Gonna Party Like it’s !

What is it about New Year's that leaves us weeping over the 'Year in Review' issue of People Magazine we hold in one hand while simultaneously jotting down incredibly optimistic goals for the upcoming year on a notepad in the other? (Or is that just me?)

 

It’s an annual thing for me, this nostalgia and optimism.  I always think it’s gonna’ be great.  I always think I’m going to joyfully ring in midnight and I’m going to march forward creating a well-rounded, self-actualized, perfected version of me.

The reality, however, tends to find me on New Year’s Eve nursing a cocktail and a bruised psyche.  The reality generally finds me all alone as the clock strikes midnight, watching the ball drop and the folks in New York losing their collective minds on time delay, and lovers passionately ringing in the New Year. 

How I get the idea of how great this New Year’s Eve is going to be, I’ll never know.  In all my years I think I’ve had two happy and up-to-expectation experiences on this blurry night.  One was with an ex-then-current boyfriend on a river boat when I hadn’t really broken up with the current-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend back at home.  It was a perfect night despite my conscience nagging at me like Jiminy freaking Cricket the whole time.  The other was a party we hosted up in Palmdale that was planned out to the nines and, even to my party planning standards, was simply the best New Year’s party ever.  Outside of those two instances, though, I can share a litany of pathetic stories of kisses that didn’t happen, and “Happy New Year"s that didn’t get shouted joyfully into the rafters, and 2:00 a.m. runs to rescue drunken friends from the side of the road (you know who you are).

They weren’t ALL bad, mind you.  Over the years Cheyanne and I came up with a tradition to bring in the night together switching between Dick Clark and MTV in our warm, safe home.  Those were fun, silly nights but the first year I broke that tradition began the Curse of the Really Bad New Year’s Eves.  Since then, they have consistently been solo and somewhat sad.  The worst part - always - is having no one to kiss as that stupid disco ball slips down its stripper pole.

One time, in the past 6 years, my wee one actually woke up right at midnight.  I was just about to go off the edge in my misery when she stirred in her sleep.  Funny enough I was writing a journal entry at that exact moment.  Here’s the excerpt from that entry: "Dia woke up – 1 minute to midnight.  I was going to write a 5 year goal and a one year goal, and a ton of New Year’s resolutions, but I think I’ll just snuggle with her and go to bed.  It was nice to give someone a kiss at midnight.  She is … she is what’s so right about everything right now."  She gave me perspective that night and since then I haven’t had such disappointing Eves.  Of course, that was just 2 years ago, so I’ve only tested that out once so far…

Besides the failed celebrations, I can’t forget the failed resolutions.  Every year you can find me right here resolutioning and goaling and planning for the coming year’s New and Improved Best Katie Ever to be exhibited at this year’s Human Show.  (I kind of wish they really had those.  You know – like car shows?  “Here we have the 2013 Katie, a more roomy model than previous years…”)  

Already this year is proving to be no different as I’m struggling to focus on my work (and look – I’m writing this instead) and have a notepad next to me to jot down ideas for what I really want me to do this year: Practice piano, read more, work out more regularly, meditate and manage my stress better.  I have a ton of wishes on what I want to be when I grow up too, but I don’t even want to mention that 5 year goal or even a 1 year goal.  How exactly does one find Prince Charming (no – seriously – the one from "Enchanted"), make a gazillion dollars and become a best-selling author without leaving home? So I’ll concentrate on the more doable things. Check in with me on January 3^rd and see how that’s working out for me…

So ... back to tonight:  Yeah, it’s gonna’ be great.  But this year?  It seriously is going to be great.  Know why?  Because one thing I DID do in 2012 was figure out how to love the ordinary.  I learned that to be truly happy a spectacular fairy-tale world isn’t necessary, a brilliant career isn’t necessary, an exciting adventure isn’t necessary.  I have a blessed ordinary life and that alone, is more than so many.  So tonight I’ll have a sparkling glass of something, find an east coast streaming of that blasted ball and its far more blasted audience, have 12 grapes as the clock strikes midnight ET and give my skinny little girl a big fat kiss.  Then I’ll tuck her in, meditate, practice some piano, do 20 minutes on the rowing machine and then 50 sit ups, 20 push ups and finish up with 3 chapters out of one of the books on my bedstand.  I might even be asleep before midnight our time.

Or not.  I might just get drunk.

Happy 2013 everybody!

Pinkie Promise

“Mama, I’m scared.” She shivers and scoots nervously down on her pillow nestling her body closer to mine.

“It’s OK, my love” I respond, knowing what is coming next. 

“Pinkie promise I’ll wake up in the morning?” 

“I promise, my love.  I promise.” 

This is her nightly routine.  While other kids are tucking themselves in, or enjoying a nightly story and a kiss goodnight, my little girl is begging me to promise that she will live through the night. 

Months ago when this all started I would assure her with a thousand words.  I explained how the doctors would surely know if she were close to death, how she isn’t sick like that, how I will stay right there with her and make sure she’s fine all night.  A thousand words.  Eventually, though, they became repetitive and meaningless.  A simple promise is as close to extinguishing her fears as I can get.

Along with her medical doctors, we have a worry doctor who has given me her stamp of approval for my nightly pinkie promise.  In the adult world we know all too well that I can’t actually promise that.  Recent tragic events prove I can’t even legitimately promise she’ll  come home from school alive, but I view it as a promise in good faith:  With the information I have available to me at this time, I know for certain I can promise that she will make it through the night.  

So my pinkie promise comforts her, albeit for a short 24 hours.  Yet her nightly need for that reassurance haunts me every second of every day. 

I try to reason with myself.  I think I know where this comes from.  She’s lost too much in her 6 years.  In fact, she often will list each person and animal that has passed on.  The worst part is there isn’t a nice simple answer for why they died like I had when I was little.  Back then my experience was that  the only things or people that died were all terribly old.   The death Dia has known has struck the very young, the very old, the sick and the injured and so Dia believes herself vulnerable.  No matter how often I tell her so, she doesn’t have the understanding that she isn’t terminally ill.  To her?  Sick is sick and sick equals dying.   

Any fellow moms out there?  Yeah?  Well, think about  facing your child’s mortality every.single.night.  Humbling?  Hardly.  More like dancing with insanity.

It is so easy to look at Dia and see a healthy child.  I watch her laughing, swimming, running around with her friends, playing, twirling and rough-housing with her brother, riding her bike… she looks typical, normal, healthy.   It is incredibly easy during those times to convince myself that she is absolutely one hundred percent fine.  Sometimes other parents will even point out these moments and comment that “she looks fine now.”  They are right.  She does look fine then, but afterwards she comes home and basically collapses… or the fever hits again … or I get her on the scale and she’s lost weight again… or the brown skin she so proudly wears turns terribly pale and her eyes become sunken and encircled in black.  She pays for every moment she tries to be a normal kid.  She acts and looks sick and then, once again, I know this is for real.  The reality is that she is not, in actuality, a healthy kid.

I hate it.  I can feel the rage building.  I want to destroy it.  But “it” doesn’t have a name.   I need to know what dragon to slay, what demon to exorcise, what ass to kick.  I want to know what is making my child weak and unable to keep up with her friends on the playground.  I want to know what is making my daughter need a bedtime routine that is so absolutely and completely unjustly wrong.  I want whatever is accountable for this to show itself.  Let us face off man-to-man.  Let me know my enemy so I can take it in my bare hands and twist its neck until all life fades from its being.

….sigh…

I have good doctors for Dia.  I really do.  I know they are going through the processes they must to diagnose her.  I understand we have a process of elimination type of situation going on here.  I also thank God and all the angels in heaven that they aren’t just admitting her and running down all the possibilities in one fell swoop.  This particular child would be ruined by that type of treatment.  They are doing right by her.  I know this. 

And she will make it through the night.  I know this too. 

All the same?  I will stay right here next to her and make sure she’s fine.  Just like I promised.   

- kec

Both Sides of the Mouth

Last night in the debate, MITT ROMNEY, in reference to the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, SAID:

..."Second, in that line that says, we are endowed by our Creator with our rights -- I believe we must maintain our commitment to religious tolerance and freedom in this country. That statement also says that we are endowed by our Creator with the right to pursue happiness as we choose. I interpret that as, one, making sure that those people who are less fortunate and can’t care for themselves are cared by -- by one another. 

We’re a nation that believes we’re all children of the same God. And we care for those that have difficulties -- those that are elderly and have problems and challenges, those that disabled, we care for them. And we look for discovery and innovation, all these thing desired out of the American heart to provide the pursuit of happiness for our citizens. 

But we also believe in maintaining for individuals the right to pursue their dreams, and not to have the government substitute itself for the rights of free individuals. And what we’re seeing right now is, in my view, a -- a trickle-down government approach which has government thinking it can do a better job than free people pursuing their dreams. And it’s not working."

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So ... let me be clear on this.  Tell me again, Mr. Romney, exactly why you are against gay marriage - politically.  Are not the gay members of our society allowed freedom from religious rhetoric?  Are they not allowed to pursue happiness as they choose?  Are they not the children of the same God?  And I take it that you mean to say that all individuals have the right to pursue their dreams and not have the government substitute itself for the rights of free individuals UNLESS they are gay.  Correct?   

Just checking.

The Importance of a Father

She came to me the other night.  There was a look on her face far too serious for her young years.

“Mommy?” she began.  Immediately I knew something was wrong.  She never calls me ‘mommy.’

“What’s up love?”

“Maybe I’m just tired, but I’m feeling really sad for some reason.”

I sat down with her on the couch and snuggled with her.  “Want to talk to me about it?” I asked.

Dia in Daddy's hat, a long, long time ago

She was quiet for a while.  She just curled into me and let me hold her.  Eventually she talked about some bad dreams she’s been having that are inspired by the water stain in my ceiling (thanks to an old leak in the neighbor’s roof).  She calls it ‘the hole’ and she said she’s beginning to see faces in it and has dreams that a giant snake comes out of it and tries to eat her.  I promised her that first, it’s not a hole and nothing can come in or out of it and, second, that I would call Orlando and have him paint over that as soon as we got back from our trip.  She seemed happy with that and sat quietly again for a minute.

Then she said it.

“Mommy?”  (there’s that name again…)  “I wish I had a dad.”


So there it was.  For six years I’ve been assuring myself and everyone else that our situation is fine.  I’ve been smiling and saying that this is all Dia knows and she’s fine with it.  So rather than pestering her father or reminding him that she’s still here and he probably should visit, I just let it go.  Anyway historically when I’ve called him out short on his parenting, or lack thereof, he gets furious.  Don't misunderstand - even though I’m completely guilty for always wanting to avoid confrontation, I would fight a rabid mountain lion for my kids.  So it wasn't his fury that I wanted to avoid as much as the fact that I just felt this fight wasn’t worth it.  Nothing was going to change. 

But now my little girl tells me that she wants a dad.  Assuring her that she already has one is not only asinine, but also somewhat disrespectful.  That mere fact wasn’t what she meant.  She explained she wanted someone to stay with her if I was gone, not like a nanny, but someone to be with her so I could go to the grocery or the gym without her.  All her friends, she explained, had a mom and a dad. Together. In the same house.

All I could do was sit there, holding her, wishing that for her too.

Oh, I know this isn’t about me, because it so isn’t, but I feel horribly guilty.  Why on earth did I do that to her?  To Tim and Chey too?  Why can’t I just suck it up and stay in a relationship so that my kids can have a normal childhood?  So their hearts don’t cry for someone they should, in all rights, have.  And I don’t just get divorced.  No, that would be under-achieving.  The two dads I picked for my kids wanted so excruciatingly badly to have a life completely different from the one they shared with me and cleave so wholly to their new wives and lives, that they distanced themselves equally as wholly from the kids we had together.

I don't mean to sound like a victim because I'm absolutely not, but I'm not sure that I could say the same for my kids.  They most certainly are victim to my poor choices or at least my inability to tolerate pretty much anything bad in a relationship.  And the worst part is, that unlike ‘the hole’ that I can have Orlando come and paint over, this hole… the dad sized one … well, I can’t make that better.

Prop 8.1.0 - New Release (bug fix)

Assumption #1 – There is no gray area.  Right is right and wrong is wrong.

Assumption #2 – The stance against gay marriage is because being gay is a sin.

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OK.  Let’s say I am gay and have been with the same woman for 20 years now.  We have never cheated on each other.

 

Let's also assume that because God has said my being gay is sinful, I cannot marry my partner.  Marriage is a sacred institution between a man and a woman and cannot be entered into in a sinful state.  So, the church will not marry us.

Well, that is most definitely the church’s prerogative.  

But while other couples can marry at the court house, or on a cruise ship, or drunk in Vegas I cannot be married at all.  

I have to admit I’m unclear on why this is so, unless the government has agreed that being gay is a bad thing.

Truth of the matter is, the government has accepted many “Christian” laws into its legislation, thereby concurring with the church (in a way).  While keeping the Sabbath (commandment #4) and not taking the Lord’s name in vain (#3) skipped legislation, thou shalt not kill (#6) and thou shalt not steal (#8) made it in.  

And, again, while we don’t practice legislative punishment when we don’t honor our mother and father (#5), I think we can all agree that killing is bad, stealing is bad and we even have laws against falsely accusing people (#9).

No one in their right American mind would publicly admit to breaking commandments 1 or 2 (worshipping more than one god or statues).  And thank God (um…) that we don’t get punished legislatively for envying our neighbor’s stuff (#10).  Talk about overcrowding the prison system.

Yet there’s one commandment – the one wedged between Sacred Rules 6 and 8 – that I haven’t mentioned yet.  That is commandment #7.  Thou shalt not commit adultery.  

Referring back to Assumption #1, it would go to follow that cheating on your spouse is wrong.  I think, socially, most of us feel that is correct.  

Referring back to Assumption #2, the stance against marriage with or by adulterers is because adultery is a sin.  Right?  Oh wait, we don't have that stance.

Now I’m not sure if this is one of the commandments that we let slide a little bit, (like the Sabbath and the mom and dad thing), but I would hate to think that there is a loop hole in there that allows that as long as we cheat on our spouse with someone of the opposite sex and we seek counseling or forgiveness or anyway never get caught by our wife (or husband as the case may be) we are not violating the sacred institution of marriage.  No.  That isn't the case.  I think it’s fair to say that the church still feels strongly on matters of adultery.

The government?  Well, because it’s a private thing, we don’t throw you in jail for it - but there are other punitive consequences – at least in the states that don’t practice no-fault divorces.  In those states the partner that cheated could easily lose their house, perhaps have their bank account wiped out but regardless will bear the brunt of the divorce. 

Therefore I can assume, since the divorce isn’t performed by the church that, in the case of adultery, the government agrees that it’s a punishable sin.

So if both the church and the government agree that this is wrong, then why can adulterers marry?

If you have cheated I propose that your current marriage license gets annulled by the state and you never get to marry again.  I think that’s fair.  You are a sinner.  It’s no longer your right to enter into the institution of marriage.  Kind of like how felons can’t vote in some states. 

So I want to see Prop 8.1.0 on the ballots this November.  It should be a painfully written bill filled with double negatives and confusing text that ultimately adds a new provision to the Declaration of Rights to state constitutions which provides that "only marriage between a loyal man and a faithful woman is valid or recognized.”

I’m Katie Cameron and I approve this message.

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Disclaimer #1 – This is not in direct response to the Chick-fil-A nonsense.  I don’t particularly care about them. Food wise - I have only eaten there once (about 25 years ago now) and I found their food mediocre at best.  I knew they were Prop 8 supporters in 2008 and had I considered their food worth a revisit then, their political stance shooed me away.  Regardless, they are not publicly traded and it’s their right to speak (however ridiculous they sound).

Disclaimer #2 –  (While we are on the subject) I refuse to believe that everyone who supported the restaurant yesterday did so because they wish to discriminate against gay people.  I’m hoping, at least, that there are some Christians who, for whatever reason, feel it necessary to defend Christianity and show their support of a company that waves their Jesus flag openly. 

Disclaimer #3 - I am not gay and I have never had a romantic relationship last 20 years.

Aurora

It is profoundly profound and unspeakably devastating.  The world should stop for a minute.  We should all stop for a minute and feel this.  It’s unimaginable.  It’s insane.  It’s inconceivable.  Yet it occurred.  It wasn’t an act of terrorism outside our own borders.  It wasn’t a nefarious religious cult.  It was a lone neuroscience student.  A young man pursuing an advanced degree.  The whole world was ahead of him and yet… something snapped.  And in that moment, or as a result of it, fans of a comic book hero who with such eager enthusiasm lined up to be the first to see the latest installation of their imaginary world had a very real and very terrible turn.

Our reactions are across the board.  We each experience a form of grief no matter how close to our own hearts or lives this truly touches us.  Perhaps we blame the parents, the system, the bullies that picked on him, or one of the thousand reasons that someone could go down a path so very, very wrong.

  

We are left terrified and vulnerable.  These tragedies can take place anywhere and at any time so we pull each other near, count heads and account for loved ones.  We might take a moment to thank God it wasn’t us, it wasn’t our child, it wasn’t our friend.  We feel sad, scared, outraged …something… for a moment and perhaps take the time to voice that emotion as I suppose I am doing here.  And then… in a day or two … we put it out of our minds.  We go on back to our lives living them just exactly as before.  We send our kids to school without a prayer that a gunman won’t enter the grounds.  We take ourselves to the movies without an exit plan should an attack be waged.  We shop, we drive, we work, we live ... and in our prayers, should we have them, we rarely ask God to protect us from well-armed men nor thank Him that we are home safe and sound.

The real victims, though?  Well, they won’t be going back to life as it was before.  If they were spared their lives at all nothing will ever be the same.  As I said, it’s unimaginable.  They have had their world permanently affected.  They will bear these scars until their end.

I have no answers – no solutions – no arms to take up to prevent against the horror of an event like this. And while it’s hard for me to hear defenders of our constitutional rights to bear arms to bristle against those of us that understand all too well that guns really do kill people, it’s not time for that conversation either.  The only palpable thing we can do in hopes of preventing such atrocities, or to comfort those who have suffered, or to ease our own fears is to show compassion.  To everyone.  Rather than instilling fear and suspicion, we can encourage our children to love first and judge never.  We can teach them understanding of others, tolerance of diversity (if not a love of it) and perhaps to reach out a hand to those who seem alone or alienated in the hopes that that one act of kindness could be just enough to make a real difference.

May God bless and comfort us all.

Letters to the Inanimate

Dear Drawstring Waistband:

I know you think you’re all adaptable and helpful and whatnot, but the truth is you – like so many of your type (i.e. ‘clothing’) – just make the problem areas more problematic.  I do not need the extra bulk or additional pull of my shirt in that general region.  I’ll thank you to not add inches to my “is-she-pregnant-or-not” middle aged waist.  You will be banished to Goodwill.   This is not open for discussion.

With extra-large regards,

Katie

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Dear Facebook,

I know you are too young to know this, but once upon a time when grown-up people would invite their friends over for “cocktails,” it was merely a guise so that these poor twisted souls could pull out their vacation slides and subject their soon-to- be- former friends to an unbearably dull traipse down memory lane.  This tradition was no more welcome than the fruitcake they sent for Christmas (the reference to which you are also too young to know). 

Yet without even having been dealt the original hand, you my friend, have seen them their vacation slideshows and upped them desserts.  Yes, now through the glory of your existence, each day I am bombarded with a veritable mosaic of vegan cupcakes, frou-frou cocktails, artisan sandwiches and the results of well-intentioned grill masters. 

I have noticed that you have created filters that I can employ to avoid viewing every move my friends make in their casual gaming.  I am formally requesting that you please install a food filter with your next release.  Also please create a filter for stupid cat photos.  Who wants to see a gray kitten attacking a plush Yoda toy or holding a remote control?  That is worse than the vegan cupcakes.

With most hypocritical sincerity,

Katie

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Dear Cargo Bermuda Shorts,

A full length mirror at the end of the hall just told me that, when I walk, you crease in just the wrong spot.  I am horrified to realize I’ve been walking around all day looking like I have camel toe.  You will join the drawstring waistband clothing in the Goodwill bag.  Maybe.  You might just go in the trash.  I’m too angry to make the decision right now.  I’ll have to sleep on it.

No longer yours,

Katie

    

Changing the World One Child at a Time

Just in case you feel downhearted, just in case you feel that there's no more good in this world, just in case you believe that people are mean, bitter and spiteful, I present to you:  HOPE FOR THE FUTURE!  These kids are changing the world and our future looks good, folks.  Here's a glimpse at the world in 10-20 years:

Altruism is alive,

and we stand up against hate

and there's even a potential cure for cancer!

I'm proud of these children and I'm proud of all the children who know that, one at time, we really can change the world.  Have faith and remember no gesture is too small to make a positive change.

The future's so bright, I gotta' wear shades.

- KEC

The Wise One

On August 17, 2007 a stranger approached Dia and I outside of Trader Joe's.  Quite randomly she began telling me all about Dia, her future, and this: She said Dia picked me as a mom 2-3 years before she was born and that she'd chosen well.  She said I was placed on this earth for a very specific purpose and that Dia picked me to help me carry out that purpose.  She said I wrote incredibly well but that my writing wasn’t for me, it was for “us” (meaning her and collectively other people) but that we have Free Will so it was up to me to see to that.  Only when I asked, did she tell me her name was Antonia and I think she said her last name was Love and then she said goodbye.  She didn’t want anything, wasn’t selling anything, didn’t even suggest a website, book or anything.  It was crazy, but awesome.  And it has stuck with me since.

Today, not quite 5 years later, I was reminded of that foretelling when I was chatting with Dia about my latest blog post.  I was waffling on whether to post it at all much less whether to broadcast it on Facebook.  I was worried, because it speaks of God, that it might offend people.  As I was working through this dilemma out loud, I began to wonder why I even had my blog in the first place.  I explained to Dia (and myself) that practically no one reads it and I honestly don't know the purpose of it.  Why do I even write the blog at all?

"It's your hobby, Mom."  Dia began.  "It's what you do.  You write.  You're a writer.  That's why you never feel like anyone loves you - because you aren't doing what you love more.  You should write for everyone.  You are so good at it."

I began to smile, but didn't respond because I didn't want to break her train of thought.  Of course I loved hearing the words.  I was flattered and happy but I felt like she was going somewhere with this.  She was.

"You need to write your book.  Just do it.  Just finish it.  Then once that's done, you need to write many more children's books and take them to the schools.  Children need books, Mom, and they don't have enough.  You tell the best stories.  You should make them into books if you can remember them.  You should make Turtle and Hippo into a book.  I'll draw the pictures for you."  She thought about that last little bit and decided "Grandma will draw the pictures.  I'll color them in."  

She smiled with that and nodded with a satisfied expression.  I looked at her and just smiled back.  "I love you." I said finally.

I know it's a child's perspective.  I know I can't just write a book and take it to the schools.  I know I can't make a living as an author of children's books.  I mean, who do I think I am - Dr. Seuss?  I've also always been haunted by Antonia's statement that I was placed on this earth to carry out a specific purpose and that my writing was for the collective good.  How is a story about a turtle and a hippo going to better this world?  

Anyway - that's where my mind went when I was given a chance to think a little bit.  Of course those thoughts are nothing more than doubts and fear, but if you asked me I would say I'm being realistic.  My Dia, though?  She believes in me.  She believes it all can happen.  So why shouldn't I believe as well?

What could you accomplish if no one told you it was impossible?

Let's go find out.

Our Father

I began praying this morning while out on my early morning walk with Mandy.  The birds were singing and flitting about in such chorus and circus that my thoughts went to Erin my bird loving friend.  I wished I could record the birds' song or their flight or describe it in prose for her, but my camera is my phone and my writing is ... lacking still.  Nothing I had in my arsenal would do the job.  I thought about how badly I wanted to share this moment with her and then I realized what I really want is her well again.  So I began praying  "Our Father..."

As I searched for the right words, the right prayer, the right posture I suddenly was hit with a horrible realization:  I am a crisis Christian.

I want so much to believe in a God the Father, a puppeteer that has our fate in His omnipotent hands.  I want so much to believe that my dad, my great-aunt, my grandparents and my pets are all in heaven watching over me until the day I join them.  I want to believe in heaven as an unimaginably beautiful place where peace, joy and happiness prevail.   I want to believe in prayer and that a few words thrown towards the heavens would tug at the heartstrings of a guardian angel or God Himself and He could make it all right again.  He could cure Erin; He could ensure my friend's daughter doesn't have cancer; He could make it so Dia never gets sick again and He could similarly answer all the prayers of my friends and loved ones.

But I don't believe in God that way.  I just pray to that God when I really need something. 

To start at a silly and simple level, I can't imagine how horrifying it would be to have to answer to my dad, my great-aunt, my grandparents and even my pets about all the things they've watched me do here on earth.  Oh, I'm sure they'd be in their angelic all-forgiving "I'm OK you're OK" mode by the time I'm knocking on the pearlies, but I'm not sure I'd consider that level of embarrassment any form of heaven.

And while on that subject, I happen to be a huge fan of this earth.  I walk every morning and love what He's done with the place.  Even when I lived in Indianapolis and there wasn't much to appreciate, I could find an amazing tree or a sunbeam breaking through the clouds and just marvel in His handiwork.  Besides - my bucket list could double as a travelogue.  My heaven would be to get to stay here on earth until I saw all the wonders of the world twice.  This blue speck of spinning flora, fauna, architecture and human spirit is my heaven.

Yet on a much more philosophical level, I have trouble believing in a God that could cast entire creeds of people to the depths of hell for not accepting a prescribed Lord and Savior.  How could a loving father turn away His children in the same manner riff-raff would be turned away from an elite country club?

Nor can I believe in a God that would banish a person to eternal damnation for the way he conducts himself sexually.  Here's a tidbit for you:  I have seen a walrus masturbate.  A walrus!  I even have the photo to prove it!  I'm pretty sure he wasn't sinning - he was just being a dude walrus with dude walrus urges.  Is he destined to go to walrus hell for a sexual perversion?   Honestly?  Gay, straight, upside down, missionary or alone - I just cannot believe that God would care that much about how we do it.  With everything else on His plate, don't you think He just wants us to love each other - Golden Rule style?

The biggest part of the dogma for me, though - the one where the leap of faith is jumping the Grand Canyon on a pogo stick - is that there is no way that I can believe in an all powerful and loving being that would allow a child to suffer or die.

I understand "things" die.  But "things" should be very old and ready to leave this earth.  A 13 year old girl should not be fighting for her life in a hospital bed with her terrified parents at her side.  A young mother should not be waging war with cancer while her children suffer the fear of potentially losing her.  God the Father?  What kind of father would stand by and allow that when he could so easily do something to make it all better?

I've lived in the bible belt and I've probably heard all the 'why' answers there are to that question, but none of them sit right with me.  Perhaps the most compelling argument I've heard is that God as the Father is as different to a human father as a lion father is to us.  Lions are rumored to kill their own cubs in times of starvation or in fits of rivalry.  Certainly, though there are crazy exceptions, human fathers do not have to be quarantined away from their newborn child to ensure the baby doesn't fall victim at his father's jealous or hungry hands.  In the same way, God the Father has superior reasons for why He does what He does and it cannot be compared to the simplistic actions of a primitive human father. 

I can kind of believe that I suppose.  Or maybe I just want to believe that because I want to believe the whole story.  That way I don't have to be afraid.  If it is true, then my own life doesn't have to end when I depart this body in which I reside.  If it is true I might not be so powerless.  I can grab a little magic and some hope.  I can pray for my friends' recoveries, my daughter's health, my children's safety and I can believe emphatically that it will all come to pass. 

A wise woman once advised me to follow religion a la carte.  Instead of ordering the entree with a bunch of sides I can't swallow, I should choose the dishes I can stomach and come back for seconds on the ones that really sit well with me.  I suppose, after a baptism, a confirmation and years in the church it's understandably hard for me to be as  laissez-faire as that, but I try.  I do believe in some force and have discovered I have a lean toward Buddhist thinking.  I try to be Christ-like and compassionate.  I say grace at dinner to send gratitude, thanks and energy out to the universe in a more social setting.  I have found great comfort in the teachings of several famous and not-so famous monks and, yes, I happen to be a very big fan of Jesus.  I like the idea of a gentle, peaceable, all-loving man that could touch so very many people in such a brief life.  I am not so certain about the dogma surrounding Jesus, but perhaps that doesn't matter.  If the dogma is true, especially in the more conservative beliefs, I imagine I'm headed for hell in the end.  In the meantime, though, (at least if I remember this correctly) I think He will still receive my prayers.

In that case?
Our Father, who art in Heaven, please forgive me for being so uncertain.  I am sure, no matter what form you truly exist in, you can see into my heart so it's silly for me to try to string together a series of words just right.  You are wise enough to know I'm just trying to manipulate your will.  

You know who is weighing heavy on my mind, God.  You know how badly I want my friend to win her war with cancer.  You know how much I want that little girl to come back with a clean bill of health.  You know how I am utterly incapable of living this life if anything ever happened to my own children.  Please, God, lay your hands on them and cure, heal and protect them and let them remain here on earth healthy and happy.  Amen**

Matthew 19:13  Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. ¹⁴But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. ¹⁵And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence. 

**Important Update:  About 14 hours after I wrote this blog post, I received an update from my friend whose daughter was undergoing tests for cancer.  The final test came back clear!  They cannot find any cancer and she is even fever free, eating and on the mend.  Maybe God just gave me a great big BooYah Gran'ma in my face.  Well played, Sir.  Well played indeed.

The Monsters Inside

We finished watching "We Bought a Zoo" and I had to take Mandy out for a quick walk before we could turn in for the night.  "Do you want to come with or stay here?" I asked Dia.  "Come with" she said.  So I got her bundled up, got the leash on the dog and started the loop around the neighborhood.

She wanted to be carried, so I carried her.  Muffled a bit through her hat and scarf and my hood, I heard her wondering aloud about the monsters the boy drew in the movie.  "Why did he draw the monsters?"  she asked.  She said they kind of freaked her out.  "He was sad and angry because his Momma had died." I explained.  "Sometimes people feel monstrous when they are sad or angry."

"I feel monstrous when (a boy at school) makes fun of the way I run." she confessed.

"What does he say?" I asked.

"He calls me a slow poke and says I run funny."

My child, people, does run funny.  Something isn't right in her mechanics.  Perhaps it is in her hips, maybe in her feet... perhaps she simply needs more practice.  Perhaps, though, it's something far more serious - something that we are trying to run down right now with the doctors.  Something, perhaps, that no one should ever mock.  So hearing her say this... and further hearing that she is aware of what others think ...  well, that made all kinds of emotions rise up in me.

But I had to shove those emotions down.

So I told her I wished I could talk with her friends at school.  I wished I could ask them what good they think could come of making fun of another person.  I wished I could ask them if they think that mocking Dia would somehow motivate her to run better.  I wished I could ask them who mocked them about things they didn't do well and how they felt about that.

Instead, as I carried her in my arms and walked the dog around the block, I told her a story .  I'll share it here with you too:
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I played softball once in my life.  For whatever reason, we never played softball in any gym class I ever took, so I was 30 years old before I even considered the idea.  A friend was putting together a co-ed softball team through work and was desperate for female players.  She begged me to join.  When I told her I'd never played in my life and that I was terrified I would suck and even more terrified that everyone would laugh at me, she assured me it was all for fun.  So I joined.

At my first at bat I got reprimanded by the umpire that no wrist watches were allowed.  God only knows why, but fine - I took it off.  Then I struck out.  On my second (and last) at bat I actually hit the ball.  I threw the bat behind me and went running.  Yet insult to injury resulted in this action as I not only got scolded by the ump again (no throwing of bats in softball) but I also just lobbed the ball right back to the pitcher.  Easy out.

My outfield attempts were worse than that.  I caught the ball OK, but couldn't throw it back into play from left field.  Still, I ended the night having had a fairly good time and ready to try again the following week.

But the next day at work it got quickly back around to me that the very person that begged me to sign up - the very person that assured me that it was all in fun - the very person that swore no one would make fun of me for sucking up the place - was having a great time replaying my foibles from the previous night.  Apparently, she was getting terrific laughs re-telling what a horrible klutz I was and how bad I sucked at softball.

That was the one and only time I've ever played softball in my life.

Contrary to this story (I told my dear Dia, while still walking around the block) at my next job my boss convinced me to join an over 30 indoor soccer league.  Most of the women on the team had never played, she said.  Most of them simply knew of the game through their children.  It would be fun, she promised.  So I stepped out of my comfort zone and joined the team.

That period of my life was the happiest I had ever known before I had Dia.  It wasn't just the soccer - Tim and Chey and I were awesomely happy; I adored my job; I was running in races - I had all types of things that balanced me out and made my heart soar - but I cannot belittle the contribution that silly soccer team had on that happiness.  This was a team of women that only cheered each other on.  We never ever won a game, but you wouldn't know that by the way we celebrated each goal.  I think the best person on the team by far was that boss that recruited me.  The rest of us were mediocre to terrible - but, again, you'd have never known it by the way we acted toward each other.  And the miracle of it all?  We got better.  Every single one of us got better.  Our first game we lost 16-0 (seriously - this is soccer, people!) and by the last game of the season we lost 3-2.  Hell yeah, baby.  We were contenders.
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I told Dia the stories just a bit differently than I'm telling you here.  I took out the less-than-appropriate language and kind of simplified it (she can get bored when I drone on about things), but my point in telling it is the same:  I wonder what anyone who tells Dia she's a slowpoke or points out that she runs funny thinks they are accomplishing.  Why did my so-called friend make fun of me after my first try at softball?  My guess?  I suppose that it made them feel better about themselves.  I just cannot imagine it could possibly be that they thought it would benefit Dia, in her case, or me, in mine.

But there is a part that haunts me a bit.  I've seen it a thousand times.  It comes from the parents.  The taunting.  The teasing.  The ... well, honestly?... bullying ... that parents levy upon their kids in an attempt to encourage, motivate, or improve their children's performance.  I wish there was a candid camera on every one of these parents so they could watch their kids shrivel and cower in response to this type of 'motivation.'

By the way?  It doesn't actually motivate them except to try to make the pain you are causing them to stop.  It creates monsters inside them and teaches them to speak cruelly to kids like Dia - to make fun of them instead of trying to understand or, better, trying to help.  When they cannot improve beyond what is being asked of them, this type of  "motivation"  motivates them only to criticize others. 

If you have influence in a child's life, please watch your words and please teach them compassion.  Please teach them that things may not be so black and white.  Please teach them that, when they see someone not as strong, smart or beautiful as they are,  there is a chance, at least, that the other person's story is deeper than skin deep. 

In Dia's case?  I might have a kid fighting for her life.  Or I might have a kid whose motor development is just not like the others.  But regardless she is so much like the others in that she wants to be validated, approved of and loved.  In that way, I have a kid exactly like yours.  I don't want her to give up and never ever want to play again.  I want her to run free with no monsters hiding in her subconscious mind.

- KEC

** A special thanks to Asher, who at a recent party told Dia "The other kids may think you run really slow, but I think you are fast."  Thank you sweet angel boy.  Thank you so much.