie my shoes, secure my carrier and gather my overflow of diapers, teething things, wallet, and drink into my purse?' 'Uhm, excuse me sirs, will one of you lift my suitcase?' 'Excuse me mam, will you help me carry my luggage?' 'Hi, would you carry this car seat to the curb? Thanks.' Rearing children really is much easier when one asks all manner of people for assistance. Like, stranger in the grocery store: 'Will you hand that spice to me..I cannot reach it and keep my baby from falling out of the cart? Thanks.' Or, lady behind me at the concession stand, 'Will you sign some scribbly initials on that receipt , I have to chase my oldest and this one has my hands full...thanks.' Or, 'Will you open the door for me?', or 'Will you close that door for me?', etc. People are actually amazingly helpful. Sometimes, people even offer their help, unsolicited. Like, 'Mam, you left the doors of your van open in the parking lot. I'd shut them, but you might want to make sure they are locked.' …. It takes a village, right?

The flight attendant rolled her cart by me and asked if I would like peanuts or pretzels to go with my coke. I declined both but Big Miss Drunk Boobs, ordered two vodkas and requested pretzels. She professed her love to my daughter again, drank some vodka, then resumed her snoring/snorting. Her bobble head snored through the duration of the flight. I stared at my sleeping bambina and prayed that she would never get on a plane and act like a drunk fool. And then I prayed that as she grows in life and faces hardship that she would never find comfort in alcohol or rather, the abuse of it. I felt heavy that Miss Drunk Boobs is someone’s daughter too. So, I scribbled on a napkin, “Get help for your drinking problem. You are worth it. Love, the lady with the baby.” I shoved the napkin in her purse before I scurried off the plane and prayed that she would feel worth it and ask for help.

Friday, November 11, 2011

You Know A Child Molester

Nothin' like a little fire in the ol' belly to start off your Friday. This Penn State mess is enough to make me revisit the stomach flu that attacked me earlier this week. If you care to know my thoughts on the matter, I share this lady's (columnist from the New Yorker): http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/closeread/2011/11/joe-paternos-tears.html.

I leave you with these statistics:

  • As many as one in three girls and one in seven boys will be sexually abused at some point in their childhood.
    Briere, J., Eliot, D.M. Prevalence and Psychological Sequence of Self-Reported Childhood Physical and Sexual Abuse in General Population: Child Abuse and Neglecti, 2003, 27 10.

    • Child molesters exist in every part of our society.
    • They molest children close to them, mainly children in their family or children in their social circle.
    • Most child molesters, 90 percent, report that they know their child victims very well.


    To re-iterate. This means that YOU, sitting at your computer screen most likely have a pedophile in your family or peer group. You shake their hand at Church and/or Supper Club and/or let your child sleep at their house. Are you scared?

    You should be. Now, educate yourself on how to protect your child and live in reality instead of fear or even worse, naivete.

    This website is an EXCELLENT resource: http://www.childmolestationprevention.org

    And if you would like me to answer questions please comment and or email me. For those of you who don't already know this...Granny's expertise, her education and career ..if you will, is in this field....

    Protect Children (not Football),
    Granny
    email me: grannysbosom@gmail.com

    Wednesday, November 9, 2011

    My Boobs Are Tired

    They are tired of being a kitchen. They are grateful (because it's November) but they are really tired.





















    Monday, November 7, 2011

    Secrets and Hidden Treasures



    This season in my life is not colored with leaves (boo on a southern fall) but with children. Lots of them. Sun up to sun down they knock on my door and eat my food and play in my house and clog my toilet with toilet paper and leave their dirty socks in my hallway, and their muddy footprints in my kitchen and play and fight and play and fight ALL day long. Because it’s November and I am supposed to be thankful and because I’m interested, I’m focusing hard on the realities of childhood.

    In her book, Listening to God With Children, Gianna Gobbi reminds her readers (me) of Maria Montessori’s prayer for teachers.


    “Help us, O God, to enter into the secret of childhood, so that we may know, love and serve the child in accordance with the laws of thy justice and following thy holy will.” Sounds nice , uhh?

    Entering into that secret requires quite a bit from adults. On most days,I imagine it requires more discipline and willingness than adults care to give. Perhaps because they are stressed, or distracted, or hurting, or overwhelmed or maybe they just don’t care. Or maybe they choose their parenting style when they feel insecure as parents because their homes have messes or when their children are disobedient or dirty and impolite. I admit that I have let one of the aforementioned drill my parenting at one < more> time or another. Including impatience with insistance on choosing a hair-do, ignoring requests for attention to mind numb on facebook, rushing through art projects, allowing Nick Jr. to parent, and flat out being rude to my kid and justifying it to myself in the name of PMS. I need no reminders that this parenting business is hard. Especially when it requests that my home be wonder world for the entire neighborhood.

    Digging for treasures is hard work. And I know, so long as I am a parent -because I chose to be, I am my child’s first teacher . And it is my job to reach for an understanding of this secret; this treasure--So I can parent it, nurture it, guide it, and delight in it. I like my job. And today, I am giving thanks for it.

    Thursday, November 3, 2011

    Chicken Legs, Beer, Sex and The Church




    I have a new friend. She feels like an old friend. (Love it when this happens) Last night we rocked on my porch and talked about sex, church, the exploitation of diamond miners(fascinating topic that will take the sparkle out of your diamond rather quickly), Little House on the Prairie, weiner dogs, and Thanksgiving plans. She drank a beer and I ate a chicken leg.



    Our sex conversation went something like this:

    The church (of the Judeo-Christian tradition) is silent on the topic of sexuality for single men and women. Well, they are not silent. They just say, "don't do it." Then most people who fit the category of being single and church going are pushed into a shameful lonely corner of publicly justifying their non married singledom as a cross to bare in the name of the Lord, while also pretending that they are not sexual creatures. Sucks. What to do with sexual urges or arousal? Silence. Masturbation? Silence (or condemnation). Is there a difference between promiscuity and premarital sex? Silence. And with silence comes shame and with shame comes loneliness. Loneliness in a world and community that worships a God who is not only all knowing but created male and female and their sexuality and called it GOOD.


    I don't believe the church and its goers should have all the answers. But when the topic arises they should (at least) be as warm as a good friend, a rocking chair, a beer and a chicken leg. Just sayin'.

    Wednesday, November 2, 2011

    Thought For Today

    (Most)Depressed people are kinder and more perceptive than the average person. They are braver too.

    Friday, October 28, 2011

    Let's Talk About Sex















    I have decided that on Fridays I am going to write about sex. If you want to read about some nook and crannie of the topic, this Granny will deliver. On Fridays.


    The day I started my period was a really good day. I was playing at my best friend's house at the end of my eighth grade year when I first discovered Aunt Ruby had finally decided to pay me a visit. This late bloomer was thrilled for some trace of evidence that she would not be left in the bosom-less awkward dust for too much longer. After excitedly and nervously reporting to my bestie that "I started," I called my Mom, who squealed in delight on the other end of the phone and then came to retrieve me for our first shopping trip down the feminine hygiene aisle followed by a celebration dinner at my favorite restaurant.


    Over the years, I realized that I am in the vast minority of girls who celebrated the onset of her period. In a culture where that event typically evokes shame, embarrassment, teasing and confusion; and in a world where a menstrual cycle symbolizes the end of childhood, the beginning of sexual exploitation, and the covering of one's face for countless girls, I can almost feel guilty as I think about my Mom's kind and hyper face peering over my basket of chicken fingers at Ruby Tuesdays, while we talked about my first period.

    Instead, though, I resolve to create the same pride in my daughters' femininity that my Mom did for me. Beginning with an adherence to these guidelines (I encourage women of all ages to use them):


    1. A girl's vagina is a vagina. It is not a hoo hoo or a ha-ha. Name it what you want but be sure the word vagina can be spoken with no shame and with accuracy. Even toddlers.

    2. Menstrual Cycles are a mark of our unique-ness as women. They are a symbol of our ability to create and sustain life for another human being.

    3. Do not hand children a book about puberty and then go mute. (Because that teaches them that the topic is bad and secretive and shameful to speak about.)

    4. Become an expert on the workings of the Female Body.

    5. If you have daughters, make it your job to ensure they are proud of their growing body.

    6. How you reference and teach young children about their private parts matters. MATTERS A LOT.

    Ok..I'm satisfied with this level of pot stirring.

    For those of you curious, wanting or struggling with All Things the Female Body and Sexuality.... I highly recommend this book: Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom by Christiane Northrup, MD. Order it here:
    http://www.amazon.com/Womens-Bodies-Wisdom-Revised-Emotional/dp/0553386735/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319814860&sr=1-1

    Or, I can loan you my Mom for a day or so.

    Cheers,
    Granny

    Wednesday, October 26, 2011

    Husbands and Best Friends


    My husband gave a card to me (many years ago) that reads, “Happiness is being married to your best friend.” It’s on my fridge and makes me smile every time I go for ice or ice cream or gogurts or popsicles or frozen peas. Happiness is being married to my husband. Seems as though, happiness for him is being married to me. (Unless, we are in the midst of a knock down drag out where I really want to knock and drag him out …and throw the frozen peas at him). The husband is rather adept at building a meaningful life with this ol’ frozen peas throwing granny. And because of those mad skills, I’ll be happy till the day I die.

    I did not throw any peas last night or any variation thereof. I'm not mad at him either. But, today, I don’t want him to be my best friend. I want the feminine flavor. The one that shaves her legs and lives in Georgia. When we visit we lie awake at night and giggle like we are 12 years old. And then, we wake up and drink coffee and never run out of things to talk about or dream about. And then, we like to shop and walk and talk and think about decorating things and what’s cute and what’s not and then we drink wine and giggle and sometimes cry and sometimes laugh and then we do it all again the next day. And the next. I have never wanted to throw peas at her and she doesn’t leave her whiskers near my toothbrush.

    Monday, October 24, 2011

    Grief


    My chin is most comfortable resting on my knee. Staring out the window while the baby sleeps, helps. Sort of. Patty Griffin and Pandora soften the intensity. I am sad and want to hear her laugh. Just one more time. I want to see her face when I hear it. But I can’t.

    Friday, October 21, 2011

    At The Dinner Table

    Dad, what does being weird mean?


    Well, it can mean different things...Depends on how someone uses the word.


    Why would someone tell another person that they are weird?


    If a person says that are you weird it means that they do not understand who you are.


    Oh. (pause) And if I think someone else is weird, it's because I do not understand them?


    Yep.

    Friday, October 14, 2011

    Wonky



    I have never had a straight walk. Literally. As a child, I walked crooked with pigeon toed feet, until the corrective leg braces worked. As an adolescent on my cross country team, I ran crooked. So much so, my team-mates teasingly kept a wide gate between us during practice. Otherwise they would be inadvertently tripped or cut off by me. I still cannot walk or run in a straight line. Just recently, while walking with a new friend, I warned her of my crooked walk. “Sorry if I elbow you or step on your feet~ I don’t really know how to walk straight.”

    My new friend (who feels like an old friend) suggested we walk in Audubon park, not on the smoothly paved track but through the more wooded, crooked paths on the perimeter. As we were walking and talking about life, as any old friend does best, I quietly thought about my adoration of crooked, unkempt, wonky , messy paths and the people who walk them.

    My own path hasn’t been particularly straight. I guess like many teenagers and twenty something’s I shifted from boyfriends with opposite personalities, rebelled against my faith, drank too much, switched friendship groups, used school loan money to buy cute clothes and was insensitive to my parents and family in the name of independence and “finding myself.” Totally obnoxious. But necessary, I suppose. And comfortable, for she who rarely walks straight or consistently.

    As a married woman with children and a developing career, I have comfortably transcended childhood, adolescence and the aforementioned stage of my twenties. Sigh. Relief. I don’t think I am obnoxious anymore. However my path and person are still not straight. As my daughter affectionately refers to anything that works imperfectly: They are wonky.

    Commonly, I am full of contradictions. For example, I cannot reconcile conflicting political beliefs. Abortion? Murder? Yes. Undeniably. Can I sympathize with the want to end an unwanted pregnancy.Yes. Should any human being be denied access to good medical care? No. Never. It’s as inhumane as murder. Often, it is murder. Does the effect of socialized medicine on society scare me? Yes. Very much. If you could peek inside my soul, or have a script of it, you would see other wonky ways too. They materialize when I use my anger to say hurtful words to my husband, my pride to judge, my laziness to overlook meaning, or my impatience to frustrate my daughter...while my guilt leads me to ask forgiveness and my patience withstands endless days in the floor with a toddler and my love helps me forgive a friend and delight in a hiper child and give my family a warm meal and my husband my undivided attention. If my daughter’s intuition was more sophisticated, she would undoubtedly remind me, “ Mom you are very wonky.”

    For countless moments, I have wished away my unkempt self. “If only I could consistently keep a tidy house, never gossip, lose patience, covet, etc.; Then, I would be straight, consistent, uncrooked, or…something like that.” I don’t even really believe in wishing but I have hoped that my will or prayer or both would propel be a bit closer to straight. Then, I moved to New Orleans. New Orleans, who says, “No.” to perfection, “Yes.” to life and most importantly to me, “Yes.” to a crooked life.

    New Orleans: It’s human and raw and gritty. It’s wonky. I-10 into the city is much like a rickety county fair roller coaster. The roads get worse, the closer you get to local life. Natural speed bumps will ruin the best of car shocks on nearly every New Orlean’s street. Cracked sidewalks make it virtually impossible to stroll a sleeping child. Unashamedly, prostitutes solicit sex. Alcoholism, gluttony,and laziness shine at every corner. The city is dirty. Physically, the dirt and pollution will give allergies to the healthiest horse. Politicians are dirty too. They lie and cheat and steal. Murder and crime are blatant: robbery, rape, drug deals, abuse.
    It’s a brokenness that at times, perhaps, would be relieving to avoid or ignore. Maybe, take a different route to only see beautiful homes or avoid seeing the homeless, ugly and crooked. But you can’t do that in New Orleans. You cannot avoid the bum on the bench, or the cat lady with huge breasts, no bra and a broom, who sweeps the sidewalk all day. There is no straight route home. No smooth road, no uniformity, and no normal.

    Oddly, I believe these are the realities that the disciple Paul encouraged us to ponder when he told us, “Brothers, whatever is true {real} , whatever is lovely…if there be any virtue or praise, think upon such things.” (Philippians 4:8). Truth: the reality that life and death, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful co-exist. Moreover, all humans suffer and sin (albeit to varying degrees) . Truth, like New Orleans, cannot deny that racism and poverty are always staring and most often ignored. And, that whether we spend our days sweeping our sidewalk with saggy boobs, paving bumpy roads, harmonizing tourists at CafĂ©’ du Monde, dealing drugs, loving children, hiding in beautiful homes or sleeping off a hangover in a cardboard box (or mansion), we are wonky.

    Ironically, if it weren’t for the wonky, the virtuous and lovely wouldn’t exist. New Orleans is lovely. Which is known by my unspoken agreement with a friendly drunk father: Our girls met on the swing set and developed an instant friendship. Every afternoon, we meet at the same neighborhood park. He teaches my daughter how to hopscotch. I teach his daughter how to pump her legs on the swing, while he takes a “break” to drink a tall boy and pee behind a bush. He drinks way too much, is crass, and a good daddy. Or you may find it in the tattooed cowboy who boils crawfish and is gentle and godly and a teacher of life skills to uneducated men. Or you may find it in the calming hand of the large black woman at Winn Dixie, who gently pats the back of the frazzled, young, white mother of a tantrum throwing toddler and says, “Baby, you gonna get through it. These times a gonna’ pass and she gonna be good.” Or, by a jolly pastor, a lover of all things spicy, cajun and New Orlenian excitedly reminding his congregation, week after week, to receive communion with cheer . The Lord’s Supper and Heaven are like Mardi Gras, he says. (Yes, I did say Mardi Gras.) We have the promise of life and redemption: Shout! Parade!Jump! Drink! Feast! Celebrate! Live!

    New Orleans is blatant about truth (good and bad), virtue and all things lovely. The streets are crooked and so are the people. Enjoyment of the city or even better, love of it, comes at the expense of being “straight.” It will love you, convict you, celebrate with you, grieve you, feed you (really well), expose you, entertain you ,bless you, confuse you, and befriend you.; If you are wonky, it will make sense to you. Even more lovely, it will make sense of you.--------------

    Monday, October 10, 2011

    The Wizard of Oz and Church

    Dorothy (The Wizard of Oz one) and her peeps are all the rage in this home of mine. Halloween and all its magical wonder has taken over. The glitter is already worn of the toes of her ruby reds and her blue and white checked dress that arrived 3 days ago is stained with all manner of dirt and paint and toothpaste. I am rather certain that she dressed herself for church before I was awake, so that I would have zero say so in her outfit choice. Proud little Dorothy was reared and ready to go in her Sunday best at the crack of dawn.

    Making our way to church was typical: Dorothy fussing at Toto for barking too loud, me (Glinda) having to oil the Tin Man because he is so rusty and SLOW, while the Munchkin blows out her diaper and poos all over Glinda, and for the first 5 minutes of the car ride, it seems there is a land that I am dreaming of that feels really far from the current one.

    I was sitting in church, nursing the munchkin, staring at my husband's dirty feet and hands wondering if he forgot to wash them in the shower and simultanelously loving that his hands are always caked in dirt of some sort. Always...because his hands are in the business of being useful and creative. Reaching for his dirty hand in church, I was reminded, as I am most Sundays of why I go to my church.

    I am very certain that nobody else noticed his dirty nails and if they did, they would understand them. And, why they were understanding dirty calloused hands, they were looking adoringly at my daughter who giggled her Dorothy self into my pew to steal my purse, while I unashamedly nurse my baby and struggle to see the Rev. who's face is blocked by the huge hat worn by the old granny in front of me. After the sermon, we have a meet and greet before receiving communion and everytime, Ms. Louise (another Granny) and I look for each other and talk about what we bought at the Farmer's market last Tuesday. Then, she kisses my cheek and her one long whisker tickles my face. And then we all hold hands and sing the Lord's prayer and I really believe that the hands I am holding know what it means to ask for daily bread and to long for God's kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. When I receive communion and I am holding my baby, her little forehead gets gently patted and blessed with some gentle words like, "may the Lord make His face to shine upon you." And then before it's all over, with a blessing from the Rev. and some good old fashioned church cookies and coffee, my kids are adorned with lipstick kisses from a variety of different grannies, most of which are eager to get home to watch their favorite NFL team win a football game.

    It's a land I dreamt of for some time. It's not even over the rainbow and I don't have to click my heels to get there.




    Now, don't you think the Tin Man needs to wear this instead?

    Munchkins have dirty hands and feet too, right?