Amazing Grace

I have a bucket list.  You know the kind:  the list of all the things you want to do before you leave this world?  For me, the items on there are definitely stretch objectives.  I'm proud to count myself as a person that does not put off obtainable joys, yet some joys I wish to experience are simply out of my current capacity either due to financial or logistical reasons.

So, Andrea Bocelli and his ridiculous ticket prices were sitting on said bucket list waiting.

I knew the moment he announced his 2011 concerto.  His U.S. "tour" was coming to Anaheim.  Close enough!  Immediately I looked up the tickets, and just as immediately I knew I was going to have to watch Craig's list and pray that someone would have to give up their tickets at a loss.  I visited every day just about, but no one was selling those tickets for less than face value.  So I kept waiting.

Then came the Great Flood of 2011.  The one in my kitchen.  The one that took out my dishwasher and my floor.  And though insurance covered the majority of the cost, I still took a hit that made my precious dream of Andrea in person an impossibility this time around.

Yet on Thanksgiving night, during dinner.. and I believe we were chatting about something on my bucket list... Cheyanne suddenly got up from the table and came back with an envelope. I opened the card.
"Merry (Early) Christmas!" It read.  "Because of all the people wandering this universe, you deserve for all your dreams to come true.  Chewy, Mom! and Tim"

I had no idea what to expect when I pulled the folded paper out of the envelope.  Unfolding it and seeing the words "Andrea Bocelli" threw me for such a loop I'm quite sure the neighbors heard me shrieking in delight.  Screaming actually.  I could not believe it.  A dream, quite literally, come true.

There was another letter inside with the tickets. This one just from Chey and I'm not going to share it here, but suffice it to say that that letter alone was every bit as wonderful as those tickets.  To be loved like that is a greater gift than anything in the world and I am so very, very grateful.

So it was that I sat next to my dear friend, Sabra, on December 11th listening to that amazing voice.  It was surreal.  I wiped away a few tears in both disbelief of my great fortune and because Sr. Bocelli just does that to me.  and then he sang "Amazing Grace."

This is a song I don't love.  In fact, it's rather boring though the words are nice.  But when Andrea sings it, it just rips your heart out.  It's like you've never heard it before.  And the irony that a blind man is singing "I was blind, but now I see" is not lost.  Yet it wasn't the beauty, nor the way he connects with what seems like God himself that hit me.  I sat realizing that I was once a wretch.  Yes, I was wretched.  I was sometimes cruel, I took advantage, I lied and I was reprehensible.  I could have kept going down that path but for my children.  Somehow I always managed to put them first, to keep the focus on their welfare and eventually I became the person I wanted them to think I was.  It was nothing short of amazing grace that saved a wretch like me.

With very little make-up still on my face I left that show changed - again.  I realized I have never been alone even when I felt completely and utterly abandoned.  There has been a hand guiding me the entire time.  He often says "Be Still."  I hear it all the time - at least when I finally shut up long enough to hear.  On December 11th, he finished that sentence:  "Be Still and Know That I Am."  Indeed.  He is in the face of my children.

Just Love

Instead of wondering what I can get out of this world, how about waking each day with the question:  What can I give today? Who can I love?  How can I brighten this small piece of the world I live in?  

I think about how I’ve been dreaming of finding that special guy.   

Because I’ve been hurt, because I don’t want to make the same mistake thrice I have a terrific list of must haves and can’t haves.  I doubt seriously there’s anyone out there that would qualify just in those specifications alone.  He must be perfect and generous with his love for me and – here’s the real rub - he must magically make up for all the wrongs ever done to me.  It’s no wonder I can’t find him.  

Then I think about how I was given Dia at a stage in my reproductive life that, without help from science, might be considered a miracle.  It’s remarkable nonetheless.  And I wonder why me?  Maybe it’s because my only thought when it comes to children is to love THEM.  I expect zero back in return.  I merely relish in the love I feel for them.  Nothing in my life has ever brought me so much.  Just loving.  Without asking for a damn thing back.  Just loving them.

And it occurred to me today during my meditation that that is exactly what I am doing wrong everywhere else.  I want.  I want to have as much as the folks on the top of the hill.  Give me that.  I want.  I want a perfect family with a man, a father, at my side because it looks shiny and it is what is normal and expected.  Give me that.  I want.  I want a better car, a bigger house, nicer stuff.  Give me that.  I want.  I want a bigger bank account.  Give me that.  I want. I want to travel the world; to be taken care of; to sit back with my feet up and have someone else do it all.  I want.  Give me that.

And in all my life the only thing I was ever so brilliant at that I actually give myself credit is my parenting.  That’s not because I’m so wise and so magnificently insightful.  It’s because I don’t talk all the time.  I listen.  I am not looking for my agenda to get filled.  I’m not waiting for the day that they do whatever it is that is going to make me feel loved, cherished, validated, worthy, fulfilled.  I just love.  And it works.  It’s successful.  Inadvertently.  It’s a side effect of just giving of me to them with no expectations of a return.  In fact, not even wishing for one.  And when the return comes – and it does – it lights me up so much more than any grand gesture dressed up in a bouquet of roses ever could.

So logically… wouldn’t it go to follow that if I put that kind of love into every other part of the world, it would earn a return as successful as my parenting?  What if tomorrow I wake up and ask:  What can I give today?  Who can I love?  Where can I show compassion?  How can I help?  And just trust that that, in and of itself, is enough.  What do I get back?  Nothing.  But my little corner of the world is rosier, and the sun shines a little brighter in it.  Because of me.  And that is enough.

In fact, I won't wait until tomorrow.  I'm going to start now.

It's Time for a Revolution

All this "Occupy (insert location name here)" nonsense has my inner activist fired up.  I'm not one to shy away from a cause, but I also tend to lead a life of moderation.  Therefore nothing has gotten me revved up enough to date to lead a movement or join a protest.  Nothing, that is, until now.

Folks, it is time to do something about this.  We have spent decades - nay! centuries! - accepting this atrocity as not only fine, but important.  We teach it to our children in preschool.  It's blasted all over children's programming and blatantly displayed on the walls of their classrooms.  Yes, people, I am referring to:

The Alphabet.

Well, not the whole thing.  Just one letter.  That letter, may I be so bold as to say - is the letter "C."

Despite the fact that this letter begins my last name and my daughter's first name, I think we can all agree that it is time to do away with this archaic and unnecessary letter (or, rather, this arkaik and unnessessary letter - see where I'm going?)  It makes the same sound as two other letters we already have.  Why is it there?  What is it for?

I, for one, believe we should start a campaign (or, rather, kampaign) to do away with this treachery (or, rather, trea...ch???  OH!)  Oh, right, the 'ch' sound.  How do you make that with the other letters?  Darn it.

Never mind.

I will then, change my campaign to the eradication of the letter "Q."  After all I cannot think of single time that the "kw" combination would not suffice (or ck in the unique "que" instances (or, rather, the uneek "que" instances)).  Therefore, I shall be hosting a rally on the steps of the U.S. Department of Education to promote a bill to reduce our Alphabet to 25 letters and to prohibit the further use of this offensive letter.

Who is with me?  We will call it "Occupy Sesame Street!"

My Little Monster

I had to work for a little bit this morning.  It's Saturday and we'll soon be off to a play and then we'll spend the rest of the day together, so I had Dia playing on her own while I got some business stuff done.

My background noise while I toiled away was her playing, singing and chatting to herself or the cat or any inanimate object about.

She's dressed for the day in a swingy dress and crazy tights with polka dots, stripes and stitches down the legs.  The stitches particularly inspired her apparently:

To Albert (the kitten):
(Singing)
"It's still me
Why are you afraid?
Could it be the stitches down my leg?"
(this was done in a rhyming fashion which I, as a totally biased bystander, found genius)

And then, she turned her attention to cutting the heads off of all the models in a catalog:

Dia, to the model: "I will cut your head off, Princess!"

(Speaking for the 'princess') "No!"
"Yes! You will never marry now!  Buhahaha!  Princesses without heads cannot marry!  It is the RUUUUUUUULE!"

Then, to add more color, she explained to the now decapitated models:
"You will all be monsters like me now!  Buhahaha!

and, still snipping away at the catalog:  "Heads, heads, heads!  You are all dead, like me!  La-la-la-loo!"

.... Should I be afraid?

Dia said "YES!"

Customer of the Month

IT'S THE BRAVE NEWCUSTOMER OF THE MONTH!

This is Dia. She's cuter than you.

Let's see how Dia fared with the BNW Customer O'The Month Questionnaire, shall we?

1) Who are you, what do you do, and how long have you been shopping at The World?
(name, age, occupation, status, etc, please...)

My name is Dia C. and I'm a Kindergarten student.  I am 5 years old and I'm not married.  I'm not old enough.  I do have a job: taking care of my cat, Albert, but I don't get paid for that.  I have been shopping at Brave New World about 1 year now I think.

2) What do you read on a regular basis? Favorites? Hated?

I read books and comics a lot.  Like 15-16 hours. 
Favorites:  The pop-ups!
Favorite Comic:  I don't have one.  They are all my favorites, but I really like Super Dinosaur, Kid Houdini and Shrek.
Hated:  The ones that are just very, very boring.

3) If you could have any super power, what would it be?

To go really, really fast - like a 1 minute mile!

4) What makes you think comics are cool for a girl your age?

They are so cool because you don't know the answer until you get the next one and it's always a surprise.  That's why I love them sooooooo much!

5) What got you interested in comics in the first place?

Tiffany.  She was my nanny.  She brang my first comic (Super Dinosaur) to read to me.

6) How are you going to spend your $25 Brave New Bucks for being the Customer of the Month??

The next comic of Super Dinosaur!  Or maybe the How To Talk Zombie book.  I love that one.

7) What else would you like the BNW masses to know? Website, personal motto, etc, etc? You tell us!

Be there!  It's so fun.  They have good comic books and cool real books too. 
(I asked her what her personal motto was and she said:  "If you drink it and you don't like it, stop drinking it!"  HA!)

Dia, you're the best! Thanks for being exactly the kind of customer Brave New World likes to have. Smart, adorable, and wearing awesome kicks! (and special thanks to your mom, Katie, and that awesome nanny Tiffany!) Now come get your $25 Brave New Bucks!

There's a new Super Dinosaur this week!

It's Not All Bad Part 2

I had the day planned out perfectly:  swim class, then grocery shopping, unpack the groceries, mix up a batch of banana muffins, pack while they baked, water the garden, tend to the animals and be on our way down to Mom's by 1:00 p.m.

I got as far as swim class.

On our walk home from the Y, in typical Dia fashion, we pretended to be something.  This time she was a butterfly and I was Heimlich from Bug's Life (figures that she cast me as the chubby, daft one).  She fluttered and soared all the way home, taking breaks as her wings got tired or to encourage me (as Heimlich) to keep going... just a bit farther ... and then?  Boom.  She tripped over something and hit the cement hard.  Very hard.

In the scheme of major injuries, this was minor, but it sent Dia 'round the bend.  I'll give her that her knee bruised instantly and the scrape was a bleeder and it probably hurt to holy heck and back.  Still, her hysterics and the clean-up put us behind schedule in a major way.  Grrr-arrrr.

I switched gears a little and put off the grocery shopping to Monday and continued on with the plan. Banana muffins?  Check.  Pack while they baked?  Check.  Water the garden?  Check.  Tend to the animals?  Aaaaannndddd... halt.

Albert, the invisa-kitten, had disappeared under the bed.  While this isn't new, he's lived under my bed since he arrived Tuesday night, I didn't need him there right at that particular moment.  I had a plan, you see (yes, another plan!), that I would coax him into being social by plying him with Gourmet cat food.  The plan I'd been employing, was one where Dia and I would sit on the floor next to the dish of wet, delicious kitten food, and read a book.  Albert would come out and eat the food and we would leave him to eat it.  We wouldn't pet him or move much, but just let him see that being around people was safe.  The problem on Saturday afternoon, however, was that I still needed to give him his ear drops before we left.  It would defeat my fabulous plan if I enticed him with Royal Canin babycat food and then capture him to dose him with funky ear drops.  Sigh.  Yet I had no time at this point to dilly-dally.  Sigh again.  Another plan failed.  Grrrr-arrrrrrh!

So with another delay under our belt we were finally on our way.  We got as far as getting in the car. 

Mom's house is only a 90 minute drive, but you never know about traffic and so I brought along the portable DVD player for Dia.  For whatever reason, despite going in effortlessly each and every time on our vacation, the dang.thing.wouldn't.install.properly.and.I.was.getting.more.and.more.pissed.off.with.every.failed.attempt. and.I.was.beginning.to.break.into.a.sweat.from.the.stifling.heat.in.the.garage
and finally I tossed the DVD player on the seat, saying GRRRRR-ARRRR out loud in a fit of utter frustration.

"Mom," Dia said "Om mani padme hum."  (Brief pause) "It always works, Mama.  Om mani padme hum."

I took a breath.  "Om mani padme hum."  She was right.  As always.  And the silly thing installed right that time and, after a "Good job, Mom!" from Dia (that I returned with giving the credit to her for calming me down) we were finally, finally on our way.

I just needed gas.

The Shell station was packed and, after waiting for a pump, I pulled in and swiped my card ... and swiped my card... and.  OH FOR THE LOVE OF PETE.  The card reader acted like it was working, but it was not working.  Or, if it was, it wasn't going to allow me to actually pump the gas for another  hour or so.  Like an idiot, I tried a few more feeble attempts at getting it to read before giving up, locking Dia in the car (she was happy watching Land Before Time) and sprinting to the cashier. 

"Pump 5 won't read the card." I announced.
"Yes we know," said the incredibly helpful cashier.  "We don't know what's wrong with it because we aren't getting any messages.  Most of the pumps are doing that right now."
(Well, that explains why the gas station was so backed up.)
"OK, well can you take my card here then?"
"Yes," said the wonderfully attentive employee "but we're in the middle of a shift change right now so it'll be like 10 minutes or so."
(What the...?)
"I have my little girl in the car and can't just leave her there for 10 minutes!  Can't you just take a $20 and activate the pump?"
"No."
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
I went back to the pump, grumbling.

I noticed some guy pestering the other patrons with a box of something or other he was selling and I prayed he didn't approach me.  I swiped my card one more time and stood back waiting when a woman walked up to me and said "Are you having problems with your card?"  I thought "Oh great, she's with this guy selling whatever."  Sourly, I looked at her and said "No, it's the pump."
"Oh," she said "I thought you were having problems with your card."
"No, my card is fine."
"It's the pump then?"
"Yes"
"Well, just in case" she said "here's a $20.  I'm a mom too and I've been there.  We gotta' help each other out."
Her outstretched hand discretely held the bill and my heart just fell.  I felt like such a jerk.
"No, no, no!" I said, refusing the money "it really is the pump, but thank you SO so much.  I'm OK as far as the cash goes, but that was the sweetest thing to do.  Thank you so much."

And with that the pump clicked on, I filled my gas tank and was on my way.  I should have talked to her more - should have told her how she just totally turned my day around, should have said more than my weak 'thank you.'  I ran into some major traffic jams that, in my previous mindset, would have put me over the edge.  Instead I kept recalling back to the extreme generosity and kindness of a perfect stranger - a moment of angelic grace.

I am so blessed.

(Oh, and Albert is no longer the invisi-cat.  He's coming around quite well and, in fact, is laying at my feet right now.)

Water Doesn't Upset You

Our last stop on our summer vacation was in Cambria.  The hotel was supposed to have a very nice breakfast buffet, served to 10:30 a.m.  Dia had been sick on this vacation, so I was letting her sleep as long as she needed.  At 10:00 she awoke.  I hurriedly got us both ready and we rushed over to get the final scraps of breakfast only to find that the buffet was over.  I'd misread the pamphlet.  I thought it was breakfast from 7:00-10:30 but, in fact, it was 7:30-10:00. 

We returned to the hotel room, me feeling extremely defeated, and I decided to ready myself properly for the day.  As we stood in the bathroom together while I did my makeup, I cried rather dejectedly to Dia "I don't know why every little thing is upsetting me so much these days." 

She turned on the water faucet.  I thought she was just playing with the water because she likes to do that.

"Look" she said.
 
I looked, but didn't see what she wanted me to see.  I shook my head a little, shrugging.  "Hm?"

"Water doesn't upset you Mama."  She said.  "Does it?"

My first response was one of annoyance: sigh... of course water doesn't upset me, that's not what I mean... complain, mutter, complain... But fortunately this all stayed in my thoughts and lasted only the milliseconds it took to think them.  Instead out loud I said "No, baby, water doesn't upset me."

The list went from there.  Out of my sweet 5 year olds' mouth was the reality.  "This cup doesn't upset you, the toothbrush doesn't upset you, your shoes don't upset you, I don't upset you.  See?  Not every little thing upsets you!"

See why I love her so much? 

And we had the best breakfast ever, by the way.  We sat at the little table in the hotel room, in front of a window looking out onto a garden and had a feast of tuna salad, cheese sticks, crackers, grapes and smiles.  No breakfast buffet in the world was finer.

The Matrix is Broken

For those who have not seen "The Matrix," forgive me (and who ARE you by the way???).  

You know that scene where Neo sees the cat doing the exact same thing twice and he knows there's a glitch in the Matrix?  Well, I think we may have a glitch.

It's more than just a deja vu moment.  It's that stuff that you can't believe you really just saw correctly.  You kind of blink and go - "was that what I thought it was?" 

Yesterday - just on my drive home alone - was proof that the Matrix is buggy right now 'cause stuff like this?  doesn't happen.

So I'm driving home, passing the bus stop in front of John Muir High School.  The light turns red.  I stop.  I look aimlessly about and see ... wait ... is that a naked butt?  Oh - no - that's a whole naked dude!  There stands - with his back to me at least - a full grown gentleman, apparently taking this very public moment to change his pants.  I can't explain this, but I did get the privilege of seeing him in full glory, bending over and stepping into his drawers.  Then the light changed before he turned around and, God forbid, I'd have to make eye contact or act nonchalant.  Thank goodness it was a quick light.

OK.  So that was done.  I'm halfway home with no more incidents.  Good.

Oh wait, what's this on the right side of the road?  It looks like a traffic stop.  A sheriff's car, a white pick-up truck and a hatchback of some variety.  Nope - that's not all - there's something else there.  Oh, I see.  It is a gurney.  With a body bag on it.  And the body bag is full.  Of what looks like a body.  I could be assuming this part of course, but it had the proper bumps where feet might go.  So - this is one of those things where my first instinct is to think "oh what tragedy" but then my brain kicks in.  There are 3 cars - none are damaged, so they were not involved in an accident.  But more especially, there are 3 cars.  So who brought the gurney?  Where did that come from?  I mean, was it in the back of the hatchback?  The back of the pick-up?  Did an ambulance forget something?

I'm pretty sure that some jokester has launched a virus in the Matrix, because Mom was just telling me that Saturday night, just outside of her friend's house, she was met with a fully naked Rubenesque young woman who apparently was searching for the Garden of Eden.  

It's just a good thing I don't know how to code.  What a world we'd live in if I did!

For My Sunshine

Your picture fell from the wall and shattered today.  It was the one that you brought back from Las Vegas.  The sketch drawing of you that I always thought looked more like Amber than you except that the artist somehow captured your light.  No one has a light like that.  He saw it and drew it and because of that and the fact that you seemed rather fond of it, I framed it and consider it one of my Precious Things.

Maria broke it.  She was cleaning the bathroom door, trying to be extra vigilent and thorough and when she pushed the door it hit the picture.  She tried to catch it but couldn't and she was so sad and scared that Juana had to be the one to tell me.  I assessed the damage and assured them both not to worry.  I would fix it.  I can fix it.

See that's the risk.  I am trusting someone with my most prized possessions.  I am trusting someone who can't possibly know that that rock with the googly eyes, or that weird purple frog or that clock that doesn't run are what are really meaningful in my world.  Even with them taking tremendous care something could go wrong, something could get broken.  I can't wrap up everything I love in tons of bubble wrap to keep it safe because then I wouldn't get to enjoy it.  So I go ahead and take the risk and sometimes stuff gets broken.  It happens.  It's life.

But the joy I get from taking that risk is so immense and irreplaceable it's worth it.  While they clean my house so perfectly top to bottom, I am playing with Dia.  I don't have to sacrifice that precious time on the weekend to tend to what ultimately has to be done.  Today I took her to swim class, enjoyed a yoga class afterwards, packed a picnic and had lunch under a tree in the park.  We flew a homemade kite, she tackled me over and over and finally, exhausted, we laid back laughing and looking at the blue sky through the trees.  It was perfect.  It was joy.  It's life.

Only through my beautiful gift of Juana and Maria do I get this luxury.  Because of them and Mom for providing them to me, I get to love, to smile, to laugh, to be happy a little bit more.  That is worth risking things getting broken.

Today as I looked on your beautiful, smiling face through shattered glass I mentally went through the steps of how to fix it.  The frame is in tact so I'll just find a similar one and borrow the glass out of it.  I'm sure it won't cost too much, though it may take me a while to find the right size.  Soon enough, though, I'll have it all whole and perfect again and back up on the wall where it belongs.

Years ago, I took a risk that I knew pretty early on was an ill chosen one.  This was a case of trusting someone with my heart, my vulnerabilities and my care.  I thought it was love, but there was little joy and what happiness I did feel was more of a contrast to the awful than anything good on its own basis.  Pictures were broken then too, but that time they were ones I couldn't fix.  My most precious things were burned or ripped to shreds and no amount of effort was going to get those back.  They were gone forever and I was left devastated. My heart was left abandoned and denied as well.  I'd trusted him with that precious thing too.  After that I was angry and hurt, but mostly scared and I wished for a ton of bubble wrap to hide my broken heart in until it healed.  I didn't have any though, so I just pushed on.

And life?  Life kept going.  So I kept going.  And eventually all was well.  Lessons were learned and I am better for them.

So, as it goes with lessons mothers learn, I want you to listen to this one:  Follow your joy.  If the joy just isn't there or if your moments of happiness are truly just the absence of pain, something irreparable will get broken.  Do not risk it.  But I think you know that one.

The lesson you might not yet know is this:  If there is joy - if you are genuinely happy - then even if something gets broken it was worth it.  You might feel shattered for a time, but your frame is strong and that incredibly blinding light you have can only dim for a minute or two.  You will get a new glass even though it may take a while to find the right one.  Soon enough you'll be all whole and perfect again and back up where you belong.

And if all else fails?  Well, I know where to get a ton of bubble wrap.

Well Played, Matt Damon

I've always loved Matt Damon.  He's a dream boat and he's wicked smart and he seems so damn nice and down to earth.  I want him to be my friend and come over for Sunday dinner every week he's in Los Angeles. 

When I saw his speech from the Save the Teachers Rally, my admiration grew even more so.  He spoke my very thoughts and concerns for Dia now going into school this fall.  If I could have said it better I would, but since Mr. Damon was so eloquent I will simply let him do what he does (with thanks).


“I flew overnight from Vancouver to be with you today. I landed in New York a few hours ago and caught a flight down here because I needed to tell you all in person that I think you’re awesome.

I was raised by a teacher. My mother is a professor of early childhood education. And from the time I went to kindergarten through my senior year in high school, I went to public schools. I wouldn’t trade that education and experience for anything.

I had incredible teachers. As I look at my life today, the things I value most about myself — my imagination, my love of acting, my passion for writing, my love of learning, my curiosity — all come from how I was parented and taught.

And none of these qualities that I’ve just mentioned — none of these qualities that I prize so deeply, that have brought me so much joy, that have brought me so much professional success — none of these qualities that make me who I am … can be tested.

I said before that I had incredible teachers. And that’s true. But it’s more than that. My teachers were EMPOWERED to teach me. Their time wasn’t taken up with a bunch of test prep — this silly drill and kill nonsense that any serious person knows doesn’t promote real learning. No, my teachers were free to approach me and every other kid in that classroom like an individual puzzle. They took so much care in figuring out who we were and how to best make the lessons resonate with each of us. They were empowered to unlock our potential. They were allowed to be teachers.

Now don’t get me wrong. I did have a brush with standardized tests at one point. I remember because my mom went to the principal’s office and said, ‘My kid ain’t taking that. It’s stupid, it won’t tell you anything and it’ll just make him nervous.’ That was in the ’70s when you could talk like that.

I shudder to think that these tests are being used today to control where funding goes.

I don’t know where I would be today if my teachers’ job security was based on how I performed on some standardized test. If their very survival as teachers was based on whether I actually fell in love with the process of learning but rather if I could fill in the right bubble on a test. If they had to spend most of their time desperately drilling us and less time encouraging creativity and original ideas; less time knowing who we were, seeing our strengths and helping us realize our talents.

I honestly don’t know where I’d be today if that was the type of education I had. I sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I do know that.

This has been a horrible decade for teachers. I can’t imagine how demoralized you must feel. But I came here today to deliver an important message to you: As I get older, I appreciate more and more the teachers that I had growing up. And I’m not alone. There are millions of people just like me.

So the next time you’re feeling down, or exhausted, or unappreciated, or at the end of your rope; the next time you turn on the TV and see yourself called “overpaid;” the next time you encounter some simple-minded, punitive policy that’s been driven into your life by some corporate reformer who has literally never taught anyone anything. … Please know that there are millions of us behind you. You have an army of regular people standing right behind you, and our appreciation for what you do is so deeply felt. We love you, we thank you and we will always have your back.”

And So It Begins...

I'm sitting here fighting tears.  My heart is in my throat.  I feel like there's not enough air in the room.  I can't get a deep enough breath.  I just want to start sobbing.  You know, just get it out.  But my make-up will run and I'm at work.  I should be working, not weeping over something as predictable and silly as this.

I just realized I've got practically no time left.  No, nothing as dramatic as my health or anyone else's.  Nothing dramatic at all.  It's just my little girl ... my baby ... grew up.  Somehow in one fell and extremely sudden swoop she's happy away from me - all day!  Yesterday was her first day at camp - at the Arts Camp that Laura runs - and she loved it.  No, she didn't just love it - she LOVED it.  She loved it so much she put herself early to bed last night and got herself up early this morning to be sure she got there on time.  She voiced her concern, as we got ourselves dressed and ready, that I wouldn't have a full day's worth of work to do today and might come pick her up early.   

With this, I know she can handle school in the fall.  We are on a (long) waiting list for our first pick, which is a 3 hour Kindergarten, so I called up our second choice - a full day deal.  They were fine with me registering her for the fall.  "When do classes begin?" I asked.  "August 29th."  and with that, my stomach twisted and the tears began winning the battle.

How many times have I complained that I can't just go on a run?  Or read the newspaper?  Or watch a movie before midnight?  Or had the time to go window shopping?  How many times have I lamented the lack of "me time?"  Soon, I'll have more "me time" than "me" will know what to do with.  Granted, while she's at school, I will most likely be working and ... with things topsy turvey at work too, who knows if that'll be from home or in-person ... but STILL.  I've got 6 Thursdays left with her this summer (my weekday off).  SIX!!!  (No, no, no, don't you cry Katie...)  Well, there are actually eight left but she's in camp for two more weeks in August and I know she won't let me renegotiate that deal.  So, six.

I have two mini vacations I want to take with her and now I have to figure out how to jam them in to the few weeks I have left before 'real life' takes over.  The money that I don't have seems less important now... the time and attention seems to be weighing over the budgetary restrictions.

I suppose one could think I'm being melodramatic but there's no way I'll give anyone that.  Of course this isn't my first time at this.  I'm no rookie here.  I can tell you with authority that while life can move at a snail's pace for me, it careens by on a SR-71 Blackbird for the kids.  Tim and Cheyanne grew up in - oh, I don't know - two or three months?

And while I can also tell you there's not an age I didn't love and there hasn't been a moment in time when I'd have traded their current age with one prior (no, Chey, not even at 9)... the growing up of this particular child is really hard to take.  There's no chance for another.  This is it.  The finale.  I don't get my miracle again ten years from now.  When she grows up and leaves the nest, it will be empty.  It will be very, very empty.

On Tim's graduation night, my 38th birthday coincidentally, I couldn't sleep.  I ended up sobbing on the couch at some ridiculous o'clock like two or such.  It was Cheyanne that came down to console me that night.  It was a moment so similar to this one.  "It's about to be over."  I sobbed to my (now) eldest daughter.  "I know you haven't even graduated yet, but it goes so freaking fast and it's going to be over in no time.  What am I supposed to do with myself then?"  I asked her sort of hypothetically.  She assured me that no one was going anywhere, that I'd still be mom, that we'd still be a family, that no family was as closely knit as ours.  "Don't worry Mom" she said.  "It's going to be fine."

I know she was right.  Even though God smiled on my pathetic face and gave me Dia, in no way have my precious first two moved on away from me.  They are still very much in my daily life.  Everything is OK just as Chey predicted.

Still.  Even though I have a few minutes before I have to figure out what I'm supposed to do with myself once Dia is grown, the fact of the matter is I don't want to do anything else.  I really like being a mom.  I like playing Polly Pockets with pirates and dinosaurs (all at once).  I like reading stories and cuddling on the couch watching movies I don't even necessarily like.  I love watching her, still awkward and tentative, taking a step further every day in swim class.  I love the funny way she runs and how she makes me make up the most insane stories (on the way to camp today she hit me with "tell me a story about an egg (with a chick inside), a salmon and a bacon fish").  I love every part of this part of life and I don't look forward to it's end.

Dr Seuss (I think) said "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."  I'll try doc, but I'm not promising anything.

It's Not Broken

Some of you know that Dia has issues with her blood sugar levels.  It's pretty serious some days but there are other days, when we've got the whole diet figured out to a science for a week or so, where I can get lulled into a sense of denial and convince myself she's cured. When her body proves to me otherwise and I have the horrible and often painful wake-up call that she has not, actually, miraculously outgrown this, I always have a sense of grief about it.  I wish so much for her that she could just be like other kids.

But because my God is particularly humbling, He has provided me with friends who can't ever lull themselves into such a state of pure unadulterated denial even temporarily.  Their children's conditions are not ever going to give them that luxury.   On the days when I'm feeling sad for Dia (or for me) I'm often provided the reality check that we don't actually have a very big challenge to face after all.

Sabra is one of these parents and she has a wonderful blog that I've mentioned before and that you really should follow if you aren't already. In a late April entry, she shared something Emma, her daughter, said about autism awareness "...yearn to understand that everyone with this reality is exactly who they are supposed to be."

I have Louise Hay's book on healing. Dia likes me to look up whatever hurts her and then she determines if the reason is what Louise Hay suggests (so, for instance, if her tummy is bothering her it might be due to fear of the new) and if Dia agrees that's what is going on, she takes a deep breath and says the meditation that goes along (again, for instance, "Life agrees with me. The universe holds my best interest at heart.").

Not long ago she had a bunch of aches and pains and we were going through the book, per her request. She had also gone high that day (sugars), so I took it upon myself to read her that one. Do you know what she said?

"I don't want to change that. My sugar problems are part of who I am. That doesn't need to be fixed because it's not broken, it's just different."

I didn't follow why she actually wanted this condition of hers and so I asked her if maybe it was because she liked having to have sugar sometimes.  (She gets candy or sweets periodically throughout the day when her sugars drop low.)

"No" she answered "not really.  But if that got fixed I wouldn't be me."

Huh. Who knew?

So I figure maybe these 'special' kids are - as Sabra so gorgeously described it - fearfully and wonderfully created by God just as He designed. Maybe we are even a little arrogant in thinking that they would rather be like the other kids as opposed to merely having the other kids accept them as they are.  And truth be told?  I don't think that's unique to them - I think every one of us would like to be accepted exactly as we are too.

KEC

The Hardest Word, Redux

I've said I do poorly with "goodbye."  You've already heard that one from me here.  Furthermore, I'm supposed to be producing an upbeat, happy blog where people can go to get away from the bad news of the day.  So, I'm not going to spend much time editing this one and I'm going to warn you upfront that I feel very self-serving posting this. 

With that said...

This weekend I said goodbye to one of my favorite people in the whole world, Sabra.  She's not gone forever from my life, but she's now 2000 miles away.  Gone are the days when I could just ring her up and meet her out for a margarita (and feel awful about the headache she'd inevitably suffer the next day).  Gone are the days where she'd watch Dia and then I'd hang out for way too long afterwards.  Gone are the days when she was sure to attend all of our crazy parties and make them that much happier with her presence.  I can still call her and get my fix of that wonderfully contagious laugh, but I can't pretend that I won't miss her every single day.

And the weekend before, my big buddy, Logan - that awful, stinky and senile dog of mine - passed away.  I suppose if there were solace to be found it was that I was right there with him.  If that dog were ever graceful, it was in the way he left this world. 

The night before he passed away all was normal - he came inside and had some dinner and wanted back out afterward.  It was a nice night and he was happy on his blanket on the patio.  He woke me up at midnight to top off his water bowl as always.  The only significant difference was that he didn't wake me up again at 4:00 a.m.  At 6:00 a.m. I woke on my own, realized what time it was and went to check on him.  He was fine.  About an hour later, though, I checked on him again and he seemed incapable of getting up.  I tried to give him water, but he wouldn't drink.  My neighbor, Rhonda, came out to bring him some treats as she always does in the morning and I explained he was having a hard time.  We both sat with him for quite awhile talking quietly and giving him pats.  Eventually his breathing became labored so I sat on the front porch petting him and feeding him ice chips.  At one point Dia woke up and I brought her downstairs to sit with him too.  She helped me with the ice chips and stroked his head.  His breathing slowed and then stopped and he just quietly passed from this world.  We bent and gave him a kiss, but my big buddy was no more.

I'm not going to review all my losses over all the years, but I do know that the cumulative loss of friends and family plays a lot in how much these subsequent losses sting.  I suppose it's not so shocking to me these days so there's a dignity I can manage now as opposed to when I was more of a rookie at it, but with each loss there's some nostalgia for everyone I've lost before. 

................  Ah, but before I get too swamped down in my pity mire, let me shine a light on the flip side of all of this.  Sabra's going away picnic brought people together that I love.  In saying goodbye to the Murphy's I said a renewed hello to other friends.  Another going away party a few weeks prior introduced me to hilariously funny and kind people who I hope will soon call me "friend" too.  And, at the close of this weekend, I sat down to a Thanksgiving II dinner with my silly family plus two new friends and had the best time just eating, chatting and enjoying each other. 
   
Someday the Murphys will visit and we'll all sit around laughing, clowning and commiserating with each other just like old times; and someday a dog will come into our lives that needs our love and care and fits into our strange family.  Until those times come, I'll retire my sadness and celebrate the moments we have now.  After all, life is good.

Dear God

Hello, God.  It’s me, Katie.  Your humble servant.  

 … What?  Oh, yeah, OK – um, about that.   I will try to watch my language more.  Yes, yes, that’s true. Two of my three children have uttered “JeZUS Cuh-rist” in frustration before the age of 5.  Guilty.  Sorry about that.

… What?  Oh, right…  but that was a long time ago, God.  Surely we’d let bygones be bygones by now, wouldn’t we?  …. What?  Oh, yes there is that bit in the Lord’s Prayer about “forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”  Yes, that DOES sound like a conditional thing now that you mention it.  

… What?  Oh, well, yes, I suppose that could be considered unforgiving of me but …. 

Yes, Sir.  I will try harder.

But can we get back to why I came here today?  I was just going to say that I don’t ask for much, God, and I was wondering if … 

... What?  Oh, well, yes, I DID ask for that.  Yes, that was a big one.  She is wonderful and makes me very happy.  Thank you so very much.  Have I not thanked you for her lately?   Oh, whew, good to know I did THAT right.

... What?  Oh, sorry, you are right that was kind of sarcastic.  You think I’m too sarcastic?  Well, I don’t know that … 

... What?  Yes, yes, that’s true.  Dia has learned how to use the word “NOT!” after her satiric remarks, but that’s not so bad, really  - is it?  …. Oh, yes I suppose that's true.  I will try harder on that one too.

But, really, I was just going to say that I really AM ever so grateful for this life of mine.  I know I’ve mentioned this before but I really love what you’ve done with the place.  It’s quite amazing, this earth we live on.  I have to give you a BIG virtual hug on letting me move away from Indiana.  It’s pretty awful, God, you might want to put someone on that.

…What?  Oh, right, I’ll let you do your job.  Yes Sir, I do think you probably know what you are doing.  I was just saying … 

... What?  Yes, I suppose that COULD be considered judgmental on my part, but I … 

... What?  Yes, Sir, I suppose we should save the judging for you.  I will try harder, Sir.

OK, but as I was saying – I really do appreciate your work.  And I have to say "thank you" a thousand times over for my family, especially the kids, God.  They have been more to me than I could have ever dreamed.  Also, thank you for my friends, my job, my home, my health and – well, I’m pretty sure you are a great mind-reader so you probably know everything already – but you have set me up pretty well in this life.  I’m genuinely appreciative.  I know how bad things can be and I don’t deal with anything much, really, in the scheme of things.  That never goes unnoticed and I want you to know that I owe you big for it.

… What?  Yes, you can quote me on that.  

But I was wondering…  is it wrong to ask for more when you have so much?  

… What?  Oh, of course, I understand the answer might be “no.”   OK, with that in mind, here’s what I’m thinking – could you create and/or send me a man with the following:  Looks like Vin Diesel or Stephen Colbert … 

... What?  Yes, Sir, I do understand those two have no common features.   Yes, Sir, I suppose I have been told I was weird before.

ANYway – yes, so he should look like Vin Diesel or Stephen Colbert, he should have the humor of Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert or either of the two guys from The Upside Down Show; he should love my family and particularly my kids; he should have no obsessive tendencies; also he should have his own money but without being a workaholic; he should be between 44 and 49 years old and in perfect health but without extreme exercise regiments or food rules; yes – and on that – he must eat like a real person – you know, butter and real cheese and heavy cream when it calls for it; um… what else???  

 … What?  Yes, I DO know we are already on the verge of the “No” answer but I’m on a roll.   

What was it I used to say?  I want a man who, when he sees I had a bad day, picks me up into his arms and strokes my hair telling me all will be just fine while he carefully moves onto the tile so that the blood from the gunshot wound he’s nursing doesn’t stain the carpet.  You know, like at the end of Bruce Willis movies.  

 … What?  No, God, I suppose that isn’t very realistic.  

 … What?  Yes, I have considered that my expectations might be a little high.  

 … What?  Yes, Sir, I did thank you for my job, why?  Oh, right.  Yes, Sir.  I won’t give up my day job.  Thank you for that advice.  I'll get back to work now.

Amen

Rescue Me

Help!  I’m being held hostage! 

My captives are a 5 year old human, a decrepit urine-soaked dog, a scowling cat with a tendency toward ill-timed hairballs and two parakeets with particularly finicky stomachs requiring brutally expensive seed.  Together they require me to tend to their every need and whim all while earning income enough to keep them all fed, housed and comforted to their hearts' content. 

I’m pretty sure the small child is the ringleader.  She defends the animals with ridiculous vengeance and controls all the electronic equipment, particularly the television remote.  I believe this is a part of an elaborate brainwashing scheme.  For five years I’ve been exposed only to preschool shows, Disney movies and late night television.

She is also versed in sleep deprivation torture.  I believe she has somehow transferred her night waking to the dog.  Five short months ago she finally began sleeping through the night allowing me the same privilege, only to now have my sleep interrupted at least twice each night in order to tend to the senile canine.

Do not call the cops.  I repeat: NO COPS!!  They are in cahoots with my captives and further they run up exorbitant bills and leave me with the tab. 

Please send reinforcements.  Cash is accepted. Large bills are welcome.  Please do not send gift certificates without first negotiating a furlough and a babysitter.  Also useful would be a nanny along the lines of Mary Poppins, a kilo of patchouli incense and a zookeeper (preferably one that is male, single, tall, handsome and unbearably witty and if he happens to resemble Vin Diesel with a British accent, all the better). 

– must dash… The ringleader seems to be growing bored with Nick Jr. and I fear for my safety if I’m caught.

 Oh No!  no!  aaahhh - she's taking the computer over!  dddddddddddddddww444xdsrrgi8uklok

 (I'm sure that's code that only the dog can decipher...)  

Keep Walking. Johnnie Walker.

He had the voice of an angel.  Well, more accurately, he had the voice of Lou Rawls. 

I was chatting away to Tim when the strands of the song drifted by my consciousness in such perfect formation that it took a moment to register that this was not a recorded version of “You’re Gonna Miss My Lovin’.”  I looked to the stage and there he stood. 

I watched him sing and he noticed my attention.  Afterwards he strode over and as he passed by me he said “you are gonna miss my lovin’ baby.”  Corny.  But this was a Karaoke club, so channeling Elvis was forgiven.
 
He disappeared for a moment but came back asking where the guy I was with went off to.  “Oh no” I corrected “that was my son.”  After a few incredulous comments and very flattering compliments toward me, we sat down and talked for awhile.  He was smart and had a great sense of humor and before he left he grabbed two cocktail napkins, jotted “Johnny” and his number on one and asked me to write down my name and number on the other.

Tim asked if I gave him my number.  I did. 
“Did you give him your real number?”    I did. 
“Are you going to call him?”  No. 
“Is he going to call you?”  Yes.
“But nothing will come of it.”  I said, and explained that when I told Johnny about Dia his response was “she takes up a lot of your time, huh?” and when I replied affirmatively, he responded with a rather pregnant pause.

Still, he called the next day and kept calling almost every day thereafter.  I had great conversations with him.  I wasn’t feeling chemistry necessarily, partially because I couldn’t remember a single feature of his physical appearance.  There wasn't a lot of light in the room when I met him and with my memory these days, I couldn’t pick him out of a crowd to save my life.  Although I certainly enjoyed my chats with him, I wasn’t sure there was any sort of love connection. 

There were more reasons than a mysterious appearance that contributed to my doubt that this was a good romantic match, however.

1. I asked him how old he was.  His answer?  “How old do you want me to be?”  I told him that was a hooker answer but he wouldn’t give.  He asked me to defend my stance on why age mattered in the least and he remained staunchly coy (though denied adamantly that he was even slightly coy).
2. His last name?  Walker.  Oh God, I thought… how can I ever date a guy named after mediocre whiskey?  I could allow that there are supposed to be varietals of Johnny Walker that are quite good, but I’m gonna’ stand on this point considering the hilarity that Tim conjured up at Sunday dinner (which included his uncle Jim (Beam), his cousin Jack (Daniels) and that his family can trace its roots back to Samuel Adams…)
3. He’s techno-resistant particularly when it comes to the internet.  He refused to email which is my preferred mode of communication (unless you like calls at 11:00 p.m. after Dia goes to sleep).  He is an English teacher (writing) so I figured maybe he’d be interested in my blog, but he became very negatively animated at my mention of it and said he hated blogs and didn’t even know how to ‘work’ them.  Oh-kayyyy.  Considering that so much of my world is online (including work!) I felt this was kind of a strike against him, albeit a small one.
4. His first date suggestion wasn't great.   He thought a Monday (after I got off work in Altadena) at his place (in Mid-Wilshire) was a genius idea.  When he suggested it I was rushed to get out the door and didn’t have enough time to explain how I have 99 problems and a bitch might be one if he’s asking me to come there – through rush hour traffic – and then drive all the way home.  (To those unfamiliar with L.A. the after-work drive to his place would be an hour plus and the drive home a minimum of 45 minutes.)   I much preferred the idea of meeting in the middle or (better) him coming up my way.  Not to mention that I did not feel comfortable with so private a locale.  Besides – wouldn’t it be pleasant to have a nice dinner out or something?

Regardless, I ended up with a mean cough and felt it best to cancel altogether.  The next time we reconnected live we had another wonderful chat.  He was laughing at some antics he’d had the night before and I was thoroughly enjoying his retelling.  I was thinking how much I liked him when he asked “when am I going to see your ass?”   He chuckled at the double entendre which I found rather tasteless so I felt this was a good time to explain to him that my logistics are a bit challenging. 

I will fully admit that I have a habit of talking in circles.  I’ll begin explaining my stance, interrupt myself for a side note to ‘help’ clarify the point, drop in the moral of the story too early and end up starting over.  (This is another reason email is often a better way for me to communicate.)  I think I did the circular formula a bit here, so in fairness I’m not sure he heard the point correctly.  The point was that dating me might be a slower process than most.  I might be able to see you this week and then not again for two.  I just don’t have a lot of free time, so it is best if we just start out as friends rather than pressure the relationship for something more initially.

He heard it to a certain extent, because his response was “you have to take time to make time.” 

My gut reaction was to defend my situation.  I thought about launching into a dissertation on how I’m a 24/7/365 single parent.  There aren’t weekends at Dad’s house.  She’s not ready for unaccompanied play dates over at a friends’ place.  I don’t have deep pockets for babysitters … blah, blah, blah.  But I stopped myself.  I got as far as saying “It’s not like that in my wo…” and stopped.  I realized he’s right.  I could.  Technically I could.  I just won’t. 

I’m not giving up time with Dia after being gone from her all day.  Not regularly anyway.  Nor am I going to ask my mom to watch her some more after watching her all day.  That feels too much like getting that letter from the landlord: “Thank you for paying on time for the past year.  In appreciation of being a good tenant, we are raising your rent $300/month.  P.S. Have a nice day.”  (Plus I happen to actually enjoy spending time with my mother.)

Anyway, there’s just too much I’m not willing to compromise and, perhaps he correctly Cliff Noted my rant down to “Johnny Walker, I’m just not that into you.” 

Doesn’t matter, though, because you’ll never guess what he said next.  He said “I don’t keep women friends.  I have sisters.  If I want women’s company on a friend level, I turn to them.” 

Damn.

It was my turn for the pregnant pause and during that silence I realized that he was as entitled to his feelings and lifestyle as I was.  I had to respect that.  And I do.  I was hurt at first, I guess for the same reason he was – that we didn’t think the other was worth any sacrifice – but I got over it after a quick chat with Mom.  (See?  Why would I give up time with Mom for some dude with a very poorly chosen name?)

So it ended before it started.  And thank God in a way, because if I jump to the Cliff Note version of what he was saying, he’s kind of chauvinistic and archaic.  At least I don’t have to worry about him reading this post!

Nothing like a Trip to the Nail Salon to Make you Lose all Faith in Humanity

It’s a neglected relationship.  Me and the nail salon, I mean.  I’m too practical for pretty fingernails and run too much for pretty toes, but it’s the latter that usually sends me in there.  Whether it’s because summer time footwear and gnarly calloused toes do not complement each other, or the fact that (honestly!) manicured toenails behave so much better on a run than their unruly snaggletoothed versions, I make the trip to the salon once every few months or so.  It’s way too infrequently anyway because it’s always a shock.  Today was no exception.

I came armed with my Oprah magazine.  I was prepared to settle down with an article on forgiveness (one I think I should read twelve or eighteen times).  However, this salon is a well-oiled machine and while one person is working on your feet, there’s another working on your hands.  So I had nothing free with which to turn pages.

It's a nice salon, though and they do have a big flat screen complete with closed captions.  "OK," I thought "that will do."  However, what was on TV?  Jerry freaking Springer. 

Someone – please – seriously – someone tell me what the hell is entertaining about watching people’s lives fall apart.  No, I’m serious on this one.  What is the attraction here?  So this particular episode was on cheaters.  Jerry, in typical form, brings the cheating wives or girlfriends or husbands or boyfriends up on stage to confront both the victim of the cheat and the cohort of the cheat.  This makes for excellent TV I guess, because (of course) somebody starts throwing punches and expletives while someone else is weeping and the audience is going crazy with delight.  I’m not kidding - these people were clapping, smiling and laughing.  “Oo-ooo-Wee – id’ent dis high-larious?” 

No it’s not.

One particular family almost had me in tears because (you can predict this if you know me) they had the kids on stage.  Here they get to watch their mommy and daddy scream at each other about how daddy only ever took mommy to a cheesy Mexican restaurant and mommy doesn’t even like Mexican food and that’s what made her cheat with Mike over there because he took her to a concert and brought her flowers.  Daddy accused Mommy of being a “fat ugly whore bitch” ever since they got married.  Fortunately the camera did not pan to the children’s’ faces… but at this point I couldn’t watch anymore and turned my attention to the two women who had just walked in to the salon.

Probably not my wisest decision.

I listened while these two middle aged, not particularly attractive nor fit women proceeded to complain about the water temperature, their callous removal process, the fact that they’d just applied sunscreen so for God’s sake skip the arm massage, and finally that the color (that they chose, mind you) was God awful and what was the manicurist thinking?  All of these complaints were delivered with a sharp, accusatory manner.  As they were berated, the poor ladies who were just trying to do their job, kind of shrank back and became timid and confused.  I felt so badly for them, but Woman 1 and 2 didn’t notice in the least. 

Woman 1 even continued with her demeaning ways by taking it a step further in suggesting that the manicurist massaging her legs should “just keep working your way up.”  Fortunately, while Woman 1 and 2 cackled away at the joke, it was lost to the limited English of the manicurist.

The conversation the two shared with each other was not much better.  At first I thought they were talking about their children.  It opened with a glorious boast on how beautiful he looked today with the wind in his hair.  A mention of how his grandfather and father before him had that kind of pride and that probably that’s where he’d learned to pose as he does.  The conversation went on in flowery and loving description but eventually it became obvious that this was about a pet.  When the topic finally did turn to their children (I was hoping they wouldn’t have had any) it was, of course, seething with contempt.   The two spewed bitter dissertations on candy wrappers that hadn't made the trash can, poor grades and bad attitudes and the fact that "he'd never amount to anything but 'fat' anyway."  They dreaded aloud an upcoming trip to Six Flags and giggled together about taking the dogs to Disneyland and “leaving the boys at home where they belong.” 

Oh, I don’t know the back story and maybe there’s some way I could find compassion enough not to judge this little excerpt I saw of their lives.  Perhaps they have perfectly valid reasons for feeling more love towards a canine than their own child, but I cannot fathom a scenario that could make that possible.

Single Dad Laughing has a great post today about extremists and he touches on his feelings about dogs.  If you have a little time, I encourage you to read it.  There’s so much there that I agree with, but the dog thing really resonated.  I’ll save my rant on that for another day, but let’s just suffice it to say that those who do not have children are forgiven.  Completely.  However I show no mercy in my judgment on those who prefer their dogs over their children nor do I reserve judgment on Mr. Springer himself.  Maybe someday, due to our generation’s current state, there will be support groups like “Adult Children of Reality TV Parents” and “MPPTD” (My Parents Preferred the Dog). 

One can only hope.

The Hardest Word

“Sorry,” dear Sir Elton, is NOT the hardest word.  The hardest word is “good-bye.” 

There is a Zen Buddhist precept of non-attachment.  The idea is that if we cling to the desire for things to be permanent, then we will develop strong attachments, and because of attachment we will suffer.  This is the second of the Four Noble Truths:  "All suffering arises from desire."  As a consequence, if we recognize rightly that all phenomena are subject to change and transformation, then there will be no room in our hearts for fear and worry.   We can accept anything, even death, with a peaceful, cheerful mind.   The accomplished Zen man and woman can face all the vicissitudes of life and death without fear.

I am NOT an accomplished Zen woman. 

My attachments run deep and hard.  I suppose I can find some comfort in knowing I might be a peck or two ‘ahead’ of most Americans in that I don’t hold dear many material things.  However, that comfort is quickly swept away in the acknowledgment that few people of any race, culture, creed or nationality hold quite so desperately to her people as I do.

I not only hold fast to the desire for things to be permanent, I require it.  My mother is not allowed to die for instance.  I don’t know how she’s going to do that, but it is a requisite.  (I’ll leave her to figure out the logistics on that one.)  How I could possibly continue in this world without her patient ear, I can’t imagine. 

When it comes to the idea of losing my children, however, I’ve taken this whole thing to a professional level.  It seems the room in my heart for fear and worry over them is pretty much mansion-sized.  I cannot tell you how many times I have ridiculous scenarios played out in my head if I so much as hear a siren nearby if Dia is out at the park with a nanny or Mom.  Those same sirens can draw up a brilliant image of car accidents if Tim or Cheyanne are supposed to be driving somewhere in the vicinity.  Oh, I have pictured falling accidents, moving vehicle accidents, horrible illnesses, acts of God… pretty much the gamut. 

I love an excerpt from Tina Fey’s book.  It’s a prayer for her baby girl and in it she writes:  “Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.”

Yep – exactly.

Then there’s the loss of friends…  Certainly I’ve grieved the death of more than a few friends, but I’ve also grieved the death of a friendship or two as well.   Over my years I’ve had one or two ‘best’ friends turn away from me for one reason or another and despite my best efforts to remedy the situation they have remained estranged.  It took me awhile, but I finally faced the fact that I had to grieve that loss.  They were gone to me for all intents and purposes just as in death. 

Sometimes, however, it’s just a matter of location.  Ten years ago I moved from Indianapolis and, while I’ve never for a single fleeting second missed one square foot of that town, I miss my friends who had so faithfully substituted as my family while I served my sentence there.    There are many days that being so far away from Stephanie just absolutely wrecks me, and I can’t describe how many parties I’ve thrown where I wish so much that my Indy friends could be there. 

Today I’m facing the fact that one of my favorite people in this universe will soon be moving 2,500 miles away (well, 2174 miles to be exact).   I have to believe that we will remain as close as ever or I really just can’t get through this.  I’m not being dramatic – it’s my Achilles heel.  I just can’t do good-byes.   Especially when Sabra is one of those people that I could see every day and still want to spend more time with her.  She and her family have graced me with so many gifts.  I have learned more through them than any college course could ever teach.  I have laughed harder and cried more freely.  I have played the part of the strong, supportive friend simultaneously standing in awe of her strength and spirit.  She was Dia’s first nanny and she has been a part of her life every step of the way.

And now, I have to say good-bye. 

And as the tears roll down my face, I can only pray that God will smile on me enough to watch over us and keep this friendship in tact despite the miles.  I look to my friendship with Missy for encouragement.  Though I haven’t seen her in years now, every time I pick up the phone and speak to her it’s like no distance and no time has passed.  I suppose that’s what real friendship is.  It transcends all obstacles. 

So while I’ll never be able to be an accomplished Zen woman – not in this lifetime anyway – I hope that I can become trusting enough to get through this good-bye gracefully.  I hope that I can have faith that there actually won’t be a loss other than our frequent visits.   But still, I will cry, because “good-bye” is actually the hardest word.

Tell Me a Story

Dia petting rays at Sea World

Dia often asks for a made-up bedtime story.  She gives me the cast of characters and I have to take it from there.  I've had some doosies thrown at me for certain.
"Mom tell me a story about...." (looking around the room) "a curtain, a mirror and a ceiling.  No, a lamp.  A curtain, a mirror and a lamp and Princess Dia."
I can get very, very creative at moments like this.  Not to say any of the stories are publishable or worthy of consideration by anyone but my silly child, but she loves them and that's what counts.

Sunday night we were watching River Monsters on Animal Planet.  Normally, I would steer away from such shows with a child of such an impressionable age, but Dia loves this stuff.  Crazy giant fish that swallow people whole are pretty much exactly her cup of tea.  As Jeremy Wade (the star of the show) pulls these enormous, terrifying animals from the murky waters of very muddy rivers, Dia sighs in adoration.  "Awwwwwww he's so cuuuuuute" she says.

We retired for bed shortly after River Monsters wrapped up and I was a little concerned about the dreams she might have and so was relieved when she requested a story.  Oh good, I thought - we'll have an adventure of Princess Dia and deprogram her brain away from human-sized (or larger) creatures of the deep.
"What shall the story be about, love?" I asked her.
"Giant fish - a giant sting ray and a squid."
Oh dear...
So I offered a compromise.  "How about a manta ray instead?"
"OK" she said, pausing "her momma was a giant manta ray and her daddy was a poisonous sting ray and half her stinger is deadly poisonous and half of it is just manta ray stinger."
Oh dear...
"Any stipulations on the squid?" I asked, wincing in anticipation of her response.
"No, just a squid.  But the manta ray and the squid are best friends."

So here for your reading pleasure is, more or less, what I came up with:
*************************************************************

Once upon a time there was a giant manta ray.  She was the most beautiful and graceful of all the sea creatures and every time she glided past the other fish, they all commented amongst themselves of the ray's beauty.  "Oh" they'd whisper "it's like watching ballet just to see her swim past."  "Indeed" others would say "she is magnificent."

Manta Ray had a dear, dear friend the squid and they did almost everything together.  Squid loved Manta Ray very much and agreed with all the other fish that Manta Ray was most perfect.  She unfortunately also agreed with the opinions on her she overheard.  "That squid swims like she has the hiccups" they'd whisper.  "Indeed" others would say "she is a tangled mess of tentacles."

Squid very much wanted to be as revered as Manta Ray and so she went to the library and took out a book on Famous Squid in History for inspiration.  She read about a doctor squid who discovered that octopus ink cured almost every squid disease there was.  She read about a fashion designer squid that created specialized accessories changing squid fashion forever.  She read about a character actress squid that terrified audiences with her eerie roles.  While they were all fascinating to read about, none inspired her particularly.  She didn't have the stomach for medicine, was all thumbs (or tentacles) when it came to anything artistic and she really was a terrible actress.

Discouraged, she took the book back to the library.  As she was leaving, hanging her head in defeat, she noticed a book on a bottom shelf.  The title simply read "Giant Squid."  On a whim, she opened the book and found her inspiration.

(Now (I reminded Dia) remember that Jeremy explained to us that fish grow to indeterminable sizes dependent only upon their food and water source.)

Squid called up Manta Ray excitedly and told her of her plan to become a giant squid.  "Surely," she explained "if I'm a giant squid, capable of terrifying human sailors and divers alike, I would be respected and awed instead of mocked.  And all I have to do is eat!"

Manta Ray loved squid very much and wanted to support her friend in any way she could.  So she raided humans' boats and gathered up all the fattening foods she could find.  She brought them back to Squid who gorged herself on donuts and french fries and sticks of butter.

Soon Squid began to grow, but she grew more fat than tall.  She also began to feel sluggish and noticed that she tired easily with the shortest of swims.  She didn't feel like playing.  She didn't feel well at all in fact, and wondered if all this was worth it in the end.

Manta Ray began to become very concerned about her friend and asked her "Dear friend, shall I fetch you more human fattening food?"  Squid shook her head.  "Dear friend," Manta Ray continued "Can I get you anything to cheer you at all?"  Squid shook her head.  "Then I shall just sit with you quietly and hold your tentacle until you feel better" Manta Ray resolved.

Suddenly it dawned on Squid.  She didn't need to be giant, or famous, or gifted to feel wonderful.  Manta Ray was her best friend and what a wonderful friend she was indeed.  Squid knew she was loved, just exactly as she was - giant or small.  She gave her friend a big hug, told her she loved her very much and swam out into the open waters with a huge smile on her face.

This time, as she swam by, she overheard some fish whispering "There's something different about that squid."  "Indeed" others said "she is magnificent."

The End

To Sir Mixologist, With Love

There is a special cocktail to commemorate the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton.  I’m not the least surprised.  I can’t imagine that every vendor in London isn’t trying to come up with something to commemorate the wedding.  I’m sure one of the butcher shops features a “Kate’s Tiny Rump Roast” and a “Beef William-ton.”   If they don’t anyway, they should.  A new princess doesn’t get kissed into royalty every day, you know.

It is kind of amazing to me, however, that this cocktail made the news all the way over the pond.  People Magazine reported it first, I believe.  Apparently, “mixologist” Dan Warner (who just happens to be the brand ambassador of Beefeater Gin), created the recipe.  Here it is:

BEEFEATER ROYAL PUNCH
• 2 parts Beefeater London Dry Gin
• 1 part Dubonnet
• 1 part pomegranate juice
• 2 parts fresh lemonade (American style)
• Angostura bitters to taste 

     Serve in a large punch bowl and garnish with wheels of lemon and lime, mint sprigs and pomegranate seeds. Chill the punch with lots of regular ice cubes or make your own fruit ice cubes by freezing orange and lemon slices with water in a plastic container.

Warner explained his concoction further in that the Dubonnet was a nod to Queen Elizabeth, who "was known to enjoy gin and Dubonnet as an apertif," and that the pomegranate juice represents marriage (who knew?).

Well, Sir Royal Mix a Lot? I’ve got one for you:
 

THE DARE

A few months ago,  I was treated to some time with both Tim and Cheyanne after a rare dinner together.  My mom and Dia had eaten with us too, but Mom was giving us some time to catch up as the ‘original’ family and was entertaining Dia in the living room.  That left the three of us in the kitchen to act foolish.   Eventually someone – and I don’t remember if it was me or Tim honestly – dared Cheyanne to make a drink using the first row of items in the liquor cabinet.  The condition was that she could add a mixer, but she had to use every different alcohol in the first row.  We were all laughing at how ridiculous this was – her task was to mix gin, Chambord, Kahlua and vermouth  - but Cheyanne was confident she could create something palatable.

Her finished product was dubbed, appropriately, “The Dare”.  Shockingly, it is delicious.  

Now, Cheyanne is an amazing chef and it goes to follow that her bartending skills would be on par with her culinary skills, but it’s still quite surprising that this combination of alcohol was able to co-exist in such perfect harmony.  The gin alone should have thrown the whole thing into the sour beer category.  But here is our very own mixologist’s recipe:

•    1.5 shots Beefeater London Dry Gin
•    1 shot Chambord
•    ½ shot Kahlua
•    Splash of vermouth
•    Sprite to taste

     Serve in a martini glass and garnish with whatever is in your fruit drawer and, of course, plastic dinosaurs.

So take that, Sir Warner!  Whoever said that Americans were uncouth and uncivilized never made a visit to the Cameron household.  I think Kate and William would much prefer The Dare to The Royal Punch any day.  (I feel I can speak on authority since my grandmother was a Middleton and surely Kate and I go way back.)

Cheers!