tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-350595372024-03-12T16:50:05.303-07:00The Thinking MomA meditation on the intersection between motherhood and the world at largeMama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-27240916520429429522017-04-19T11:42:00.000-07:002017-04-19T11:42:19.962-07:00Skinny or fat, don’t talk about my body<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If left to nature, my normal body type is a stick figure with an apple in the middle, topped with two floppy breasts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I work out, my body changes slightly. My otherwise bird-like limbs have little bulges of muscles on them. Every time I’m sick or injured, someone notices that I look like I’ve lost weight.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somehow, losing that little bit of muscle through disuse seems to read as “skinny.” Skinny is supposed to be positive, right? It’s meant as a compliment.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MleFhmC7eRYMxyIybkfpoeuJLWXiiskopONhKntnryXsCito8MAD0bKfVTHyDa3S2qhrT3UMOdPNvZsJqr7BSORFLHqprPsbE8tKiAVfQiepomN8KtScmMw6Y0puhAqopDE4UA/s1600/IMG_3332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MleFhmC7eRYMxyIybkfpoeuJLWXiiskopONhKntnryXsCito8MAD0bKfVTHyDa3S2qhrT3UMOdPNvZsJqr7BSORFLHqprPsbE8tKiAVfQiepomN8KtScmMw6Y0puhAqopDE4UA/s200/IMG_3332.JPG" title="" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: 0px;">I don’t work out for how my body looks. No offense to anyone who does, but I work out because I have battled with depression for the past 18 years, and the endorphin boost that I get helps top off my anti-depressant— enough so that my mood is significantly less volatile when I work out.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The thing is, being told you’re skinny <i>isn’t </i>really a compliment. It may be meant as one, but it isn’t one. It’s the flip side of the same coin— people looking at, and judging, your body. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Think about it. Is it OK to tell someone, “you look like you’ve put on weight”? Or, “it sure is taking you a while to look like you did before you had the baby,” or, “when are you going to start working out?” No, no, and no.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whether people are silently judging your appearance or not, compliments on appearance reinforce a dangerous, sexist standard: worrying about your body or feeling inadequate because of the way it looks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s the same reason that we’re supposed to be conscious of not praising girls’ appearances more than we notice their intellect or creativity. Hopefully we’re doing a better job of that than we were back when I was a kid. But what about us? The women who grew up with moms who dieted constantly, drank Tab and ate rice cakes, and who weighed themselves every morning? </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, we’re still struggling with body acceptance. And even when we think we are being politically correct about how we treat others’ bodies, we still have blind spots, we still slip up, or unwittingly reinforce those same body standards but using new language. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For every person who feels empowered by MLM fitness and diet schemes flooding Instagram, there’s another woman who can’t do that, or who struggles with health issues or is a single mom or <i>dammit, just doesn’t want to spend her time obsessing about what she puts into or does with her body and how that is going to change her value in the eyes of others.</i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gossip mag headlines still cry out, “X celebrity flaunts her post-baby body in Hawaii!” No. <i>She has a body. She had a baby. Her body is in Hawaii. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And well-meaning friends who haven’t seen us in a while and maybe don’t know that we’re recovering from a recent flare of IBS or coming back from a leg injury may compliment us on looking skinny. All the while, our kids are watching and listening. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my daughter’s after-school art club the other day, I overheard a little girl bragging to another little girl, as she patted her stomach, “look how little my tummy is.” I watched as my daughter looked on, silently taking in the conversation. I did a pushy mom thing. I walked up, stuck out my tummy, and said, “it doesn’t matter what size your tummy is. The important thing is that it works. Can you imagine what would happen if it didn’t? You’d have everything you ate just sitting in there! You’d have to poop out pieces of food!” The girls dissolved into giggles, and started talking about what it would be like to sit on the toilet and poop out a salad and pizza.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is no wrong way to have a body. By calling out body shape, even if it’s meant to be nice, reinforces a judgment. So please, don’t ever call me skinny. I’m trying to be healthy, happy, and ultimately not give a shit about what my body looks like to anyone other than me. I hope to raise my daughter (and all our daughters) to do the same.</span></span></div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-69830607106249845682017-01-07T20:28:00.000-08:002017-01-07T20:30:27.793-08:00Welcome!The best way to keep up with all the Thinking Mom goodness is by <a href="http://www.facebook.com/thinkingmom" target="_blank">liking my page on Facebook</a>. There you'll get links to all this bloggy goodness, as well as my articles from <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/" target="_blank">Scary Mommy</a> and other outlets, plus some other snarky, meme-y, funny stuff.<br />
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xoxo JRH<br />
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<br />Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-50593667830622935852017-01-06T13:16:00.000-08:002017-01-06T13:16:57.576-08:00A Hairy Situation<div style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The agony and the ecstasy of being a long-haired mom</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There are lots of advantages to having long hair as a mom— throw your mop into a messy bun and GO is the name of the game.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In fact, when I became a mom, I grew my hair out for that purpose— ease of everyday styling. However, I’ve lived long enough with this flowing mane and my two kids to let you know about some of the more humorous sides of having long hair as a mom.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>How can something so cute cause so. much. pain.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The first and most obvious challenge of being a mom with long hair is the fact that babies are notorious hair-grabbers. Doesn’t matter if you even have your hair up in said messy bun— babies don’t care. They’ll use their amazingly small but powerful grabby paws and yank a fistful of hair with abandon. Cro-Magnon infant tyrants.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>Oh, look, isn’t that a cute baby? Eeeeek! </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You know those cute footie fleece pajamas that are a staple of the under one set? Well, along with the cute little patterns of duckies, they also offer a floofy warmth to envelop your small love child and keep it warm. But there is something about that micro fleece that acts like a magnet for hair. Not just any hair. Not just one hair. I’m talking tumbleweed gobs of tangled hair that the fabric gloms onto and holds onto for dear life. There’s nothing quite so sweet as a clean, sweet, cuddly baby in a comfy fabric that just happens to attract hairy moles. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>[Choke gag gggrhhrhhh]</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Before my kiddos had any attention span whatsoever, I started reading to them. Whether in my lap, or laying down next to them on the floor, I quickly learned how to immediately identify the sounds of a child who is gagging on a piece or two of my hair. Oh, and don’t think that this is over when the kids are bigger. I still read to my kids at night. While we don’t have the daily-frequency gagging anymore, we do have the occasional throaty churr in attempt to dislodge the offending strand, usually followed by protruding tongue and some variation of “Bleh!” and a demand for water. You know, not as terrifying as having a gagging baby, but still enough to think DAMN HAIR.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>Fear and loathing when you get the infamous “note from school” </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Listen, I am just as frightened as the next parent when I receive the “Your child has been exposed to lice” note from school or camp or wherever. I had lice when I was eight years old, and after all the voodoo my mom did to my hair (I think there were vinegar cures and olive oil drenches— wait, was she just making me a <i>salad</i>?) and the sleeping in do rags, she finally decided it would be easier to tackle if I had less hair. FAR LESS HAIR. So, I when the tiny beasts were finally vanquished, I returned to school with a home-styled pixie cut. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It sounds horrible to say, but<i> I can deal with my kids getting lice</i>. (Any lice reading this should not take this comment as an invitation). But my own hair is the problem. It’s long. There’s a lot of it. It’s thick. Shoot, I can’t even manage to color it myself because there’s too damn much of it and I’m done with missing spots and wrecking my bathroom with dye stains. If I get lice, nuclear war will have to be waged. Good bye, long locks. (Excuse me while I take a short break to itch my entire body).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>Fun for girls and boys! </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My kids are old enough now to shower mostly by themselves, with most interventions being me yelling, “Get OUT of the shower! You’ve been in there for twenty five minutes and your feet are now webbed!” Often, especially in summer when they get home from summer camp, they both want to shower at the same time to get all the chlorine, sunscreen, bug screen, and dirt off ASAP. So, I usually let one of them shower in my bathroom. Now, being a mom-on-the-go with a full time job, as well as being ridiculously (but happily) overcommitted to a bunch of causes, I’m always in a hurry to shower. Always. Like, I don’t even know what a leisurely shower is any more. I haven’t known one since before I had kids. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So most of the time I do remember to clean the drain thingie of whatever hair collects there (which always looks like a LOT OF HAIR. <i>How in the world can I lose that much hair daily and still have hair on my head?</i> It’s a mystery). But often, I don’t remember. One of those times, my boy child came out of the shower yelling, “Mom! Look at this!” I rush in (because who knows what carnage a kid is going to show you when they say those words) and see him with a towel carelessly tossed around his middle and a floofy nest of black hair perched atop his outstretched finger. “It’s a wig. For <i>gnomes</i>!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There must be a market for those, right?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I often get compliments on my hair —probably because it’s so… obvious— long, curly, raven black). I love having it long after having nothing longer than chin length for the first 30 years of my life. I love being able to wear it up or down. I love only having to get it cut once or twice a year. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I just really wish that my hair would… stay on my head. Not gag people. Not collect in places it shouldn’t. But, that’s just the name of the game. It’s hair today, hopefully not lice tomorrow.</span></div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-15805972446662133902016-12-17T12:59:00.002-08:002016-12-17T14:23:14.447-08:00Yes, I'm raising little activists. Here's why.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The word activist sounds like a load of laughs, doesn't it? Yeah, not so much. It has a connotation of something dry and wonky at best (and, at worst, something irrational, far-fetched, and unrelatable). Nevertheless, I am raising my kids to be activists-- but in the best possible way. Here's why.<br />
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<b>TEACHING KIDS HOW TO RECOGNIZE THEIR OWN VOICE</b><br />
What's the most delightful thing about having toddlers? I'll give you a hint. The TANTRUMS. Oh my god, the tantrums. If the olympics gave out medals in tantrums, toddlers would win them. Our tiny overlords are such a source of frustration and bemusement. But they are a good indication of a child who is learning how to use their voice. Not necessarily appropriately, but that will come.<br />
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There are so many things in life that aren't fair, and myriad ways that kids can have their voices taken away before they even know they have them. Whether it's sexual abuse, bullying, or whether they are simply born into our culture where they soak up our norms from day one, I want my kiddos to know they have a voice, and how to use it.<br />
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All kids have to a greater or lesser extent this will inside of them. We just have to learn how to use it for good! Good ways to use willfulness: Standing up for yourself. Having good boundaries. Not simply accepting others' wishes or behavior blindly. Being good citizens. Sticking up for others.<br />
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-Giving kids meaningful choices to make, and allowing them to make them.<br />
-Asking what a kid feels or thinks about the situation-- OFTEN.<br />
-As soon as they can, teaching them how to use the telephone to call friends and relatives, or even stores or offices if they want something or need a piece of information.<br />
-When they have problems at school, asking them what they think THEY can do to get help and identify helpers<br />
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THE UPSHOT:<br />
Like everyone else, kids need to feel confident in themselves in order to make their voices heard, especially because kids' voices are not valued as much as adult voices in so many ways. Let kids practice using their voices in safe situations. Know full well that they may turn these weapons against you as they approach teen-hood. Do it anyway. We need kids to have all the skills they need to become strong adults.<br />
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<b>MONKEY SEE, MONKEY DO</b><br />
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Kids learn by watching and mimicking. If you're lucky enough to live in a state capitol like we do,<br />
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there are plenty of ways to let them watch and/or participate in parades, non-violent demonstrations, or to visit Museum exhibitions about important issues. A part that we should not forget, however, is modeling to them what it means to care about something and then decide to do something about it. ACTION is what we want to inspire, but action with thought behind it<br />
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TIPS:<br />
-Talk to kids about their feelings. Something happens. How does it make them feel? Can they imagine how another person feels as well?<br />
-Encourage empathy. Example: Someone you know is sick. You tell your child, and ask them what they would like to do to help that person feel better. Draw them pictures? Send them a funny email? Deliver soup?<br />
-Take the next step. Example: There are people who are sick all of the time, and they aren't getting the health care they need. What do you think about that? Who do you think we should talk to? Help your child to write a letter to a legislator, or to make a bunch of encouraging pictures to deliver to a nursing home. Help them connect their empathy with action towards a larger group.<br />
-Follow your kiddo's lead. Some kids are passionate about animals. Others are worried about racism, economic inequality, or wars. Pick up on what's important to them and connect them with information about how they can help.<br />
-Attend parades. Let them hand out candy. Let them make their own protest signs.<br />
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THE UPSHOT:<br />
Activism can be a meaningful, fun way for kids to connect with the world around them. It can give them a sense of being powerful (in a positive way) and learning that when they are sad, they don't have to feel stuck. There are things they can do. Even if those things simply make them feel better about themselves, or one other person!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3bU2io64usED1lMT3Mll5m3trRi6UWcotxPRizKg1FhtA-qsRa8XJyHi6pzonrXsYWPDY_WRHdMtaBrEvJQHs5F_aeeUGCPh1Mz5DyT9rwHfR9-m2-OVaXBclHwHeDI8oEHIpA/s1600/13178606_10208644065394060_5342534695264907918_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3bU2io64usED1lMT3Mll5m3trRi6UWcotxPRizKg1FhtA-qsRa8XJyHi6pzonrXsYWPDY_WRHdMtaBrEvJQHs5F_aeeUGCPh1Mz5DyT9rwHfR9-m2-OVaXBclHwHeDI8oEHIpA/s200/13178606_10208644065394060_5342534695264907918_n.jpg" width="185" /></a></div>
<b>THE CURE FOR ENTITLEMENT?</b><br />
Nobody likes an entitled person. A person who expects things done for them, given to them. A person who is greedy. On the other hand, you don't want to be that bummer of a parent who is giving out apples on Halloween because candy isn't good for you. There's a fine line to walk between wanting to teach your kid generosity and thereby denying them something.<br />
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Let's be clear, however-- if you want your kid to not be entitled, you CANNOT give them everything. You cannot let them treat people however they want without incurring the natural consequences (and yes, to some extent that means in the way they treat you).<br />
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On the other hand, you can give them a framework in which they understand that they are making a sacrifice, but they will get good feelings in return.<br />
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TIPS:<br />
-During the Christmas season, talk to your kid about what matters most to them. Tell them that you will give them a certain amount of money to give to that charity. Then allow your child to write the letter, to send the check, or to buy the items and donate them. Physically involving the child is important for their learning. Same can be done on birthdays.<br />
-Look for opportunities to help out kids their own age. Have them look through their own drawers for things that don't fit anymore and take them with you to the donation center. Make them lift the bags.<br />
-Volunteer at a soup kitchen or some other project and have them interact with people. Last summer, my synagogue volunteered to feed homeless people one Saturday downtown, and my kids gave out clean socks to the people in line. We talked about treating others with respect, and the kids were great at making eye contact and asking people politely, "Would you like socks?" They immediately asked to go again.<br />
-Give your child some small amount of money to loan through Kiva. Let THEM choose the recipient of the loan. Then, when the loan is paid back, let them re-invest it.<br />
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<b>CONCLUSION</b><br />
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUV3g7q_BOFoKUa7o0a5jcNtklZ71Hex44uuJIfRiU_94NIz-qeAmRp-jlieXQnn_149wrMLACt9usyI8Mqmg5-gjN7buANAVT5vPSN6U556KfXarsmaq_DQyVDi84JSjshQFWmQ/s1600/14695497_10210254099043895_7623012813764718776_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUV3g7q_BOFoKUa7o0a5jcNtklZ71Hex44uuJIfRiU_94NIz-qeAmRp-jlieXQnn_149wrMLACt9usyI8Mqmg5-gjN7buANAVT5vPSN6U556KfXarsmaq_DQyVDi84JSjshQFWmQ/s200/14695497_10210254099043895_7623012813764718776_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></b></div>
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Kids are eager to love, and feel love in return. They are eager to assert themselves and make decisions for themselves. Shielding children from all conflict is actually not healthy. It's important for kids to understand situations in ways that are age-appropriate, and which are also appropriate to the child's disposition. Of course your number one job as a parent is to keep your child safe. But there are many safe opportunities for kids to engage in meaningful ways that they will enjoy, and will help form their memories and habits as they grow.<br />
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So, go ask your kid to bake cookies with you for your elderly neighbor. Talk about kids who might need coats, and go through your closets together. Encourage your goofy teen who plays trombone to google music they can play at the next protest or parade. Harness your kid's playfulness, empathy, and creativity.<br />
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<i><b>Get ready to be amazed.</b></i><br />
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<b></b><br />
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Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-88098889190311005142016-12-14T11:36:00.001-08:002016-12-14T13:55:05.734-08:00A Gift Guide for the Current State of the WorldI'm having a hard time getting into the holiday spirit given the current state of the world. Last weekend I was in my finished basement aka the toy graveyard and I kept muttering under my breath... <i>GARBAGE! Ugh, these kids do NOT NEED ANY MORE TOYS! </i><br />
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Truth be told, we're pretty fortunate. We are able to buy and afford all the things we NEED and then some. But now does not seem like a time to be wasteful. Every single thing that I buy this year needs to have a purpose. I'm not going to buy things just to fill stockings (or in the case of Hanukkah, fill DAYS). I'm going to look to filling hearts.<br />
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Without further ado, here are my gift suggestions. Feel free to comment with your own suggestions. If I like them, I'll revise and add yours as well!<br />
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<b>A TACO TRUCK ON EVERY CORNER</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxNW2evJgxWlSe1dEnu7o0DBxdZ-W6lpeysIm2ctrFWle6TWA0lUHtuDqDLvcjl8JfsJJGdWAzONCzx6JEAR8dsNfCGSs2p56I1Wiq0T9gXHpOBh9Z34GIfoz6QvGfefwBfhnrA/s1600/taco_truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxNW2evJgxWlSe1dEnu7o0DBxdZ-W6lpeysIm2ctrFWle6TWA0lUHtuDqDLvcjl8JfsJJGdWAzONCzx6JEAR8dsNfCGSs2p56I1Wiq0T9gXHpOBh9Z34GIfoz6QvGfefwBfhnrA/s320/taco_truck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>...Because we deserve taco trucks! </b>Seriously. Is this not the cutest thing ever? Kids love pretend play, they love hiding and small spaces, and lots of them love transportation.</div>
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Bonus could be buying the play food for the kiddo to "make" the tacos, or even having them help you "make" tacos out of felt scraps.<br />
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<a href="https://famousoto.com/products/oto-taco-truck" target="_blank">Taco Truck, by FamousOTO, $69 plus free shipping</a><br />
<a href="http://www.target.com/p/hand-made-modern-felt-library/-/A-21549525" target="_blank">Felt Library by Hand Made Modern for Target, $12.99</a><br />
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/398210937/pretend-play-eco-friendly-felt-11-piece?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=felt%20food%20taco&ref=sr_gallery_21" target="_blank">11-piece play taco set from Wicked Cute Crafts on etsy, $14</a><br />
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<b>BADASS ART FOR YOUR COMIC-LOVING KID'S ROOM</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxsULvKSKWa9txAVy2NcM4av9-4wbnYUMkguf_3RUUx-0A932H5IHh0AEOigujaOYgwfqYGZ449FP9uf_1O_NkW4p-kgzq11OddRC9wZjXNX6X6Ti7HtxWf5tjcwl0iPpBBjCFQ/s1600/wonder-woman1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxsULvKSKWa9txAVy2NcM4av9-4wbnYUMkguf_3RUUx-0A932H5IHh0AEOigujaOYgwfqYGZ449FP9uf_1O_NkW4p-kgzq11OddRC9wZjXNX6X6Ti7HtxWf5tjcwl0iPpBBjCFQ/s320/wonder-woman1.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
Graphic Designer Adam Thompson sells his hero-inspired images on his etsy shop, SingleProp Artworks.<br />
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From Superman to Wonder Woman to Batman to the Green Lantern and Flash, Adam's designs and quotes will help any kid (or, who are we kidding here, geeky adult) feel empowered.<br />
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The Wonder Woman image reads:<br />
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<i><b>If the prospect of living in a world where trying to respect the basic rights of those around you and valuing each other simply because we exist are such daunting, impossible tasks, then what sort of a world are we left with? And what sort of world do you want to live in?</b></i><br />
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/SingleProp?ref=hdr" target="_blank">Buy as an instant PDF download in Adam's Etsy store for $10</a><br />
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<b>FOR THE LITTLE GUYS AND GALS READY TO SMASH THE PATRIARCHY</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDGxGK27lwenCkHNXWuP3jaMSeLJM7Uo6bPe3cXyw4NnZKBmcliKAoyzONToiAMjOjqHZYFsHQbw9Uk6oQx7yv-3xDMm-RVYIQWrgp4XWk5kPq_tE8nWQ8UV9NH7pZ6MAopBzBg/s1600/I+roar+inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDGxGK27lwenCkHNXWuP3jaMSeLJM7Uo6bPe3cXyw4NnZKBmcliKAoyzONToiAMjOjqHZYFsHQbw9Uk6oQx7yv-3xDMm-RVYIQWrgp4XWk5kPq_tE8nWQ8UV9NH7pZ6MAopBzBg/s320/I+roar+inside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Anyone who thinks kittens are just cute balls of fluff underestimates the damage that their tiny, needle-like teeth can do.<br />
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Help your kiddo channel their inner strength with these altered vintage design shirts by <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/WinkinBitsyClothing?ref=l2-shopheader-name" target="_blank">WinkinBitsyClothing</a>.<br />
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The designer, Helen Temperley, has lots of other cool images to meet almost any strange interest-- those who like snark, vegetarians, steampunk aficionados, to vintage vixens.<br />
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/224651976/i-roar-inside-altered-vintage-art-three?ref=hp_rv" target="_blank">Buy "I Roar Inside" kids shirt $24.72</a><br />
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<b>KEEP ME WARM, DAMMIT</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPXjE9XSgQo4Uf3Fsrn_jrkrpzpy7aiqZPjokyyAPzYeS-PlWReK4ZOkCfp7wiqj7vbf4WBWPkLgkNY6I00PNsCdo4BFrJSekvqCI0Gl3R9in00NLOzAtD0r3EOf8UOAHB9hNqA/s1600/legwarmers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPXjE9XSgQo4Uf3Fsrn_jrkrpzpy7aiqZPjokyyAPzYeS-PlWReK4ZOkCfp7wiqj7vbf4WBWPkLgkNY6I00PNsCdo4BFrJSekvqCI0Gl3R9in00NLOzAtD0r3EOf8UOAHB9hNqA/s320/legwarmers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Winter is not messing around, yo. And we all need these super cute merino leg warmers. Then you can fulfill your lifelong goal of never having to stop wearing leggings in the winter!<br />
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SERRV, which plies handmade and fair-trade items, gets these leg warmers, knit from remnants (no two are alike), from the Kumbeshwar Technical School in Kathmandu.<br />
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Toss in some fair-trade, women-grown coffee from a cooperative in Nicaragua and get ready to be cozy as fuck.<br />
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<a href="http://www.serrv.org/product/merino-stripe-leg-warmers/eco-gifts" target="_blank">Merino Stripe Legwarmers from Serrv, $40</a><br />
<a href="http://www.serrv.org/product/infinity-remnants-scarf/winter-knits" target="_blank">"Matching" Infinity Remnants Cowl, $42</a><br />
<a href="http://www.serrv.org/product/sisterhood-solidarity-organic-coffee/coffee-tea" target="_blank">Sisterhood Solidarity Organic Coffee, $11</a><br />
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<b>GOOD BOOKS MAKE GOOD NEIGHBORS</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwr-_GMVeOxOonpOYSBMCTm_2HMdBEtSVnIZXItF99821y-FSXnkux_q7My6IJ52_CmkTiXFzxDykaOf29z4YzyjoVH8YUFyOdasVwaoWcY_1Ts3VKs-GK3f7O2wzNUliUtH5Gw/s1600/littlefreelibrary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwr-_GMVeOxOonpOYSBMCTm_2HMdBEtSVnIZXItF99821y-FSXnkux_q7My6IJ52_CmkTiXFzxDykaOf29z4YzyjoVH8YUFyOdasVwaoWcY_1Ts3VKs-GK3f7O2wzNUliUtH5Gw/s320/littlefreelibrary.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Every time I see a Little Free Library, it makes me happy. Think about buying one of these puppies pre-made (expensive), or download the plans to make one (inexpensive).<br />
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If you go the fancy/expensive route, I can't blame you. I'm all thumbs.<br />
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But, if you want to download the directions to make one yourself, you can print those out and bundle them with a gift card to your local mom & pop hardware store and/or a gift card to the local used book store.<br />
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<a href="https://littlefreelibrary.myshopify.com/products/maple-leaf" target="_blank">Little Free Library, $325 as shown</a><br />
<a href="https://littlefreelibrary.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/LFL-Building-Design_6.17.13.pdf" target="_blank">Download plans FREE here!</a><br />
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<b>FOR THOSE OF YOU ABOUT TO MARCH, WE SALUTE YOU!</b><br />
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This awesome image was made by some friends of mine and I to inspire those who are attending the Women's March on Washington on January 21st. It's available on all sorts of fun merch (including this adorable baseball t) and as a poster. Your one-stop protest needs!<br />
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Best of all, proceeds benefit the <a href="http://www.supportwomenshealth.org/" target="_blank">Wisconsin Alliance for Women's Health</a>, which works to advance comprehensive women's health in Wisconsin.<br />
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<a href="http://www.cafepress.com/thewawhshop.2028791510" target="_blank">All Women Tee $19.99 on Cafe Press</a><br />
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<b> SHOW YOUR TRUE COLORS</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnoUc6qA1ag3D9MgffO1J2Hq21jFQILNa__dC4Lh8g2klg0_uD2SqTDWnN8eIgkDOaI-AMxxQHWDgxSHolHZR-hp9gXr-DWUoCuV2pZsTg_gLD-XjlKjEHPz1Oea_enCOP31Rig/s1600/IMG_0230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnoUc6qA1ag3D9MgffO1J2Hq21jFQILNa__dC4Lh8g2klg0_uD2SqTDWnN8eIgkDOaI-AMxxQHWDgxSHolHZR-hp9gXr-DWUoCuV2pZsTg_gLD-XjlKjEHPz1Oea_enCOP31Rig/s200/IMG_0230.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
Want to protest every single damn day, and without putting on pants? (Well, you'll have to put on pants at least once to put it outside). Reaffirm your values to anyone who drives by your home, business, wherever, and send the message that hate is not an American value. The first printing of these signs raised over $7k for the ACLU, and now are being offered nationally through the Wisconsin Alliance for Women's Health store.<br />
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<a href="http://www.cafepress.com/thewawhshop.2029931569" target="_blank">"Kindness is Everything" yard sign, $16.99</a><br />
<a href="https://action.aclu.org/donate-aclu?ms=web_horiz_nav_hp" target="_blank">Donate directly to the ACLU</a> in honor of someone!<br />
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<b>DUDES GOTTA LOOK FLY TOO, YO.</b><br />
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This Alpaca sweater from Peru does double-duty. Not only is it dapper as hell (and classic), it also is sold by UNICEF.<br />
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That means that not only do you get this snuggly, cozy, soft AF sweater (Alpaca is sooooo soft and warm), the purchase of this sweater can also provide 39 packets of lifesaving nourishment to children suffering from acute malnutrition.<br />
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As we all know, Aleppo is in the headlines, and the remaining children there need all the help they can get. So please, go buy from the <a href="http://www.market.unicefusa.org/" target="_blank">UNICEF store</a>, or just give a donation in someone's name, with a card that tells them what a good heart they have. Either way, you'll be spreading warmth that is desperately needed.<br />
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<a href="http://www.market.unicefusa.org/itemdetail/?pid=U25582" target="_blank">Men's Alpaca Sweater from UNICEF, $71.99</a><br />
<a href="https://www.unicefusa.org/help/donate" target="_blank">Donation of an amount of your choice</a><br />
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<b>THE GIFT OF MORE CAT VIDEOS</b></div>
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Yup-- your dirty secret is out. But that's ok, because science says that watching animal videos helps us to decompress, and that's good, no? </div>
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How about watching more cat videos, and helping rehabilitate feral cats at the same time? It's a win/win! I dare you to watch this video from tinykittens.com about my favorite rescue, Cassidy, and not be moved. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/im5LhVdKdhE/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/im5LhVdKdhE?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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<a href="http://www.tinykittens.com/donate" target="_blank">Donation for the animal lover in your life to tiny kittens to support their rescue work</a></div>
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<b>FOR ALL THE OTHER ANIMAL LOVERS IN YOUR LIFE</b></div>
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"Adopt" an animal from the World Wildlife Fund, and you can specify if you want the adoption to come with an adoption kit, which includes a stuffed animal and more information about the animal</div>
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<a href="https://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions.aspx" target="_blank">Adopt an animal from the World Wildlife Fund!</a></div>
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(Price varies depending on species)</div>
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<b>SUPPORT A LOCAL ARTIST. OR MY FRIENDS. </b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZTK6-n7DFEeU89lYlPQt1HcNbyKbFj5M015iNKTfdIpvHeqHqX9VLR0oNCUeT6tw4Tl053Gp7kIkBaFXhJCA_SgueSuweMQ8R74IyX61hUYLqZl_DGKMg4oZGe_GB_ibHLthF7Q/s1600/narwhal-teatime-tshirts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZTK6-n7DFEeU89lYlPQt1HcNbyKbFj5M015iNKTfdIpvHeqHqX9VLR0oNCUeT6tw4Tl053Gp7kIkBaFXhJCA_SgueSuweMQ8R74IyX61hUYLqZl_DGKMg4oZGe_GB_ibHLthF7Q/s320/narwhal-teatime-tshirts.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narwhal Teatime T by Artist<br />
Christy Grace on Society 6, $20.40</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b></b><br />
<b></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMk2i7hJJ179nAsUI2vHF_rNI2vHUNLy62GRy4Yw_pB43kBFscH21xIqntzAnwXgbIJLv5f5QzRWebEUr_rIwiiD9s9VDlbVquR78M00zqDw9O2BoYzzdMZzXR0g7p-SCYqLEV2Q/s1600/throwpillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMk2i7hJJ179nAsUI2vHF_rNI2vHUNLy62GRy4Yw_pB43kBFscH21xIqntzAnwXgbIJLv5f5QzRWebEUr_rIwiiD9s9VDlbVquR78M00zqDw9O2BoYzzdMZzXR0g7p-SCYqLEV2Q/s200/throwpillow.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Down in the Aspens throw pillow by<br />
Hiraeth Art on Society6, $17</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Seriously. I have some crazy talented friends. But maybe so do you? Why don't you bop over to their Etsy shop, or swing by their Facebook pace to see what awesomeness they've been up to?<br />
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Then, it's a gift to them AND to the recipient!</div>
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<a href="https://society6.com/product/down-in-the-aspens-jmy_pillow#s6-4535228p26a18v126a25v193" target="_blank">Throw pillow, $17</a></div>
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<a href="https://society6.com/product/narwhal-teatime_t-shirt#s6-6213625p15a4v75a5v19a11v50" target="_blank">Tshirt, $20.40</a></div>
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<b>FOR LITERALLY ALMOST ANYONE</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGn7P3KIKOH9kTkd3SXxNr4uQwPpB4Md9SRzBePWuDssEa9CvcYjtefbNxeZd9-0reeUnqs5MVsfGlVlTRzoYFDdzxEoQ5zbx5ItOPV7I2b0k8urgXeIX7DgpHm2xynf0KyPtpQ/s1600/delicateflower.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGn7P3KIKOH9kTkd3SXxNr4uQwPpB4Md9SRzBePWuDssEa9CvcYjtefbNxeZd9-0reeUnqs5MVsfGlVlTRzoYFDdzxEoQ5zbx5ItOPV7I2b0k8urgXeIX7DgpHm2xynf0KyPtpQ/s200/delicateflower.tiff" width="152" /></a></div>
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Because it's easier to sort socks when they aren't all just variations of black that has faded. <a href="http://www.blueq.com/" target="_blank">BlueQ</a> socks are my secret weapon to feeling badass. Since I live in a climate where I wear boots six months a year, I can let my freak flag fly even at business meetings with these beauties.</div>
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(Of course, that shouldn't stop you from wearing them any damn day). With snarky sayings like "I hate everybody too," or simply images of peaceful otters holding hands, there's something for everyone, man or woman. </div>
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<a href="http://www.blueq.com/shop/item/229-productId.125847985_229-catId.117440558.html" target="_blank">"I'm a Delicate Flower" Socks at BlueQ, $9.99</a><br />
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Happy Holidays, and have fun storming the castle!</div>
<br />Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-81592656980495643142016-11-07T15:45:00.001-08:002016-11-07T15:45:19.167-08:00What I've Learned from the Election<div>
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Had you told me twenty months ago the salient details of what will now go down in history as Election 2016, I would have laughed you out of the room, down the front walkway, down the street, and into the woods. Because seriously, what kind of psychotic mushroom would you have to be on to come up with THIS? </div>
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If America can agree on anything, it's that this election season has defied our expectations, and, indeed, even our wildest imaginations.</div>
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But that is not what I am here to talk about. I am here to talk about how this election has changed ME.</div>
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Amid all the negativity, all the ups and downs, all the bizarre turns (sexual harassment and sniffs, oh my!), I have learned some interesting things along the way, and I am better for them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJOzs4GQnri2ZGayjgLPxPDIqjzHsmYDFdVTSWwrZnkNLyMi4y6JADvjOYWLfxMtGX9PFSgs06mzM6QPfwFQTRkztIx8PzaqZLl5pr0x9yxNyHNwICWv988Pn4zxtHUzzIjNCrw/s1600/girlpresident.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJOzs4GQnri2ZGayjgLPxPDIqjzHsmYDFdVTSWwrZnkNLyMi4y6JADvjOYWLfxMtGX9PFSgs06mzM6QPfwFQTRkztIx8PzaqZLl5pr0x9yxNyHNwICWv988Pn4zxtHUzzIjNCrw/s320/girlpresident.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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CALL ME LILLARY</div>
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In July, my daughter told us one night at the dinner table that she wanted to change her name from Lilly to LILLARY, so that she could become a girl president. It was so simple, yet so profound. The fact that Hillary exists, that she may be our president come tomorrow, MAKES A DIFFERENCE. Earlier in the campaign Trump complained that Hillary kept playing "the woman card"-- claiming that she was a good candidate BECAUSE she was a woman. To which I, and many other people, thought HELL YES it makes a difference that she's a woman. If she were a woman WITHOUT qualifications, that would not make her a viable candidate. But the fact that she is one of the most qualified candidates for president in the entire history of this country AND SHE'S A WOMAN? That's important. </div>
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I grew up in the 1970's. While we had Wonder Woman Underoos and Legos were still a unisex toy, there were lots of professions that still weren't without a gender prescription. Doctors were men, nurses were women. Pilots were men, stewardesses were women. Presidents and senators were most certainly men. </div>
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Hearing the possibility of a woman president was made real to me by hearing Lilly take ownership of it through Hillary. Because there was an example, there is possibility. </div>
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MOMS DEMAND ACTION</div>
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I had supported Hillary from the beginning of the primaries. I had lots of friends who were "Feeling the Bern" and I kept quiet on Facebook about my convictions. I loved seeing their passion for a candidate who promised a more just and equitable society. Yet I had real differences with his foreign policy ideas and experience. Also, he was nowhere near as staunch a supporter of Gun Sense Legislation that Hillary has been from the start. </div>
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I took one of those online quizzes where you answer questions on your positions to find out which candidate you most closely align with. I ended up with 96% agreement with Bernie, and 92% with Hillary. But what the quiz didn't take into account is how important the issue of gun violence in this country has become to me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3l8IObsDtfa6LxypOH6ez6EH04X_IWTcHF8TpabJoylVlKDXSPxSsdEFEqRN1-gSfq7dZpW0nS26HpJDeBQc_hGpjC0tZJk3j2JweIuavGl-EXQ4AkzYx7LwkndaG4-kNLQIr5w/s1600/farmersmarket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3l8IObsDtfa6LxypOH6ez6EH04X_IWTcHF8TpabJoylVlKDXSPxSsdEFEqRN1-gSfq7dZpW0nS26HpJDeBQc_hGpjC0tZJk3j2JweIuavGl-EXQ4AkzYx7LwkndaG4-kNLQIr5w/s320/farmersmarket.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Earlier in the year I was so excited to meet women who were starting up a local chapter of Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America in my town. I immediately jumped in with both feet. I knew the organization mostly from engaging with them on social media. Their gun sense positions, which focused on finding ways to make real progress on issues like Universal Background Checks and closing the loopholes that allow guns to flow without detection-- issues which an overwhelming majority of Americans actually agree on! </div>
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As we got closer to the election and the organization endorsed Hillary as a gun sense candidate, I decided to do everything in my power to get Hillary elected.</div>
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So many of the issues that our society faces-- whether they be racism, terrorism, or violence against women-- ALL of them can be bettered by strengthening our gun sense laws and working together to keep guns out of the hands of people who shouldn't have them. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaqKkSSUXD5kvAQh7wJnGMenDvQCv3OLqlDPVFUk3-7hlv9Xj7vZsFE6iyctazNn9PCa3oZiKnGlW8wmcgOnfVTRtxlkPbaUpnI-EQ3FaQ1l5YNPXfSzKiGr9zjWTDO9duBCFEg/s1600/hillary-letter-to-lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaqKkSSUXD5kvAQh7wJnGMenDvQCv3OLqlDPVFUk3-7hlv9Xj7vZsFE6iyctazNn9PCa3oZiKnGlW8wmcgOnfVTRtxlkPbaUpnI-EQ3FaQ1l5YNPXfSzKiGr9zjWTDO9duBCFEg/s320/hillary-letter-to-lily.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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THE BIG AHA</div>
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Inspired by Lilly's letter from Hillary, our family went public with the letter to set an example, and to advocate for a tone of decency. Our argument was simple, and in many ways, nonpartisan: We should all be speaking to each other with the kind of respect that Hillary spoke to this 7-year-old girl with. </div>
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It was a big limb to go out on for us as a family. There has been story after story about bullying, harassment, the so-called "Trump effect" of violence and derision spreading throughout the country. Although in a normal election season, our "release" of the letter would not be perhaps anything more than a small human interest story, in this season, it felt dangerous. The letter and story went viral. It was written about in the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/read-hillary-clintons-letter-to-a-little-girl-who-wants-to-be-president_us_57e5497be4b0e80b1ba19516?" target="_blank">Huffington Post</a>,<a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/politics/a3788560/lillary-clinton-letter/" target="_blank"> Cosmopolitan Magazine</a>, <a href="http://time.com/4510774/girl-hillary-clinton-letter-name-lilly-to-lillary/" target="_blank">Time Magazine</a>. The Washington Post <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/inspired-life/wp/2016/09/27/hillary-clintons-offers-inspiring-advice-to-a-7-year-old-who-wanted-to-be-called-lillary/?hpid=hp_hp-cards_hp-card-local%3Ahomepage%2Fcard" target="_blank">did a video of Lilly reading her letter</a> and <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/inspired-life/wp/2016/09/27/hillary-clintons-offers-inspiring-advice-to-a-7-year-old-who-wanted-to-be-called-lillary/?hpid=hp_hp-cards_hp-card-local%3Ahomepage%2Fcard" target="_blank">an accompanying article</a>, the local news covered it and that video was shown on local tv stations throughout the country, and I wrote a piece for the web site <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/hillary-clinton-won-my-heart/?utm_source=FB" target="_blank">Scary Mommy</a>. A few days later, the letter was shared by <a href="http://wonkette.com/607297/hillary-clinton-is-a-good-person" target="_blank">Wonkette</a>, and we got a call from the Ellen DeGeneres show. We didn't end up doing the show, which was ok with us-- by that time we had had so much exposure, we were happy to shrink back to normal life.</div>
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I was in equal parts attacked and praised in the comments sections across the internet. Women said that it changed their minds about Hillary, and others said that I was a bad mother for giving my daughter a bad role model to follow. Our friends fanned out across the internet and defended us, and the writers of Scary Mommy welcomed me with open arms into their groups where I found lots of catharsis, strength, and humor. </div>
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I realized with Lilly's letter that not only was I impressed with the message it sent to HER, but that I, a "grown-ass woman" of 42, needed to hear those words. I needed someone to say to me that I should carve out a space for my own voice. I cried because those were the words that the little girl who I was really needed to hear and never heard. They emboldened me to take stands and push forward.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcM27MMS-Vj5RiEn5d7NCptplxt3I5s40r0griutbZNNJ2iA_zxWTc7zf_EssfnmxUbmCsHFidirm1d0FSfYqxCXpdi0b1VhRvaR8o0zCZFPUETmVUBEhXtqYCMJ081hnv8LVcA/s1600/Jenny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcM27MMS-Vj5RiEn5d7NCptplxt3I5s40r0griutbZNNJ2iA_zxWTc7zf_EssfnmxUbmCsHFidirm1d0FSfYqxCXpdi0b1VhRvaR8o0zCZFPUETmVUBEhXtqYCMJ081hnv8LVcA/s320/Jenny.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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"GRAB THEM BY THE PUSSY"</div>
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Trump's ridiculous, sexist, misogynist proclamations and his ACTUAL ABUSE OF WOMEN has triggered many of us. I have revisited the many (yes, MANY) experiences of abuse I have had in my life. The father of a friend of mine who kept pressuring me (then five) to take a bath with his daughter, who slapped me on my bare bottom when I proclaimed that I didn't want to and he couldn't make me. (Years later, we found out that he had sexually abused his own daughter her entire childhood). The high school boyfriend who raped me on my prom night when I came down with a stomach flu and repeatedly asked him to stop. The high school "friend" who would give me a ride to school in the morning and who would say humiliating sexual things to me and proposition me almost every morning. The time when I was living in Spain and a naked man jumped out of a tree and started masturbating in front of me. The college boys who talked about me behind my back and challenged each other to try and bed me. </div>
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You may be wondering WHY IS THIS GOOD that I am remembering all these things? Because after Trump said what he did, I realized I WAS NOT ALONE. The internet was filled with women who were recounting the ways that they had been assaulted, the way they never told anyone about the assaults because they felt ashamed. Until that moment, I had forgotten most of these things because I had tried so hard not to remember them. But now, I remembered them, and realized THESE THINGS HAPPENED. THEY WERE NOT MY FAULT. My indignation and my care for others who publicly spoke of their stories rubbed off ON ME. I realized I am as deserving of comfort and compassion as they are. I realized that I didn't just have bad luck. I am a woman, and this is the story that I and many women like me have lived. It was nothing we did, nothing we said. And that by having Trump's words trigger us, we became stronger. We spoke out, and we will continue to speak out.</div>
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Before this time, I had spoken to my kids about body safety in very general terms. One night, while cuddling before bed, I talked to my 11-year-old son about the word that Trump used, what it meant, and what I thought about it. I did this because he rides the bus to and from school, and I remember being a kid on the bus-- it's an environment where bullying can slip under the radar. Where things are said and even done without an adult being able to watch over it. (Bus drivers are DRIVING). I told my son the story of how I was almost in that bath with my friend, the one whose father molested her. I told him that it is not ok to talk about others' bodies the way Trump did because that is abuse. I talked to him about consent-- both for his body and for others'.</div>
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I WILL NOT DISAPPEAR</div>
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Emboldened by this strange and amazing and difficult season, I have pushed forward for the issues I care about. I have continued to show up for my work with Moms Demand Action. I have volunteered my butt off for the coordinated Democratic campaign (while still maintaining a full time job and two other major volunteer commitments and keeping my two children and husband alive, albeit in a state of disarray). </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsOSXQTKuV7Rwi3LHoUUOoXqsuUy6JpXixnqTZKPEaznuZQvqF7H_sTRel0NRM27ufNw2x5vE9yDaxLiCz7bciKethyphenhyphenOYBD4IrJ4LpDTqA9K1hxiP4KlEaZT8NYgp4A95e3AwiA/s1600/biden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsOSXQTKuV7Rwi3LHoUUOoXqsuUy6JpXixnqTZKPEaznuZQvqF7H_sTRel0NRM27ufNw2x5vE9yDaxLiCz7bciKethyphenhyphenOYBD4IrJ4LpDTqA9K1hxiP4KlEaZT8NYgp4A95e3AwiA/s320/biden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have met my congressman Mark Pocan and my Senator, Tammy Baldwin, so many times that we joke that I'm a friendly stalker. Ditto for candidate and hopefully soon-to-be returning Senator Russ Feingold. I have met Chelsea Clinton, Elizabeth Warren (whom I gave one of my Wonder Woman bracelets), and the amazing Vice President Joe Biden, who gave me a smooch and nuzzled Lilly nose-to-nose. </div>
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Amidst all of that, what I will remember more is the people who volunteered WITH me. Samara, my local Moms group lead, who now shows up in my phone's camera album more than my husband (!), the brilliant young organizers with Hillary's campaign who inspire me with their optimism and kindness. And the other people-- the people volunteering to canvass, to train, to phone bank, to work events. The Secret Service guys who made sure that when the crowds crushed, that my daughter and I stayed safe. The educators and labor folks who turned up and turned out. Who brought their students, their friends, their co-workers, to help further the cause.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekHIRcEIr_BlQP9y0SxLKHOCHF-wLaoE2NSM6Wn1kzqFYYrU0QZ7krSoqFclRCqnG_UllXbwA85XGzf26xjU-zGDh3aTk0g-thdJXP1zkx1JT5SxomwDebLpVSU3S2aHtMNL9OA/s1600/samara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekHIRcEIr_BlQP9y0SxLKHOCHF-wLaoE2NSM6Wn1kzqFYYrU0QZ7krSoqFclRCqnG_UllXbwA85XGzf26xjU-zGDh3aTk0g-thdJXP1zkx1JT5SxomwDebLpVSU3S2aHtMNL9OA/s320/samara.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm exhausted, but make no mistake-- I'm exuberant. I'm done fretting over 528 polls. I'm done with the worry. Yesterday, in the sunday edition of the Wisconsin State Journal, they asked both Secretary Clinton and Donald Trump for closing statements. <a href="http://host.madison.com/opinion/column/hillary-clinton-i-will-unite-nation-toward-progress/article_f171b40b-0d05-527b-819c-026b8b685278.html" target="_blank">My name was there-- the first three words in Secretary Clinton's OpEd</a>. I didn't know that was going to happen. But I own it 100%. I am a progressive Democrat. I am a mother, and I am a believer that all the hell we've gone through is a part of our future purpose: to live freer, with more understanding, with less shame. To speak truth. To use respect, even when we aren't given it. To seize the opportunity to carve out a space for our own voices.</div>
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In the words of our Wisconsin State motto: FORWARD.</div>
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Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-80022771783787667142016-10-28T15:33:00.004-07:002016-10-28T15:33:53.742-07:00Everybody CALM THE FUCK DOWN and STOP BEING ASSHOLES.<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This election season has been so divisive, with so many twists and turns, it makes roller coasters look tame. Let me be clear: I DO NOT LIKE ROLLER COASTERS, actual OR metaphorical ones. The cognitive dissonance, the finger-wagging, name-calling, the media pile-ons, the live on TV tell-offs… I hate to tell you America, but this election makes are butts look big. And by butts, I mean our culture. Reasonable discourse has been thrown out the window not just by Trump, but by the culture that WE co-created which MAKES TRUMP POSSIBLE.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If we didn’t have a culture of online shaming and bullying, we might not have Trump.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If we didn’t have a culture of aggression towards women, we might not have Trump.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If we didn’t have a culture of accusations with no regards for proof, we might not have Trump.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If we didn’t have a culture of deep-seated implicit racism, we might not have Trump.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If we didn’t have a culture of economic inequality BY DESIGN, we might not have Trump.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But we do. We do have a culture where people shame strangers publicly in online forums. We have a culture where adults AND CHILDREN are using social media to bully other people not just whom they know, but people who they DON’T know. We have a culture where, when women are asked, “Have you ever been assaulted?” the answer is usually which time?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have a culture where people read headlines and share articles WITHOUT HAVING READ A DAMNED WORD of the article. And without having looked at the source, the kind of news they report, and thought about what kind of slant they might be presenting the news with. We have a culture which has thrived on implicit cultural and structural systems that are rooted in, and perpetuate, racism. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have a culture where we value the haves (of course their money must mean they are successful, which means they must have earned it). We have financial and governmental systems in place to protect the wealth of the wealthy, while letting those with fewer resources suffer because, by extension, if the wealthy have ‘earned’ their status, the poor must have ‘earned’ theirs as well. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have a culture of brutishness, selfishness, and incivility. We, Americans, are assholes. Now before you get all defensive (who am I kidding? You already are. I ALREADY AM), please look at that list I just wrote up there. NONE of us is immune to this. Have some of us committed bigger sins than others? Sure. But who am I, and who are YOU to judge that our own actions weren’t equally as awful? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I hate to quote the bible, but I’m going to do it. Let them without sin cast the first stone. There’s a reason why this metaphor is so powerful, so timeless. Those who live in glass houses…. And it’s not for nothing that we speak of a glass ceiling. It’s this invisible barrier, just like the invisible bubble that we have around ourselves, which we all like to pretend doesn’t exist. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But glass houses exist. Glass ceilings exist. We act as though we are immune to the tenor of discourse and don’t participate in it, we act as though women are treated equally to men, even when we know that we are not. We jump to conclusions based on headlines and here say without doing our due diligence. We all— yes ALL OF US— have implicit bias which is not only meant to otherwise people, but also to shore up our own identities, systems, and self-worth. And we ALL know that the economy is not an even playing field, and that the decks are stacked against those with less in favor of those with more. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So let’s all (yes, ALL) of us take a deep breath, and look for ways that WE can be better. Ways we can change the culture, and stop tearing each other apart. Refuse to take part in petty discourse (even though it feels satisfying at the moment, it rarely results in anything more than hardening of positions). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">People on the right AND left have been finger pointing, calling each other stupid, decrying the other side’s opinions. As I said to a friend the other day, “there’s no Mason-Dixon line for idiots.” They are north, south, up, down, in, and out. And guess what? You and I? We are probably idiots too. And it’s a quick hop, skip, and a jump from being an idiot to being an asshole. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So yes— do better, want better, expect better. But don’t be an asshole to other humans while trying to further your ‘cause.’ Be assertive about your arguments, but be well-informed AND well-intentioned. </span></div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-50293910576981400092016-10-06T12:46:00.002-07:002016-10-06T13:35:45.798-07:00You want to win an argument? Here’s how.<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>It seems like we are ALL spending a lot of time arguing with other people these days— whether it’s about the current election, about issues that we feel strongly about, or whether it’s about something as “simple” as which way to run a fundraiser for the school.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>There is never ONE best way to deal with conflict. To tell someone who is an introvert to “just go out to parties and socialize more” doesn’t solve anything. Likewise, changing someone’s conflict style isn’t likely in the cards. But, there ARE lots of things that we can LEARN to do which can help us to relieve our inner turmoil, and perhaps— just perhaps— get others to see things our way.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was in high school, one of my best friends had a way of arguing that really cut me to the core. If I said something about someone else which was grossly unkind, or treated her in a way she didn’t appreciate, she would say <i><b>“That is NOT OK.”</b></i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It landed like a punch straight to the gut, and it really upset me. I talked to her about how it made me feel, and I realized that it had a very powerful effect on me. <b><i>It is one of the most direct ways of verbally stopping someone in their tracks.</i></b> And the reason I think it’s so powerful is because of its simplicity. It sounds like something a preschool teacher would say to little Joey when he’s actively biting his classmate. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Other things which work similarly: <b><i>“That is unkind,” </i></b>or “<b><i>That’s not how we talk about x</i></b>.” Again, firmness, and standing your ground that you have boundaries, and there is behavior going on that you are unwilling to accept.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both those things are key— <b><i>strong AND kind</i></b>. When you are addressing others (especially others who are behaving badly), you need to be forceful, and yet kind. That doesn’t mean you have to be solicitous, or to agree with them. <i>It simply means that you don’t get down into the mud.</i> Mudslinging might feel great at the moment, but it immediately alienates the other person. Yes, you may say “They started it first!” However, as your mother said, if everyone jumped off a bridge, would you, too? </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>Mudslinging does nothing to convince the other person, and actually weakens YOUR position.</b></i> Do you want to be treated with respect? Do you want to have a meaningful discussion? Do you want to change people’s minds, or even just agree to disagree? Then DO NOT DO IT.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Think about someone/something you disagree with. What is your ultimate goal? Is your ultimate goal to change something, or is your goal just to feel like you’ve won? <i><b>Because, spoiler alert: If you feel like you’ve won, you actually haven’t. </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No matter what anyone says, there IS NO SUCH THING AS WINNING AN ARGUMENT. There is helping someone to see your point of view. There is helping someone else to think through THEIR point of view. There is working together to make change, or even compromise. But if your goal is proving yourself right without actually doing the work of trying to understand where someone else is coming from, you’ve actually lost. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yep— that’s right. <b><i>Even though you schooled Grandpa, you didn’t change him.</i></b> Your goal in speaking to other human beings should not be to humiliate them. It should be to find common ground.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: 0px;">People who say things that are offensive to you often have a reason for their beliefs. It may not make rational sense to you, but there is a reason that they cling to it. Whether it’s just habitual thinking, whether it’s based on a misunderstanding of facts, whether it is a distortion of facts to fit their own story in their head… we ALL have emotional investment in our own point of view.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When people say things that are hurtful to us and/or that we think are misleading, one of the most potent things to do is ask that person</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Whether you agree with them or not is not the point— the point is trying to understand what emotions are running the show.</i></b> Without knowing what emotions are running the show, you are missing key information which will help you identify the facts, opinions and arguments which THIS PERSON needs to hear.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the most potent ways to get someone to see another perspective is by asking them to look at the opposite opinion. To, in a sense, play devil’s advocate to their own argument. Ask them to put themselves in the other side's shoes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Take, for example, that you have a friend who is a really picky eater, and they drive you nuts with their critique of your food. Ask that person to have a chat with you. Start by showing compassion. “I know you have stomach issues. I really try to imagine how hard that must be for you. But yet, it's really hard for me, too. How do you think I feel when you tell me that you can't eat anything I make?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know, this is a hard one. Let’s face it— there are lots of buttfaces out there who don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. Yet I think the actual number of those people is probably a lot less than we would all assume. I will say this to you, just as I say it to myself: <b><i>YES, THERE ARE DEFECTIVE HUMANS. BUT MOST HUMANS ARE NOT IRREPARABLY DEFECTIVE</i></b>. Many humans have bad coping systems. Many humans have erroneous beliefs which fuel their disdain for other humans. But most humans are not evil. Most humans are not only capable of finding human connection, but they actually crave it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not saying it’s all going to work ALL of the time. <b><i>But I really want us to consider how we speak to one another… even (or perhaps especially) the people we disagree with.</i></b> If we actually want to BE the change we wish to see in the world, that’s going to take some tough listening, and doing the emotional work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s ok to say “I can’t right now,” or to disengage. It’s also ok to re-engage. It’s ok to talk to those with whom you disagree and say, “Can we set up some ground rules about how we talk to each other? I really would like to hear your opinion, and I would like to have a conversation with you.You need to feel that I am respecting you, and it’s important to know I am being respected as well.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Go forth and engage in meaningful conversation. Or, sit on the sidelines, and add a word of support for someone else while they’re having a tough conversation. Be a force for positive engagement. Lord knows, we all need more of that!</i></b></span></span></div>
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Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-43017958698478482752016-10-04T10:50:00.001-07:002016-10-05T15:19:00.126-07:00Take it Down a Notch! <div style="line-height: normal;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year has been a real whopper. My anxiety about the state of the world has been through the roof. Even more so, my anxiety about the way we treat each other on the internet, and how that bleeds over into how we treat each other in real life. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Because, actually, many of us interact MORE with each other on the internet than we do with people in the flesh.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I try to practice good media hygiene. I try to only engage when I have something clear and effective to say. I think about another person’s perspective when I am trying to convince them of mine. I try to shy away from ad hominem attacks. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Though sometimes I have to write out the attacks and then erase them. <b><i>Calling someone a buttfaced douchecanoe can be eminently pleasing and rewarding.</i></b> It rarely, however, has the desired effects.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided to make a list for myself of things that I can do to help manage my anxiety about the world because, let’s face it, when the anxiety strikes, it’s good to have an easy list of things which will help us cope.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s a reason I’m not saying ‘laptop’ or telephone. <b><i>Anxiety thrives on disconnection</i></b>. Believe me when I say to you that you need to connect with something PHYSICAL. Pushing a pen over paper (whether it’s to write out your feelings or to doodle or draw) can be greatly cathartic. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Connecting with your inner flow, your inner thoughts, can help you shift attention positively inward. </i></b>TURN OFF NOTIFICATIONS ON YOUR DEVICES. Tell people who need to reach you how to contact you. <b><i>Everyone else can wait.</i></b> </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not people who you know are self-centered, or people who are going to push your buttons. SAFE people. People who are there for you, just as you are there for them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A friend of mine told me about her<b><i> two-minute dumps</i></b> (and no, we’re not talking about poop). She has a group of friends with whom she has a pact: when they are feeling ovewhelmed, they can call each other and do a two minute emotional dump. <i>Set a timer, get it all out as quickly as possible</i>. Don’t leave anything in there. It’s like a colon cleanse for your brain. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Often it gets pretty comical by the end because we realize that we’re trying to do too much, process too much, solve too much, and <i><b>our minds are like magpies, picking up any shiny emotional thing that crosses our path</b></i>. Then, let your friend do her 2-minute dump. Sometimes listening to someone else’s problems actually gives you perspective on your own. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First— don’t throw things at me for mentioning this. OR, go outside and DO throw things. My favorite way to exercise is kickboxing, where in my mind I beat up on all the villains of the world and of my thoughts. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>The first rule of emotional exercise is that if you don’t feel like doing it, that’s usually a sign that you NEED to do it. </i></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you’re not a regular exerciser, go for a walk. Make yourself concentrate on certain things— maybe it’s sounds; maybe it’s colors, or textures (<i>yes, I’m telling you to go feel things</i>). There’s a practice called ‘grounding’ which sounds kind of weird, but I’ve tried it before and it’s super helpful. Take off your shoes. Go outside and walk in the grass. If you feel so moved, lay in the grass, or in the sand, or in the snow. Get contact with the ground. Try and concentrate on feeling gravity in your limbs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Drink a beverage of your choice. Pull out some crafting materials. <i>Don’t have materials? Steal some from the kids. </i>Fold paper fans. Do some knitting. Work on your kitten drawing skills. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cook up a huge batch of something which you can share with someone else (there’s always someone not feeling well, stressed, busy, struggling. <i><b>Share your food with other people</b></i>. They will be thankful, and you get the emotional boost from compassion). </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do something which takes some concentration, but is enjoyable. Aren’t crafty? Take your own advice and TRY something new.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Salon, spa, or at home relaxation</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite things is having my hair shampooed at the hairdresser. I get my hair colored every three weeks, and <i>I’m pretty sure that it’s only 1/2 because I’m 50% grey. The other half is having someone rub my head</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>But, you don’t have to spend money to take care of yourself or your body. Take some time to do your own toenails, or to rub lotion in your hands. Do it with intention. </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Volunteer</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>Go for the low-hanging fruit.</b></i> Something you can do easily. I know that we all are over-committed these days. But maybe it’s because we’re over-committed to things that don’t feed our souls. Ask ME to bake something for a fundraiser, and I’ll do it grumblingly. Ask me to submit images for your Instagram account, or to proofread your flyer, and I’ll have it done in two shakes of a baby goat’s tail. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Do what comes easy to you, and what you enjoy.</i></b> If things lose meaning for you, or you’re ready to move on, the move on. You don’t have to be the energizer bunny, and <b><i>you don't have to do ALL THE THINGS</i></b>. But doing SOME of the things can help you to feel connected and grounded.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Whatever you choose to do— realize it doesn’t all help all of the time, and if something isn’t working for you, try something new</i></b>. Of course, if you feel like your anxiety is unmanageable, it is probably time to speak with your primary care provider and find a path for dealing with it. There’s no shame in anxiety disorders or panic attacks. But know that there ARE treatments which are helpful and effective, and that you don’t have to feel frightened and alone with it.</span></span></div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-9913490724056178972016-09-26T17:03:00.001-07:002016-09-29T15:10:48.797-07:00First Person<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Things that I expect in my mailbox (in no order):</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Spiders</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Shopper Stopper</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Special offers for AAA members</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">'or Current Resident'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Solicitations for Money</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The magazine I work for</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Things I do not expect in my mailbox:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Actual correspondence from the next president of the United States, addressed to my 7-year-old daughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I wrote Hillary Clinton on a lark. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My daughter, a few months ago, declared at the dinner table, "I want to change my name to LILLARY." Me: "Why, hon?" Her: "So I can be president of the United States." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Both of my kids are seriously thoughtful, funny kids. (I know, I'm biased). But as a writer, I do think that the way their minds work is fascinating. The words they choose to express their thinking, surprising. Their sense of justice and fairness, admirable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I mostly thought what the heck-- I thought this was funny, why wouldn't a Hillary staffer? Poor things. It's probably some intern who is sitting in a windowless basement, forced to read all the crazy pants stuff that people write to Hillary from her web site. Maybe I could give them a chuckle. Or maybe they could feel inspired, as my daughter obviously did, by this woman who is the first female major party nominee for President of the United States.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Fast forward to last Thursday. Mailbox open. No spiders (thank GOD! I mean, I appreciate them eating bugs and all, but I don't really want to touch one). Shopper Stopper? Check. And nestled into its nest of newspaper-print want ads and offers, a slim envelope with a red arrow. A letter. A letter addressed to Lilly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm kind of a ninny and, at 42, I really don't care who knows it. I'm the person who signs petitions about endangered animals. I care deeply about issues, and about fairness, about the poor, the underserved, I care about gun sense laws that we can all agree on. So I get a fair number of form letters from my legislators about the issues I've written that I was a bit skeptical that this was something real.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But OH MY GOD. It was real. It was realer than real. And it was written for my daughter. Very specifically my daughter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">If you're reading this, you probably know most of the rest of the story. I'm not here to retell it. What I am here to do is to say THANK YOU in this day of trolls and cynicism and sexism and racism and anxiety for reading those words in the letter. If you feel unhinged (like I feel right now), read them. Replace my daughter's name with your daughter's name, or your OWN name. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We need to hear these words, and we need to speak them. As one of my idols, Glennon Doyle Melton says, "There is no such thing as other people's children." We are all a part of this one thing-- this life, and we need to show up and stand up for each other. We need to encourage each other's voices, we need to hold each other's hands. We need to read and write each other's stories, and our OWN stories. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Let's write our own history. Together. Now. Forget the haters. Come sit by us. There's room on the bench right here. There's room for humanity, there's room for love and respect. We make it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"If the space you're in doesn't have room for your voice, don't be afraid to carve out a space of your own."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">With love and peace, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jennifer</span></div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-71415400692934983872016-05-27T12:59:00.001-07:002016-05-27T13:11:34.446-07:00<div class="gmail_default">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ironing Naked</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Read at the 2011 Madison Listen to Your Mother performance </span></i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">(click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAFILOqCPms" target="_blank">here</a> to view)</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The week before Mother’s Day it seems everywhere you turn, someone is sharing some great piece of wisdom their mother has bestowed upon them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Well, ladies, today I will share with you one of the greatest pieces of wisdom my mom has shared with me. <i>Are you ready for it?</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">NEVER IRON NAKED.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">The first thing I thought after she told me was, “YOU iron?” And second, had she tried ironing naked before, with “consequences”? Or maybe this it just a piece of bizarre-- though well thought-out, you gotta give it to the woman-- advice?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">To give you some perspective, let us view my first memory of my mom. It is the blizzard of 1978-- the snow up to the lids of the garbage cans. Everyone and everything stops. And <i>my</i> mom decides to walk outside into our backyard <i>naked</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I watch her in disbelief (already at four years old I know it’s strange for someone to go outside naked, let alone into waist-deep snow.) She is out there for three or four minutes-- it seems like an eternity-- just looking around, as my father and I watch from the kitchen window.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">When she comes inside, I ask her why. She shrugs her shoulders, “I wanted to feel what it was like.” “Why did you come in?” I ask. “My feet got cold. Otherwise I would have stayed out there. It was wonderful.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">As a child, you sort of think of your mom as normal, because you have nothing to compare her to. As you get older (especially as a teenager), you think of all the reasons why your mother is <i>ab</i>normal (or obnoxious, or embarrassing). Because she’s your mom. Somehow <i>her</i> very being seems a reflection on <i>your</i> being.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">It is not until recently, as an adult and as a mom myself, that I’ve been able to put together some of the pieces-- start to understand who she was-- the quirky, but emotionally and intellectually present mom-- with who she has become.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Who she has become. Unreliable, for a start. At times emotionally irretrievable. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">She and her common-law husband, in the past years, bought a fixer-upper to start a B&B. She has spent all of her savings, her retirement. She has racked up credit card debt. The business failed. Her health has been up and down. When I talk with her on the phone, she monologues. She hasn’t seen me or my children in two years.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">And, as my sister found out one day, she’s growing pot. Not just a little pot, A LOT OF POT. Yes, kids, Granny grows weed. She’s got an A-1 grow operation in her basement. $25,000 worth of the best hydroponic growing equipment and exhaust systems. Granted, it’s “medicinal marijuana”: Somewhere between illegal and legal, but still. When I confronted her, I could hear her partner in the background yelling, excitedly, “We’ve even been featured in High Times!”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Now, no, I have never seen the TV series Weeds. I don’t really feel like I need to. My mother satisfies any need I might have for crackpot entertainment. And aside from that, I was honestly upset at first. Upset about the bad decisions that led to her precarious situation. But also, as someone who loves and adores my mom, I somehow feel threatened. (Might I lose my grip, too? Could <i>I</i> go from intellectual, creative-type to crackpot in <i>my</i> old age?) </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">And laughter aside, I <i>do</i> worry about my mom. I <i>don’t</i> want her to end up eating cat food. I don’t want to have to strip her of her independence, move her into my basement with my misbehaving tomcat. But every time in the past four years my sister and I have staged an intervention, helped her along with advice, she hasn’t followed through. She’s indignant, or she has cleaned up her act just enough to keep going. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I can’t help but think that there’s some middle ground to find here between laughter and horror. There is nothing at the moment that I, my sister, or anyone else can do to “solve” my mom or her problems. She doesn’t want us to; she doesn’t see them as problematic. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">So here is my decision. I’ve decided to accept our relationship for what it is. She is allowed to be the caring mom she <i>was</i>and the absent mother and grandmother that she <i>is</i>. She is allowed to be her past (and MY past) as well as her present. Mom doesn’t have to be perfect. I don’t need her to be perfect. And just because I am a mom myself, that doesn’t mean that I have to solve her problems. I can love her and shake my head.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">There are a shitload of things in life I learned from my mom. How to think, how to love-- even, perhaps, how to mother. And apparently, how to iron. Or not iron. And how to accept her and myself for who we are. Really. It’s good.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
</div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-14910021943180536272016-05-27T12:47:00.003-07:002016-05-27T14:56:56.644-07:00Epilogue<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">This piece was read at the American Family Dream Bank on Thursday, May 26, 2016, as a part of the DREAM BIG series: "Listening to Our Stories, Realizing Our Dreams" with Listen to Your Mother. It is a follow up/partner piece to my original piece "Ironing Naked" from the 2011 Madison cast of Listen to Your Mother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">*</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">“Hi mom, how’s it going?”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Mom (tentative): “Good, I think. Better than it has been. My memory is getting better.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">“Hi mom, how are you?”</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: norma;">Mom: “I’m getting much better. It seems that I had some big event, and it was causing me to not remember things. But now I realize, wow, I was really out of it.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: n;">“Hey mom, it’s Jenny. How are you?”</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Mom: “Okaaaay. Jim tells me I was having issues with my memory. But I can’t remember them. It’s very strange.”</span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">After years of worry, of cajoling, of schlepping my mom to memory clinics where she was pronounced “very intelligent,” and showing little or no cognitive deficits, the bottom dropped out. One night she collapsed in a seizure, and wasn’t coming out of it. Airlifted to the next big medical center, we received a diagnosis. </span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">The MRI showed, along with anecdotal evidence, that she had been having seizures without us knowing it, probably for years. This time, though, the seizure had knocked the needle off the record, and her brain was having trouble booting back up because of dementia. This was the word that had been the terrible centerpiece of conversations about my mom for at least the past decade, with no medical corroboration until that point.</span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">But see, here’s the rub. When you get a diagnosis, you say OF COURSE and at the same time you feel guilty, even when you did everything you could<i>.</i></span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I went to a neurologist’s appointment with her shortly after her diagnosis, and she got really agitated and upset by us talking about her, and she put her hand on her hips and said, “Well, I’m not STUPID. Everyone is talking about me like I’m stupid and I don’t understand. I have a very well-developed vocabulary. You aren’t stupid if you have a master’s of fine arts and are the recipient of a national endowment for the arts individual artist grant.”</span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">And she’s right, I remind her. She’s not stupid. No one is saying she’s stupid. We’re just saying she can’t remember shit. </span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">It sounds almost cruel to say it that way, but it ALWAYS makes her laugh. Then she snipes something back at me about me not being a piece of cake either. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Today, she is no longer having seizures, but the medicines have taken away much of her independence. She feels unsteady on her feet, she’ll never be able to drive. I guess the good thing about having memory problems is that the bar is re-set every day. Every day you’re winning that race. Every night, like sisyphus, the rock rolls down the hill again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Last year, we moved my mom and her partner to Grand Junction, so that they could be closer to their doctors. Most of the boxes were labeled “living room- books” or “decor” (that really could be anything— believe me). </span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">One box had a sticky note on it that read “No idea” in a shaky hand. And as I opened the box, the lifted flap revealed a perfect pizza. I mean, the most perfect pizza you could imagine. And I thought HOW COULD THERE BE A DAMN PIZZA IN THIS BOX? As soon as more light hit the surface, I realized… this is not a pizza. This is a perfectly felted, life-sized facsimile of a pizza.</span></span><br />
<div style="min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">She can’t remember her own medications, or what they’re for. She mourns her parents’ deaths every time someone tells her that they’ve passed away. But she can create— over days— a physical object out of hanks of colored wool that has an aspect of genius to it. There are moments she still seems alive in— when she tells a joke, offers advice, muses about her felting. But there are still parts of her that are (and will be) missing. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;">I still don’t have the mom I had when I was a child, or a teen, or as a young woman. I don’t have the same mom I did ten years ago, or the mom I thought I had when I wrote “Ironing Naked” in 2011. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: normal;">Just like life, the box, marked “no idea”— it’s a truthful rendering of where we are at the moment. It can contain moments from the past— the waist-deep snow— almost forgotten— or a surprise. A pizza for no reason. A woman who dives down deep, and resurfaces every day the same woman, but perhaps different, when you open the box. My mother. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">**</span></span></span>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-24092404134034158292013-07-05T19:03:00.001-07:002013-07-05T19:03:57.680-07:00Fear(some)I have turned 39. Turned. Rounded the edge to 39. 39, the almost forty. The epically almost. ALMOST.<br />
<br />
And on my 39th birthday, I got a message that I had won $650. For filling out surveys. Really. Really? Yup, really. I usually don't do that kind of thing (<i>I won't win, so I shouldn't do it)</i>, but somehow when I filled them out I thought, <i>shit, I've got something to say that they want to hear, so I'm gonna win that money.</i> And I did. The. Fuck?<br />
<br />
And you know what I realized? I realized that all of the things I didn't enter, didn't venture do because I thought I wouldn't win... I could have won. But I never did. I never won because I stopped myself from ever trying. In my mind I had lost before I had even started.<br />
<br />
Before this starts sounding like a motivational speech that a high school football coach might deliver to his group of rag-tag losers, let me say that none of this should be particularly epiphanic. I'm not the smartest person in the world, but I can be pretty insightful sometimes. <i>Sometimes.</i><br />
<br />
How can it be that I made it all the way to 39 without calling myself out on my bullshit? <b>WHO ELSE HASN'T BEEN CALLING ME OUT ON MY BULLSHIT, BUT SHOULD HAVE? YOU? YOU OVER THERE? </b>Did I need more than 10 years of therapy only to NOT GET TO THIS?<br />
<b><br /></b>
Or is it true that I had to "come to it myself"... because, really, that is TOTALLY UNSATISFYING and I dare say really fucking late. I could have come to this at 29 and still had a really productive decade behind me. But no.<br />
<br />
As much as I hate to say it, are THEY right? The people who say with age comes wisdom? I think that doesn't fully describe this scenario. I'll work on a catchy headline to try and describe my utter lack of emotional ability to, in a timely manner, recognize this easy truth...:<br />
<br />
<b>With Age Comes Giving Less of a Fuck About Failure</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Optimism for No Good Reason Might Have Changed Life for the Past Ten Years</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I've Done a Lot of Shit, But I Should Have Done a Lot More</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"I like to sleep too much!"-- Local Woman Laments</b><br />
<br />
Too many amazing things have happened to people around me-- random people. Now these amazing things are going to happen to me, too. (I happen to have just finished watching the last few minutes of the Muppet Movie with my son... and I may just be high on Muppet fumes), but all Muppet-related disclaimers aside,<br />
<br />
<b><i>I'm Gonna Do Some Shit. And It's Gonna Be Awesome. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-15033354185338767702013-06-05T07:27:00.001-07:002013-06-05T07:27:34.029-07:00Where have all the saucers gone? I've been loading and unloading the dishwasher a lot lately. This might sound like a strange statement, (<i>umm, ok? Was she living with piles of dishes like an episode of Hoarders for years?</i>) but the feeling is true. I had ankle surgery earlier this year and had been laid up for months prior with torn this, fractured that, and for God's sakes don't stand on it! So loading the dishwasher was not something I did for a long, long time. A long <i>blissful, exquisite </i>time.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like many things that are blissful and exquisite, this time was finite. Ankle open, ankle closed, stand up! <i>I can stand everybody! I'm </i><b style="font-style: italic;">healed!</b> <i>Oh, wait a minute... I don't get to walk around just being fabulous on my ankle and having people say </i>you can WALK! I thought you'd never walk! Look at you, all walking and shit! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Which brings me to the dishwasher. Literally. Standing. In front of the dishwasher. That big, yawning, toothless chasm to be filled with <i>this</i> and <i>this</i> and <i>that which must stand up</i> and <i>that which must not under any circumstances stand up</i>. Spoons with avocado (nature's butter, or nature's super glue?) bowls with errant kernels of rice, coffee cups with their planetary rings of dinge. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, my husband actually kind of enjoys loading the dishwasher. It's like grown-up Tetris (I ask: <i>who would ever really want to play grown-up anything?</i>) He likes the challenge of making things fit. Optimizing. I, however, have limited powers as such. I've got some things down, and the rest of it? Enh. Enh enh enh. Shrug. Stick it in, close the door, run that sucker. Ain't nothing in life that's perfect. Some things don't deserve more than a cursory try.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Upon opening, (the big reveal!) warm. clean. smooth. white. And the calisthenics of <i>bend, grasp, unfurl, place.</i> Stack coffee cups, perfect. Tea cups, uncooperative. Their handles force them akimbo like girls with attitudes. The saucers-- <i>do we even <b>use </b>saucers anymore? Who is using saucers? WHY are they using saucers? </i>Reach to the back of the cabinet where saucers belong. One lone saucer upon which to stack. Maybe three total, tops. Out of 12. There were twelve once. Like the lost tribes of the Israelites, at some point there was fullness, there was perfection. And then dispersion. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
From what was once a complete, things have multiplied and divided and disappeared, all without any kind of realization, any kind of whole picture of the <i>state of things</i>. As I finish, shoving spatulas into drawers (they are best nested, with their kind), I think, <i>well, at least I can close the cabinet doors. And no matter how much I may detest loading and unloading the dishwasher, I can do it. And I don't have to stand at the sink and wash everything by hand, like in the days before dishwashers. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
There is equilibrium, somehow. Load, unload. Short stack, tall stack. Perfect fit, precarious jostle. The balance is not in the kitchen, per se, but in the person loading and unloading. The practiced bend and reach. The movement.</div>
Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-85156352645431481142011-09-13T11:27:00.001-07:002011-09-13T11:27:44.417-07:00MaterialThe "Top 10 Emailed Articles" on the New York Times web site today:<div><br />
</div><div>1. An Immune System Trained to Kill Cancer</div><div>2. In Study, Fatherhood Leads to Drop in Testosterone</div><div>3. If It Feels Right...</div><div>4. A Child's Nap Is More Complicated Than It Looks</div><div>5. The Stone: The Meaningfulness of Lives</div><div>6. The Trouble With Homework</div><div>7. In Suburb, Battle Goes Public on Bullying of Gay Students</div><div>8. An Impeccable Disaster</div><div>9. A Squirt of Insulin May Delay Alzheimer's</div><div>10. Well: Is SpongeBob SquarePants Bad for Children?</div><div><br />
</div><div>America, I think we may need to up our meds.</div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-14182074387980117422011-07-31T21:39:00.000-07:002011-07-31T21:39:55.632-07:00Pretty for youNot to take the place of words, but sometimes you just need pretty. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfnCwpWRapbvhUbF1WOHWVv5bwd3qit5KtUrNMPUvNelZwOuKDyu40qrfJxne_LtqG9dNzyknv6c41V3ffjSHNQd8Co8xXIxkdw8SB19AxivNQGcCD7T_F0J8rPT40pLzeuoTJ9A/s1600/IMG_3522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfnCwpWRapbvhUbF1WOHWVv5bwd3qit5KtUrNMPUvNelZwOuKDyu40qrfJxne_LtqG9dNzyknv6c41V3ffjSHNQd8Co8xXIxkdw8SB19AxivNQGcCD7T_F0J8rPT40pLzeuoTJ9A/s320/IMG_3522.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This is a picture I took in 2003 in Barcelona of the floor in a house designed by Gaudi. The shadows are cast from a lace curtain.Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-51309959680816522482011-05-27T22:35:00.000-07:002011-05-27T22:35:20.151-07:00Old moon, new moon?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviNvDmPLZq38S5MYMYhVlHD4Qxl5mHm_hwLEMIFAU2mI-1o7vTC0Xc6ePpnMOUn1CEUCJqLpFjyL9HiS4w_GSGtHLsIpfC4pNcbcOTjlb8yTZbz8MfjNQ2RxUnf9VLAL2zqDapQ/s1600/Hoving_EmptyNest_72ppi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviNvDmPLZq38S5MYMYhVlHD4Qxl5mHm_hwLEMIFAU2mI-1o7vTC0Xc6ePpnMOUn1CEUCJqLpFjyL9HiS4w_GSGtHLsIpfC4pNcbcOTjlb8yTZbz8MfjNQ2RxUnf9VLAL2zqDapQ/s320/Hoving_EmptyNest_72ppi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last night, at 10:38pm, I was quite a sight to see. Sitting on the leather couch in the basement, wrapped in blankets, a giant metal bowl which </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">had</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> contained my dinner-- 10 cups of popcorn dusted with nutritional yeast-- sobbing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sobbing because I was tired and didn't know how to just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">go to sleep</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. And because my husband has been gone almost a week to a conference in Poland. And I know it shouldn't make a difference </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">where</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> he's gone to, but the further away he is, the harder gravity pulls the tides up within me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am always shocked by this occurrence: it seems so out of character for me. But I actually know it very well. It's the straw widow peeking out. The straw widow comes out only when the moon is new, and everything is quiet and dark. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It always seemed strange to me that the new moon is called just that-- </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">new</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-- because we experience it as an absence. <i>New</i> suggests, somehow, presence. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then again, sometimes for the new to appear, room must be made. Reminds me of the haiku by Mizuta Masahide:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Barn's burnt down --<br />
now<br />
I can see the moon.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sobbing by yourself in your finished basement while watching an episode of a teenage musical drama while your two beautiful, perfect children sleep two floors above you is inane. Yes, I was sobbing because I was tired. And overwhelmed. And unable to let go. And missing my husband <i>desperately</i>. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Which is actually, in a sense, redeeming. I was crying-- stupidly, gulping for air and (though it was dark and I was alone) with a speckled, hottening face-- because in that stupid, stupid teenage love, I could feel the stupid feeling that I needed to feel. Out of control and desperate for the love of someone I could not have (at least for the moment). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's embarrassing to feel you've become untethered. It's embarrassing-- even in your own basement (perhaps especially in your own basement)-- to let go. To sob. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But, to my surprise-- I did just that. I let it go. The sobbing did something for me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Should that surprise me? Actually, maybe it shouldn't. Funny, that thing. It's like as a baby, all you know is unravel unravel unravel and need the world to swaddle you in. Then you become that binding for yourself; you become the binding for others. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sometimes that unravel unravel unravel is okay. I really am OK. Sad, but OK. I can unravel sometimes, even if just to the floor. Then I can be retrieved. I can retrieve myself. Weave, unweave. Weave.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-61411703027203596162011-05-21T19:37:00.000-07:002011-05-21T19:37:40.087-07:00Rainbow Connection<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.missouriskies.org/rainbow_conception_missouri_1_crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.missouriskies.org/rainbow_conception_missouri_1_crop.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div><i>In this blog post, MamaH exposes her bedtime tropes, which include mash-ups of AA Milne stories and the Three Stooges, as played by vegetables. <b>Very</b> small vegetables. </i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Baby Broccoli (whose name was a sad attempt at trying to get my son to respect vegetables) cohabits with Pooh and Piglet in the Hundred Acre wood. Baby Broccoli's sidekick is Baby Corn, and the two little imps are always off on some adventure that Pooh and Piglet have to extricate them from.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div>Usually, the stories end up in some sort of slapstick race where one unlikely thing happens after the next. My son thinks they are hilarious. In fact, they are so hilarious that he ends up jumping up and down in the bed, squealing at the twists and turns in the story, and waking up his little sister who had inevitably *just* settled down to sleep.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I haven't figured out exactly what these two "boys" look like-- do they look like broccoli and corn? Because that's sort of creepy. Anyhow, my son doesn't seem to mind. The main thing is that they are funny, single-word-with-exclamation-point-screaming boys. They appeal.</div><div><br />
</div><div>However, they don't necessarily serve the purpose of a bedtime story to CALM and RELAX. At the end of the story, my son is inevitably:</div><div><br />
</div><div>a) Belligerent</div><div>b) Crying</div><div>c) Shouting continuations "...and then they get in a rocket ship and go up up up to the moooooon!"</div><div>d) Crying from having laughed so hard</div><div><br />
</div><div>Tonight was "movie night", so that necessitated a shorter version of events, and preferably one that did not involve keeping up the already-past-her-experation-date sister. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Tonight Baby Broccoli and Baby Corn witnessed a quadruple rainbow in the field across the street, and ran over to catch it. They ran and ran, feeling like the closer they got to it, the more it receded. Until they stopped and looked around and realized that they were actually IN the rainbow. The rainbow enveloped the entire field and became a sort of glowing blanket that skimmed over the surface of the ground. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The two boys found that they could run and slide on it; they could arc around as though ice skating; the slightest of pressure with their hands or feet could steer them one way or another, as if swimming, or weightless in space.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There need be no end to this story. No closure, no resolution. Baby Broccoli, Baby Corn, my son and the rainbow. Sublime.</div><div><br />
</div></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-51775283330301135932011-05-16T17:36:00.000-07:002011-05-18T17:13:36.612-07:00I came, I saw, I said too much<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoEfbgB0XtXGyxcdeSe8P1cFRTGCaYfKuM-A27Pa540Lgq-5UFY5m37BVN5eUI8KjpqSLX40RHfV2r4PRRdO6My6iJXs97Szvs5EIHSo0SqGjRa7_kp4dJvlYHR8Fyc3og-MB/s360/LTYMNecklace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoEfbgB0XtXGyxcdeSe8P1cFRTGCaYfKuM-A27Pa540Lgq-5UFY5m37BVN5eUI8KjpqSLX40RHfV2r4PRRdO6My6iJXs97Szvs5EIHSo0SqGjRa7_kp4dJvlYHR8Fyc3og-MB/s320/LTYMNecklace.jpg" width="240" /></span></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even though my days as a poetry graduate student are far, far behind me, I still seem to have some of the self-perception issues that plagued me in the day. You see, the job of a poet (at least as I see it) is to say something essential; say it with an economy of words-- only the right words; transmit messages that are encoded and decoded, so they are sort of an app that shows up and opens itself to the reader-- enacting, running the program. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The problem is, I don't have the will to be a poet. I have the ideas; I have the language; I have the spiritual desire to make things. I am just afraid. I am also inconstant. I distract easily. I am a magpie of ideas and images. Oooooh! Look at the pretty over there! And zap, moving on.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Except, recently, after a long blogging hiatus and exorbitant facebooking, I signed up to audition for "</span><a href="http://www.listentoyourmothershow.com/search/label/Madison"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Listen to Your Mother</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">". LTYM was started last year by Blogstress with the Mostess and Jewish Humorista </span><a href="http://www.annsrants.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ann Imig</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, who also happens to have a son with the same name as mine, and who is a parent at my son's former preschool.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last year I did not read at LTYM. I feared "I am woman hear me roar" or, worse, Hallmark theater. When I dared peer into last year's </span><a href="http://vimeo.com/11826943"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">video of LTYM</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, I was blown away. Nothing of my fears. But fierceness. FIERCENESS. And people I couldn't have imagined listening to, I listened to. They had something to say to me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So when I saw the call for auditions this year for LTYM I said to myself </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">SHIT. I don't want to do this I do NOT WANT TO DO THIS. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But my mother self said </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Screw you it'll be good for you.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Mother knows best, doesn't she? Crap.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I struggled and struggled. What did I have to talk about? What DIDN'T I have to talk about? Fret fret fret frette. Frette is a bedspread. A yucky bedspread. Write anything.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, on the urging of a friend, I wrote a poem. I fell back on writing a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina">sestina</a>, b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ecause I love sestinas (I particularly love </span><a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">this sestina from Elizabeth Bishop called "One Art"</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">). I love the repetition of the end words. So, here was my sestina. Not perfect, but not half bad:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Sestina for Six AM</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I woke up at six.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Through the monitor, my daughter was having a serious word</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> with the assembled animals in her bed.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> What I understood was only a fragment,</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> some misbehavior. Some laughing. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Stop!</span></span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The wards were getting restless. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I the mom! I mom!</span></span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Then the rankling, like a cup against metal bars. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maaaaaaaamiiiiiiiiiiii</span></span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> as if suddenly she were reminded of my existence as the six</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> o’clock alarm clicked on at five past to stop</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> her machinations. She utters THE word</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> which makes all things happen; which lifts her from her bed</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> into the morning which continues like a fragment</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of some conversation from the night before, not rested, but embedded</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and continued. Even Dora calls out from the infernal talking dollhouse, “</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hola, mama!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> as if we must be surrounded by things that fragment</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> our thoughts to not let us get too deep; The six</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> year old slumbers on. Sometimes I can hear the murmur of unintelligible words</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> through his door, a flow that doesn’t stop</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> even when it seems like all motion, all thought </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">should</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> stop.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> It’s like constant traffic, even in bed.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Syllables being hatched and born into words.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> What is that like? To be born into words, like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">mom</span></span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> came to mean ME six</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> years ago (I have to count on my fingers), as though even that fragment</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of control, of time, escapes me. I peel fragments</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of the orange and place it on the tray, in front of my daughter and stop</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in thought. Or out of thought. Then she counts back to me-- to six</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> though she does not-- cannot-- understand numbers. She sings </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No more beeeehd</span></span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> because it makes sense, doesn’t it to her? Mom</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is the beginning of word.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Words</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> are just a convenient way of taking fragments</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and making sense. Yes, slivered, mom</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is elemental, full-stop.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Developed or grown from seed in the world’s flower bed.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> In the beginning, God created six </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> days and rested on the seventh. Mom has a word</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> for Six AM. It is eternal. It does not rest; it fragments.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Stop. Go back to bed.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But that was just what got me started. Now I was furiously trying to find something else-- I was NOT going to read poetry in front of an audience again. N-O-T, as in NOTHANKYOU. Then a friend-- Jen over at the </span><a href="http://thecheckeredchicken.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Checkered Chicken</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-- encouraged me to write about my relationship with my mother. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So apparently that's how I ended up reading on Mother's Day in front of 350 people at the Barrymore Theater in Madison with 12 other amazing mothers. I still can't believe I did it-- mostly because I can't believe what I said IN FRONT OF 350 PEOPLE, including, apparently, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russ_Feingold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">former Wisconsin Senator Russ Feingold</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Really? Did I really have to clue in the Feds in front of Russ freaking Feingold? </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I guess I did. I will post the video as soon as it is up. In the meantime, believe me that it was great and awful and freeing. And now I'm here doing the blog thing again because what more can happen to me if I don't try? Nothing. Nothing will happen if you don't try. Things may happen TO you, but they won't happen FOR you. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So listen to me. Pretend I'm your mother. I'll make you eggs. Now get out of here.</span></span></div></div></div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-14987938123994295652010-05-17T09:41:00.000-07:002010-05-17T09:41:33.283-07:00Sweden, You Taunt Me So<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i57.photobucket.com/albums/g240/lizcoolmompicks/cmp2010/abcpapercups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i57.photobucket.com/albums/g240/lizcoolmompicks/cmp2010/abcpapercups.jpg" /></a></div>Sweden has given the world IKEA and Astrid Lindgren and Meatballs. All things that are somehow so elemental, so simple and smart you can't help but slap yourself on the head and say, "Now why didn't I think of that?!?"<br />
<br />
Yes, Sweden is, to my mind anyway, the gateway to the collective unconscious. <br />
<br />
It's also an absolutely absurd language which seems to at once make sense to the native-English speaker and also make total nonsense.<br />
<br />
Exhibit A:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
<a href="http://barnvanligt.nu/Graphics/Products/8008d_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://barnvanligt.nu/Graphics/Products/8008d_m.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">From the Swedish Website <a href="http://barnvanligt.nu/">Barnvanligt</a> (If you want to see the English website, click on the British flag at the top left of the page).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">Simple. Iconic. Functional. Swedish. They call it a Nyckering. <i>Well of course they do!</i> Not sure what the heck it really means (probably key ring holder, I suspect) but Nyckering really satisfies, doesn't it?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">Just like all the names of products at IKEA: Malm and Halsa and Barnslig Randig. All those umlauts dancing atop vowels like the bouncing ball in a child's sing-along video.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">I guess it also doesn't hurt that Swedish maintains more than a passing resemblance to Lewis Carroll's <i>Jabberwocky</i>. To wit:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Twas brillig, and the slithy toves<br />
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:<br />
All mimsy were the borogoves,<br />
And the mome raths outgrabe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">Okay, perhaps I should have rather said, "Lewis Carroll's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Jabberwocky </span>maintains more than a passing resemblance to Swedish". Still, there's truth to it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">So yes, Sweden. You are home to my linguistic and design unconscious. And I deign to say, your meatballs are <i>irresistible</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-31375748704366802792010-05-01T19:53:00.000-07:002010-05-01T19:53:21.884-07:00What I do when I'm trying to avoid meaning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thegreenhead.com/imgs/eatmecrunchy-cereal-bowl-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.thegreenhead.com/imgs/eatmecrunchy-cereal-bowl-3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Knit<br />
Trim cuticles<br />
Put too many books on my library queue that I will never have time (or energy for that matter) to read<br />
Woot-off!<br />
Come up with Byzantine plans for:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>The next social gathering that I am going to host because I love being around people but hate hosting but will host anyway</li>
<li>An art project that will go awry, perhaps in the planning stages, but after having purchased all supplies</li>
<li>The yard, including an orchard, a pagoda, 1000-lb. boulders and no weeding</li>
<li>Controlling the unstoppable decay of my house, car, and everything I touch</li>
<li>How I can best torture myself about some social commitment that I really don't want to fulfill but can't say no to. Because I can't say no to it, OK?</li>
</ul><div>Oooooh! Recipes from the New York Times! I'd LOVE to try and use pomegranite molasses again. </div><div>People.comUsmagazine.comTMZ.com-- OK, that makes me disgusted. There's avoiding meaning and there's gossip-porn. Let's not go THERE.</div><div>Baby Gap. Because your baby looks cuter in clothes that have been assembled by her contemporaries.</div><div>Doesn't it seem like it's been an awful long time since something was recalled? I should check and see if the crib/medicines/toys/clothes/food has been recalled. It HAS! Oh crap. I'm a bad mom. I shouldn't waste time on meaningless things and I should hug my children more. Really, what's more important than a hug?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Cereal. In front of the computer.</div><div><br />
</div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-60046252234509711482010-04-23T09:37:00.000-07:002010-04-23T09:37:16.294-07:00File Not FoundI've been MIA from the blog for-- scarily enough-- almost two years now. In-between I've been busy gestating and then raising my adorable baby girl... a worthwhile cause, as you can see.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that said baby girl hasn't been the most stellar napper in her almost 1 year of existence on this planet? I mention it now because, like clockwork, she has awakened. Babies must hear some special high-pitched frequencies when their mothers sit down to do anything of meaning. <br />
<br />
And so, there goes my start. At least I've dipped my toesies in the pool again. Oh, and at least while I finish typing this sentence the baby's syllables sound slippery-sweet.<br />
<br />
Welcome back to the world...Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-81366075673696575692008-11-03T19:31:00.000-08:002008-11-03T19:35:36.500-08:00VOTE for all GET-OUT!Just a quick note to say that I'm feeling excited, uneasy, crazy, wild and hopeful (with a dash of cynicism) about tomorrow's election. The one thing you have to give to Obama-- even if you're not an Obamaniac like we are in my family-- is that his campaign is ORGANIZED AS ALL GET-OUT. <div><br /></div><div>They've been calling us, we had a knock on the door this afternoon, we've had emails and facebook updates galore. GOOD! I hope they bug all of us out of our Bush-induced lethargy. It may take years of therapy for the people of this country to come to grips with all the nastiness that has gone on the last eight years. I can think of no better leader than Obama to help us back to sanity.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, if you'll excuse me, my husband and I are going to raid my son's sidewalk chalk bin and chalk the streets in our neighborhood for Obama. Part of me wants to do it naked as an ultimate act of defiance, but I'll spare everyone the sight and thought of that ;)</div><div><br /></div><div>GO OBAMA!<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-45607212464323295342008-10-20T14:07:00.001-07:002008-10-20T14:21:02.194-07:00MOTHERlodeI've composed this blogpost in my head probably fifty times in the past week or so, so here goes. You, my dear blog reader, whoever you are still (and who are you, by the way, who burns the candle at both ends and checks back with me even though the last lame thing I posted was a Matt Damon video in September?) will surely excuse my delinquency in posting. I'm keeping it on the down low (as should you, ahem, fellow facebookers) that I am now 9 weeks preggo. Assuming I make it through the next three weeks (which I sometimes doubt), I will be due to drop another youngling into this world in May of 2009.<div><br /></div><div>You see, I've had so much time to contemplate this blog post because I've been nauseous (AGAIN-- I know, I can't believe it either) as all get-out. Luckily, apparently all get-out is still not as nauseous as I was with the last one, so that's good, right? Anyhow, a big shout out to mommy brain for me conveniently forgetting how boneachingly boring and annoying and, well, sickening being nauseous all the time is. Seriously. How could I have forgotten? </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhow. Beside the point now. I'm fighting it as best I can with the cooperation of my baby-daddy, the professor. He makes me only the food I ask for, never makes any suggestions, cleans the kitchen, loads and unloads the dishwasher (which makes me very funky and gaggy). In short, he's been amazing. What a godsend.</div><div><br /></div><div>My son, still clueless, has been very sweet as well... coming into bed for cuddles; making me wooden sandwiches from his play-kitchen. Nodding without complaint when I tell him that Tootsie Rolls and Starburst are special mommy-tummy food. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, even the second time around I am really struck with how foreign my body already feels. I feel like I am one day away from being announced as this year's newest balloon for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I feel like my breasts alone could take over an entire Manhattan city street, buffeting up against the skyskrapers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhow, enough about me and my bosom. I have to go find something to eat before I get nauseous again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Remember... shhhhh!</div>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35059537.post-79611219618759241142008-09-10T13:39:00.000-07:002008-09-10T13:40:43.499-07:00Walkin' with the DinosaursOK, you gotta love Matt Damon for this:<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><script language="javascript" src="http://www.thenewsroom.com//mash/swf/voxant_player.js?a=V3047194&m=621978&w=420&h=375&v=2"></script>Mama Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578671612046643493noreply@blogger.com1