Wow. Just wow.

I have no words. It's not a joke.

Here we go

Although my blog entries rarely focus on my religious beliefs and practice, I like to think that those beliefs and practice inform many of my entries, as they inform most of my life.

And yesterday, people like me, members of a smallish Unitarian Universalist church in Tennessee, people who value the children in their congregation, people who welcome people into their church family, regardless of sexual orientation or race or religious heritage, came under attack. If you click any of the links in my "Shared Items" sidebar, you'll get the story. You've probably already heard about it on television or any other news source.

I'm very, very angry, folks. Angrier than I remember being for a long, long time. The perpetrator of this violence - I'm having trouble calling him a man, or even a human - has hit an amazing low of cowardly, disgusting behavior. Sneaking a shotgun and an ass-ton of ammunition (in a guitar case) into a church, a peace-loving church, in which the children of the congregation were leading the service, then opening fire on the congregation, wounding many and killing, at this time, two folks who were more than qualified for AARP membership, is pretty much the apex of asshattery.

And this tree-hugging, gay-affirming, race-justice-seeking liberal woman is pissed.

I'm angry to learn that some of my brothers and sisters in faith are now afraid that they won't be safe at church.

I'm angry to think that my children may learn about this story and be afraid to go to church.

I'm angry. Just angry.

And maybe, just maybe, there's a part of my anger that was well-illustrated by one of my co-workers' comments today. "How often do liberal people go into fundamentalist churches and open fire?"

Um, none.

That's not how we roll.

My people were attacked yesterday, in a hateful, hate-filled, hate crime. My people were persecuted yesterday. My people were afraid and injured and murdered and brave. Two gentle, angry men wrestled the gun away from the murderer. One gentle, angry man gave his life to save other members of the church he served.

And gentle, angry people are lighting candles all over our nation for these people.

Please join us.

Science fair

I just finished my portion of Susie's science fair project.

Let that sink in for a moment.

See, these science fair projects are serious business. Last year, Susie and two friends teamed up to do a pretty good experiment (the effects of different liquids on tooth enamel), and they took third place. I'm convinced that they would have taken first if I had been more proactive and helped them more with the graphic design of the project.

This year, Susie has a new partner and a new topic. The two girls chose nutrition as their topic (at my suggestion...after all, I have good resources at work), and their experiment was good: for one week, they ate a typical diet and kept a food diary. For week two, they first planned a "balanced" diet based on the recommendations at www.mypyramid.gov (good stuff there, by the way), then kept a food diary again. The food diary was input (mostly by them, but also by me) into www.my-calorie-counter.com, a good-enough site that calculates calories, fiber, fat, and the like.

My portion of the project involved taking that data and feeding it into an Excel spreadsheet, then creating a zillion graphs depicting the recommended calories, fat grams, etc., comparing them to the actual calories, etc., consumed, then overlaying the percentage above or below the RDA the girls consumed.

I learned something that I didn't tell the girls. True, it's not a scientific sample, but the results played out as I expected. Susie, as a middle-class white kid with post-graduate-school-educated parents, had a pretty darn good diet in her "control" week. Her nutritional intake was very similar in weeks one and two. Her partner, on the other hand, is economically disadvantaged, African American, and has a less-than-stable family situation. I don't know her mother's educational attainment, but I suspect it's minimal based on the contact I've had with her. And this girl's diet? Is a mess. It's almost a textbook diet for how to get heart disease, an epidemic health problem in the lower income African American community. Her sodium intake is generally 2-3 times the recommended daily limit. Her sugar intake is high. Her saturated fat is high. Her fiber consumption is about half of what it should be.

But what's most disturbing about her results is that her intake of "bad" stuff (fat, saturated fat, sodium, sugar) was markedly WORSE during the Food Pyramid week. I'm not sure why. Perhaps her mother was not able to provide a balanced diet that adhered to the eating plan the girls had designed. I know her mother did not understand the plan, because she called me last Sunday evening, after I'd dropped the child off at home, asking me, "What is this mess she just handed me?" The "mess" was her daughter's food chart. I went over the project with her, explaining the experiment and what they were trying to accomplish. I explained portioning and what foods needed to be consumed in what quantities. The family does not have a computer, so I couldn't direct her to a website.

I talked to the girls today about their results as I was creating the charts. I was gentle when I told Susie's friend about the issues in her diet. I explained that she needed to look at product nutritional labels when she and her mom went to the grocery store. And I beat my favorite dead horse. Lunchables? Are the worst thing in the world that kids can eat. Except maybe rat poison.

The girls did a great job writing up their findings. And I'm about to head to the office to print all these beautiful charts (in color), as well as some pages from the food pyramid site. They'll put the whole thing together and (hopefully) win a prize next week.

I hope they learned something. And make changes accordingly. As they wrote in their report, "It's hard not to eat too much salt and sugar."

Prolific

My poor blog is dusty. While I'm walking the dogs (three times a day), I often think about my blog and its dusty state. I ponder writing a new entry and consider topics and what happens inside my brain is something like white noise. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

And, in all honesty (which is, of course, the point of blogging, right?), I really don't have anything now either. Things are, well, fine. Not in that teeth-clenched use of the word. Just fine. Work is going fine (if a bit confusing, since my promotion still hasn't been announced to my new staff...). I've stayed quite busy taking on the administration of this venue, and I'm looking forward to some changes in the next few months.

And at home? The kids are doing fine. (That word again!) School is, well, school, meaning the kids have good grades but all the same annoying things keep being annoying (particularly the weight, likely measured in tonnage, of my pre-adolescent daughter's backpack). I sometimes wonder if we'd be happier with a different school, but I have a feeling that we'd just get a new set of grievances. This week's grievance speaks more of the public served by the public school than the school: just before winter break, a note came home that the school would no longer accept checks for payment for field trips and other incidentals. Craig and I read the memo several times, noting that it specifically did NOT say "afterschool enrichment tuition". Afterschool enrichment tuition is $100 per class, and our boy takes two classes, so we knew we'd be sending a $200 payment in mid-January. We re-read it again, just to make sure, and quite confidently sent in the registration form with a check.

And the check? Came back home that afternoon. With a stressed little boy who thought he wouldn't be able to take the classes since it was the deadline for registration.

Oh hell no! (Spoken in my best Memphis ghetto accent, arms akimbo, with a bit of motion in my neck.) I wasn't about to send $200 in cash with an eight-year-old child, nor was I planning to head over to a gas station to get a money order.

So I called the school. I explained, quite cordially, that there was no way in hell that I was sending $200 cash with a child of eight, and that if they needed me to pay with a money order, I'd be happy to get that to them next Monday, because I have a job and can't just run out and buy money orders whenever I feel like it. (Maybe I was bluffing just a tiny bit...but that doesn't really matter, does it?) The regular secretary gave me the whole, "I totally understand your point, but the deadline is tomorrow," response, then offered to transfer me to the financial secretary, who also totally understood my point and hated that a few deadbeats who wrote bad checks to the school ruined it for all the rest of us fiscally-responsible people.

Then she did exactly what I meant for her to do.

"Mrs. Kid's Mom, go ahead and send the check with your son tomorrow. I'll make an exception this time."

She also gave me her name, which I wrote on the registration form, along with the time and date of our conversation, just in case someone got all crazy and forgot that we had this conversation.

Annnnnnnnnnd, I just spent longer typing this entry than the whole drama took in real life. And it's actually kind of hard to even call it drama. Maybe anecdote is a better word?

Which brings me to this: my blog is dusty. Probably because my life is less-than-scintillating just now. I'll update more when I actually have something to say, okay?

But aren't you scared?

I guess NaBloPoMo got me all crazy, what with two posts on the weekend.

Over the past few weeks, I've been putting in more hours than usual at work. We've got a couple of very big projects going on, and that's sometimes meant that I leave work closer to 6 p.m. than my usual pre-5 p.m. departure.

Do you know what the difference between leaving work at 4:45 p.m. and 6:15 p.m.?

It's dark.

As I've mentioned, my commute is atypical for Memphis. I walk to work. Until a few months ago, my walk was one city block, then I entered the safety of the well-guarded campus where I work, then was across a parking lot, across a street, then inside a building that is connected to my department (door to door, about 1500 steps). Road realignment and other construction projects have removed the back entrance from service (temporarily), increasing my commute to about eight blocks outdoors, six of which are not inside the campus. (Which, incidentally, has prompted more than one person to note that I seem to be losing weight. I think they may be correct.)

When I tell people that I walk to work, most people express envy, telling me that it must be nice to save all that money, to get exercise, and so on. But a few people, especially those familiar with my neighborhood, say something else. "But aren't you scared?" they ask.

Let's consider the dangers involved in my commute.

I cross two streets. I don't have a crosswalk or a traffic signal for either crossing, but the traffic patterns make for a safe trip across the street. I suppose there's potential for injury, but it's pretty slim.

I walk in a residential area and then on the sidewalks along busy streets. Streets with plenty of car traffic but little foot traffic.

What should I be afraid of?

I'm not afraid of being hit by a car, or even a bus. I know how to look both ways before crossing, and I give myself plenty of time to wait for a safe opportunity to cross. I suppose there's the outside chance of a driver losing control of a vehicle, but those kinds of freak accidents are freak accidents, and I don't spend time worrying about them. (Plus, I'm just as likely, if not more so, to be injured while driving in a car in such a situation.)

Oh, I know.

I should be afraid of the people who are on foot. The people walking to the bus terminal, to a bus stop, to somewhere, wherever that may be. People who don't, for whatever reason, probably economic, have the use of cars. People who might be pushing shopping carts full of aluminum cans or their personal stuff. People who might ask me for a dollar.

Wait a minute.

I'm one of them, right? Because I'm walking, too.

Almost fifteen years ago, right before we got married, Craig and I bought a house in Cooper-Young. The neighborhood, at the time, was in transition. It had had some bad years, resulting from the growing suburbs beckoning to young families. When the solid middle class abandoned the area, things got dicey, and crime rates soared. The crime was diminishing, businesses were moving in, and Craig and I (wisely, I might add) saw a great opportunity to buy a house that would easily appreciate in value (it did, more than we thought it would have).

At the time, Craig was working at a video store, often working nights, and I was alone in the house a lot. And I was mostly fine with that. I would often walk from our house to the neighborhood coffee shop (we just had one car), and I frequently made that walk alone, in the dark. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe I should have been afraid. But it never occurred to me to feel anything but confidence. I was in my neighborhood, on my street, surrounded by my neighbors.

Maybe I'm still stupid, if that's what I was then. Because I don't feel scared walking in my neighborhood. I don't feel scared walking past the construction parking lot (I've gotten to know the men who work there, and I tend to think they're looking out for me). I don't feel scared walking on the sidewalk on a well-traveled street, especially when I can see homes owned by my hairdresser, by other people I've gotten to know by living here.

I'm walking in my neighborhood. If I'm scared to do that, then why the hell should I live here?

I might just be a little sad when my walk gets short again. Maybe I'll keep taking the long way home.

I'm dreaming of a....

So, Christmas.

Here's the thing. There are things about the holiday season that I love, truly love. The music, the food, the family togetherness, the marvelous television specials, receiving cards from friends and family who are far away. Heck, I even love the Christmas card letters.

But something's been gnawing at me, and last night it all bubbled to the surface.

It's the present thing. It's out of control, people. Kids in TV land, you're being duped!

We're being sold on this idea that the only way to show people that you care about them is by running out to the mall or, even more, the big box retailer that treats human beings like cattle, and spend as much of your hard-earned money as possible. Preferably with plastic. The kind that, at best, overdraws your checking account. At worst, puts you in some really amazing debt.

How did this happen to us? How did we get the idea that if you love somebody, you need to buy them a bunch of mass-produced crap that probably has lead paint in it. And, if you're extra lucky, it was made by some kids in a third world country who work eighteen-hour shifts for pennies a day! Awesome! Because that's the spirit of Christmas/Hannukah/Kwaanza, right?

I saw something on the news the other day that gave me hope. This guy is spreading a new gospel. True, he's not likely to be taken seriously. But what if we all listened?

Would it ruin our holidays to skip (or at least greatly reduce) the gifts?

How much is too much?

How much do you really need?

Where is it going to go?

Who gets hurt because of this gift?

And while I was considering these questions, one of my favorite bloggers wrote about a great campaign in the U.K. One that really, in my mind, fits the bill.

So, if you're reading this and you were going to buy me a gift, don't. There are a lot of fantastic charities out there who need it more than I do. I have plenty of stuff. More than I'll ever need, really. And if you need charitable suggestions, I've made a great shopping list for you.

Heifer International
OxFam
St. Jude Children's Research Hospital
The Unitarian Universalist Service Committee
Planned Parenthood
YWCA
Boys & Girls Club

And there are so many more who need help.

I won't begrudge you the tax deduction, either.

Tomorrow? How to approach the kids and sell them on the idea.

Not what I expected

One of the odd side-effects of this NaNoWriMo mess I'm in is that I'm thinking a lot about war and battles and how they work. Seriously, I'm thinking of the battle choreography. And it's really, really hard to envision it, to have any clue if my protagonist was surrounded by people or not when he got wounded. Even after seeing the very spot, or very nearly, I'm still stumped.

I've never been a war buff. And not really much of a history buff. But that's not to say I'm not interested in history. Every time I visit Mud Island River Park, I read the informational signage, much of which includes Civil War information. I've read a few historical novels in my day, and I never hated history classes. And, well, fair enough, I was an art history major, too, but I was really most interested in contemporary feminist art those days, so really no reason to see a future interest in the Civil War.

But another side-effect, one I was discussing with my mom this afternoon, is that, the more I think about that war, it just makes me more certain that war is futile. Arbitrary. Let's put a bunch of young men in outfits, give them guns, and whoever kills the most of the other team gets to say their side wins, and that's how decisions will be made on a national (or global) basis. And looking at all those graves, all those boys and men dead just from one battle (and plenty of the dead from that battle aren't buried where I was...this cemetery only included the Confederate troops).

I just keep imagining how discouraged these guys had to be at that point. Okay, in all honesty, I don't really have to imagine this. The family letters make it clear. Of the three cousins who were in the same company, one of them, George, was a very observant and expressive writer. He made it so clear that, after nearly two years in this ugly, ugly war, he didn't really know what they were fighting for anymore.

Keeping in mind that these guys were from mid-state Missouri, it must have been a huge culture shock to wind up in middle Mississippi. The role of slavery was vastly different in Missouri (yes, these folks did own slaves) than it was in Mississippi, where plantations frequently had over 1,000 slaves per household. Fighting for King Cotton must have been a slap in the face for these apple and hemp farmers.

Not sure what I'm doing with this. But I'm agitated and just hate that, a century and a half later, we still send teenage boys and young men to shoot and be shot, thinking that's a reasonable way to decide world events. Insert some cliche about not learning history and being doomed to repeat it.

I've got a novel to write. Peace out.

Hard to write

I'm not looking forward to writing this post.

Not because I'm burned out on writing, NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo notwithstanding. I really enjoy the writing. And writing everyday is fine, although sometimes I'm a little stumped as to exactly what to write.

But today I have something to write about, but it's not funny or snarky or witty or heartwarming. Just a little upsetting. By the time I get it all out, it might be more than a little upsetting.

And I feel the need to put a lot of preface here. Preface about how I love my city and I know damn well that we have crime problems and I am committed to being a part of the solution. That's why I moved to one of the poorest census tracts in the city when it was redeveloped. That's why I send my children to public schools. That's why I walk to work.

But yesterday I doubted my choices.

Because yesterday, my son told me what happened on the playground. (This is all hearsay; he did not witness the event, but he was there when it allegedly happened. So believe what you want to believe.)

A few children were playing (throwing rocks, actually, is what he told me) near the fence that borders the playground. A man was on the other side of the fence. (Maybe across the street. Details, again, are fuzzy.) He spoke to the kids. They spoke to him. He pulled a gun and showed it to them, or maybe pointed it at them.

This happened at the beginning of recess. The kids didn't tell anyone until they went back inside. (And yes, the kids got in trouble for not telling.)

My son is a sensitive, sensible kid. He was pretty damn scared afterward. Not so scared that he wanted to stay home today or that he had nightmares or anything like that, but scared enough that it showed on his face when he told me about it.

And no, the school, the teacher, no. They didn't send a note home about it.

So if you'll pardon me, I need to call the office. This is a problem. And if it's not addressed to my satisfaction, you can bet your last dime that some grumpy redheaded blogger is going to wind up on the news.


edited to add:
The principal was aware of the situation yesterday and questioned the children involved. Each child's story was different from the others; she thinks the whole thing is a tall tale. As soon as it was reported, a teacher went back out to the playground to check out the situation and nobody was nearby at all. Even though she doesn't think there's a problem or that anything happened, the principal did contact the district's security office and reported the incident, also requested patrols. I still think a note should have come home, but at least she did what was necessary. The schoolyard is bounded by a fence, and the kids reported that this man was on the other side of the fence. I was impressed that my kids knew that it was a felony to be within 500 yards of a school with a gun (unless you're the police). So I'm okay. For now.

Much better, thank you

I'm better-rested and it's Friday, so I get to sleep late (but not too late) tomorrow. Especially because the kids are spending the night away.

I did something uncharacteristic yesterday. Apparently my crankiness from the morning may have lasted a tad into the workday, and by that I mean ALL DAY.

Here's the story, with identifying details left out. You tell me if I'm in the wrong.

I worked all day and night for the majority of 36 hours this week because we were replacing machines, including putting in a new server (no, I'm not in the I.T. field...I'm our department's go-to girl in these situations). So I gave up, willingly, valuable sleep and time with my family in order to improve something in my workplace. Something that is not specifically part of my job, mind you.

As with many hardware/software installations, things weren't perfect. Wednesday morning and yesterday were spent in troubleshooting mode, helping the employees figure out the machines and dealing with problems as they came up.

One of the employees seemed to have many, many more issues than anyone else. This employee also seems, in general, to have a piss-poor attitude most of the time. And this person is smarter than he/she lets on, in my opinion. And maybe a little manipulative. I called shenanigans.

When this person's machine crashed for the third time, another manager tried to make it work. And couldn't. I was called. And figured out, very quickly, that the network cord was plugged into the wrong jack on the wall. Once I'd ascertained that, I asked the employee to come over and look, so that he/she could know where it should be plugged in, just in case it happened again. But instead of, "Thanks for helping me," or, "Great, I'd like to know more about how my machine works," or, "Okay," the reply was this: "I don't want to know."

"I don't want to know."

I processed this one for a second.

"I don't want to know." How to do my job? Anything that may put me in a position to move up? Any more than I have to know in order to do the very least I can do and stay employed?

Sorry. That's not how I roll.

And I may have thrown my hands up and said, "Fine, if you don't want to know how to operate your machine, I'm not going to worry about it. See you later."

And then when he/she told me that I misunderstood the response, I may have used the example: "If your child was failing math and you wanted to teach her the multiplication tables so she could pass math, and she told you I don't want to know, would that bother you?"

Should that bother me?

Because it does. Still. Honestly, yesterday I really wished I was Donald Trump, because I would have said, "You're fired!" with a great flourish. And a smile.

So, am I wrong to expect employees to want to actually do their jobs well? And to be glad that this person is not on the schedule today?

Trick-or-Treating Rules

Not that they're ever followed. Still, I offer you, gentle readers, my ideas about how Halloween needs to work.

1. If you don't say "Trick or treat" I will stand there and stare at you. I do not give you candy simply for appearing on my porch. At least speak.

2. If you're not wearing a costume, I will ask you what happened to your costume. Or maybe, "Who are you supposed to be." If you don't have an answer, you might not get candy. (Unless you're really cute and it's quite obvious that nobody in your house could be bothered to help you.)

3. If you're old enough to drive or have a job, you don't need my candy. If you go through all the motions of saying "Trick or treat" and wearing some semblance of a costume, but you're old enough for even a conservative parent to think you're old enough to date, you get a breath mint. I've got a bag of Starlight mints ready for the occasion.

4. One piece of candy per kid. I might give you two if you're really cute and follow the rules. Three if I know your parents.

5. Don't come to my house a second time. I will recognize you. See rule #4.

6. Infants don't get candy. See rule #1. If you can't say "Trick or Treat" and don't have a disability, you probably aren't going to eat the candy.

7. When the porch light is turned off, there's no more candy to distribute. Or it's past my kids' bedtime and I don't feel like dealing with trick-or-treaters anymore. Don't ring the doorbell. Don't knock. We're done.

8. 10:00 is too late for trick-or-treating. You should be home in bed. You have school tomorrow. Unless you go to Catholic school, you lucky kids!

9. Don't touch the decorations. Don't ask to take them with you. Don't ask me if the skeleton or the fake blood or the spiders or whatever else is real.

10. Say "Thank you" after I give you the candy. Don't glare at me (unless you're really "in character"). Don't act like I owe you more than what I gave you.

Honestly

I realized last week that maybe I haven't been entirely honest with you.

This was pointed out to me in this blog entry after meeting a fellow local blogger at a local coffee shop. My new friend said this:

(Sidebar here about Kaleigh:I expected her to be tall and imposing; I don't know why. She's actually petite and very sweet. "Sweet" is something that people from the South say a lot - "Oh, I love her! She's so SWEET!" I really don't say it often but I say it to describe Kaleigh because she truly is very sweet. She has this soft, sweet, almost child-like voice. It was really fun meeting her. Also? She's very smart and so grounded and we have very similar political persuasions.)

It's that last little bit, about the political persuasions, that I realize I've undershared. (But seriously, the voice part, ignore that. I have dreams of sounding like a cross between Demi Moore and Kathleen Turner, and apparently it's not happening. So yeah, it's probably more like Drew Barrymore than anything else. And any perception that I'm tall? Woot!)

People who know me, and have known me for a long time, know that I'm undeniably liberal. Because of some of the places I've worked, however, I've learned to tone that part down and not share too much of my political thinking. Plus, with the current administration being what it is, it's hard to talk much about politics without cursing or sounding smug.

Here's the deal. I'm in favor of gay marriage. I'm in favor of legal abortion. I'm in favor of good sex education and access to birth control, which should make those legal abortions quite uncommon. I'm in favor of a national healthcare plan. I oppose the war. (And, unlike some other awesome liberal people, some of whom I love and admire, I opposed it from September 12, 2001.) I favor legalizing marijuana, not just for medicinal purposes. (And no, Mom, that doesn't mean I smoke it. I don't. Because if I did, someone might take my kids away, and I like them. But I resent that, even though I probably wouldn't smoke it even if it were legal because it's much more expensive than the boxed wine.)

And the crazy liberalism even seeps into my family life. I don't spank my kids. I breastfed them for a lot longer than the national average. We used cloth diapers and one of my kids is a vegetarian. Plus, they both have fun hair. And they both actively dislike George Bush and oppose the war (which, no, I haven't forced those opinions on them; in fact, you'd be amazed at some of the things my children have said about global politics when they were quite small).

But I don't really write much about these things. Why? Am I afraid of alienating some readers? Come on! All two dozen of them? Given that most of the bloggers I've met in person are as liberal as or more liberal than I, that's not a concern.

No, the real reason I don't write much about politics or world events is that I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I'm pretty darn ignorant of such things these days. Since my commute is ten minutes on foot, I don't hear the hour of NPR news I used to hear every day. I rarely watch the evening news because I'm either not home or not in a room with a TV, and I don't listen to much radio at home because I'm usually busy with the kids. I don't read the paper. I'm sometimes awake to watch the Daily Show, my generation's preferred current events medium, but I'm just as often watching something else. (This is in stark contrast to myself years ago, by the way, when I was very much informed about current events and watched the entirety of the Iran-Contra hearings on television.)

So, there it is. I'm short, have a "sweet" voice, and I'm liberal. But it's really okay if you continue to imagine me taller and speaking more like Demi Moore. Because that's sort of how I imagine myself sometimes.

Read this

I can't say it better or add anything of note. Just read this.

I'm proud to say I've had a (brief, admittedly) conversation with the fantastic woman who wrote it. Are you still here? GO!

Interviewed

Pam hit me with five questions. After reading her articulate responses to her five questions, I'm a bit concerned. But I'll give it a go.

1. What is the biggest parenting "mistake" you have ever made and how did you handle it after you realized it was a mistake?

Nice way to start off easy.

Upon pondering this question for the last three hours, I'm still at a loss. There are many little mistakes we make all the time. And some miscalculations wind up working out well. My biggest frustration is the television/computer/video game thing. We never set limits on their "screen" time when they were younger, and now it seems like it's too late to make stricter rules. I haven't figured out the right answer yet, but am very open to suggestions.

The other issue that I'm not sure how to resolve is my son's dependence on his sister. He's incredibly socially dependent on her. She's his best friend. He mopes when she's not around. And he has difficulty making and maintaining his own friendships. Honestly, he'd rather hang out with her (and her friends) than anyone else. This worked out great when the kids were preschoolers, but it's not working so well anymore, and it's likely to get ugly soon. She's becoming a full-on tween, and her little brother isn't completing her world by any means. Again, I'd love some help with this.

2. How did having children change your marriage? How do you and your husband deal with the stresses of everyday life with kids?

It cemented it. Without kids, we could have split up if the going got tough. Because there wouldn't have been major consequences. But now we have much more at stake, so we're both ready, willing, and able to do what it takes to make our marriage work.

Coping with stress? Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha. Hmmm. I don't suppose that "drinking" is a good answer, right? We both exercise at least half an hour a day, and I don't hesitate to grab the dogs and their leashes and head outside if I need a break (from him OR from the kids). And I also clean the kitchen when I'm stressed. (I had a therapist recommend that one; it's much safer and healthier than throwing chairs.)

I wish I could say we have weekly date nights, but we don't. We get several weeks in the summer, however, and that sure helps. We get to act young and carefree. But we both really like the kids as much as we love them, and that makes life so much more pleasant.


3. Through the miracle of science, you can pick ONE attribute (kindness, toughness, pity, etc), and forever embed that attribute in your children. Please explain why they would be best served with this attribute all of their live vs all others.

Resourcefulness. It's so much more useful to be able to find/get/create what you need than to know everything. I'd rather have the skill of being able to locate useful information than a talent like a great memory or incredible intelligence. Because who cares if you remember the directions to some remote town in Alabama if you can just look it up online anyway?

4. You seem to be a very self-assured person. What childhood event(s) helped shape who you are today? Who was/were your role model(s)?

Moving around so much (Seven states, one other country, never staying somewhere more than 3 years) shaped who I am more than anything. I learned, quickly, how to size up a situation and see how I could fit. As a result, I have an easy time merging into groups. The downside is that I didn't get much practice in making relationships (friendships, especially) last more than a few years. I'm fortunate that I sorted it out, and I have a couple of good, long-term friends who mean the world to me. All that moving had another result: I committed myself to Memphis when I moved here, and I shall not be moved. I've lived here more than half my life and honestly cannot imagine living anywhere else. Despite its problems (and there are many), Memphis offers a quality of life that I really enjoy. Just enough cultural events, loads of diverse people, plenty of great food, and easy-to-navigate. Perfect.

Role models? My mom is an obvious one. While my lifestyle is quite different from hers when she was in the same stage of parenting, her values and mine are very similar. She sowed seeds of peacemaking and strong family loyalty, which I try to bring to fruit in my own family.

But there were other important adults. A few teachers stand out as being influential. A few of my parents' friends. People from church. And I keep meeting more.

5. If you could sit across from G.W. Bush and have a "conversation" with him, what would you say? How do you think he would respond?

I doubt I could say anything that would make sense to him. But if I could give him a magic pill that would open (and strengthen) his mind sufficiently to comprehend my point of view, I'd tell him what I most firmly believe: all our policy, all our actions, all we do, must pass the test. "Will it help the children of our world, or will it hurt them?" I daresay that much of the current administration's "accomplishments" would not pass that test. And his response? Have you read The Bush Dyslexicon? 'Nuff said.


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How did I miss this?

When I opened Google Reader this morning, I read, with interest, about local blogger Stacey's involvement in what might be the most awesome thing this summer.

Rock & Roll camp for girls (ages 10-17). Stacey, a 'zine publisher and enthusiast, shared her mad zine-making skillz with the girls all week, and it looked like everyone had a great time. If my daughter and her friend are cooperative tomorrow night, we'll find out just how much fun the girls had, when they have a concert on the rooftop of the Gibson Guitar building.

I can't begin to tell you how envious I am of the girls who got to participate in this camp. When I was that age, I wasn't athletic, and our family moved so much (four states, six schools, from 10-17) that my involvement in school activities was somewhat limited. It's impossible to be in the audition-only choir, for instance, if one did not attend school in order to audition the year before.

Music was so very important to me in my teen years. The music I listened to (and continue to listen to) defined who I was in many ways. My parents never had much appreciation for rock music of any type, My teen angst was salved, or sometimes fueled, by my ever-present life soundrack of Depeche Mode, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, New Order, The Smiths, Siouxsie & Banshees. As my relationship with that music, the new wave/post punk that thrived in the 1980's, grew, so did my sense of who I was and how I wanted to be perceived. I didn't want to be like the preppy kids, like the popular kids. I wanted to be different. I wore black on the outside, as Morrissey said, because black was how I felt on the inside.

And, looking back, I see that the music did have an influence. The lyrics of these semi-alternative bands were often razor-sharp in their criticism of the mainstream. They decried the cruelty of indifference, of cookie-cutter life. These British musicians (there were a few Americans thrown in, but the vast majority of my adolescent record collection hailed from the import bin) advocated a life lived genuinely. They told their listeners to question authority, to question the dominant paradigm, to question what we were being sold. Some were more overt than others (Public Image Limited's John Lydon was anything but subtle in his criticism of mainstream culture, government, and values, while Howard Jones was sweet and positive and encouraged his listeners to see the beauty and goodness in the world).

Those messages mixed into a gumbo in my mind. The politics of justice from U2, a bit of hedonism and fantasy from Echo and the Bunnymen, the dark satire of the Smiths, the emotional evocativeness of New Order, and the lush, angry sensuality of the Cure. They all shaped my life and my memories of my teen years are soundtracked by them.

But, with very few exceptions, these musicians are men. I didn't discover female alternative acts until years later. In the mid-1980's, pop radio had no lack of female singers, but their music was throwaway, bubblegum, shallow. (In retrospect, some of it was better than I gave credit, but I was an adolescent who saw the world in black and white.) My canon of musicians didn't include women.

I'm trying to present a more gender-balanced picture of rock music to my children. My daughter has stolen all my Shonen Knife CDs, and I'm letting her keep them. And when she gets older, there will be plenty more awesome, strong female artists to share with her. I hope she'll catch the bug.

So yeah, next year I hope my daughter goes to rock and roll camp. And maybe I can live vicariously through her just a little.

She forgot again

I have a co-worker whom I just adore.

On the corporate "food chain" she's very much lower than I am, but as a human being, she's got me beat. She's a single mom of three big kids (one in college, one about to be in college, and one in high school). She had four children, but one died in infancy in a house fire. So it's reasonable to say she's not had an easy life. She has a low-paying job at which she excels, very promising leadership qualities (she's been offered a promotion and turned it down because of the hours), and a beautiful smile and friendly nature that has earned her more than two official corporate recognition awards. Her confidence and obvious affection for people (all people) shines through all she does.

We already know that I'm by far and away a racial minority at my job, right? And that has become less and less noticed as the years have come and gone.

So yes, my co-worker is black.

But what's awesome is that she often forgets that I'm not. The two of us often discuss issues within our department and I've had to remind her, more than once, that I'm white. Each time this happens, she cracks up and tells me that she forgot.

She did it again recently. We were chatting about our kids and I mentioned that my kids were going swimming. She asked if I'd bought them swim caps, and I told her I hadn't. She looked a bit taken aback, and asked if I was worried that the kids' hair would fall out. Then she remembered: my kids are white, and they have "white" (she used the term "good") hair. We discussed the differences in our hair types for a minute (hers is very fragile and breaks just from being combed; mine is thick and lately very curly) and that was that.


There's a controversy (a tempest in a teakettle, if you ask me) in the Unitarian Universalist blogging community right now (click here for a good summary of what's going on). The issue is that at Starr King (one of two UU seminaries in the country), there was a decision to stop using the phrase "brown bag lunch" because it could be construed as racially oppressive.

I think the other bloggers have flogged this one sufficiently. I have little to add, and even less that hasn't already been said very articulately.

But really? If the worst, most oppressive thing going on at Starr King is the use of a potentially-but-not-really racist term, it must be serious Pollyannaland over there. Which is pretty awesome.

Because in the real world, or at least my real world of downtown Memphis, I see real oppression and racism that would probably make these folks' heads spin. And I've learned that censoring my language does nothing to fix things. It's actions. It's attitudes. And sometimes, yes, it's not about using "politically correct" language. Because life is often not politically correct. (And please don't think that I'm somehow condoning the use of the N word or anything like that. But I also don't use the phrase "African-American" very often, because the people I know who fit into that category don't use it.)

So instead of banning phrases that really don't mean anything bad (The paper bag is brown. People sometimes carry lunches from home in such bags. That's all. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Oops, maybe that would be offensive to Cubans. Sorry, Cubans.), maybe these well-intentioned seminarians could do something. Like this one seems to have already done.

Because getting to a point, on an interpersonal level, where color is honestly forgotten, if only for moments, is my aim. I want to forget that I'm white. I want to forget that most of my co-workers are black. Because it really doesn't matter anyway.

Money

Thank you internets! I've gotten some cool suggestions for the stairway. Once I cull the suggestions to my three favorites, I'll let Craig choose. I'm nice like that. And I'll post pictures once we're done. If I'm clever I'll remember to do "before" and "after" pictures.

These four-day weeks taunt me. When the kids were little, I worked part-time, and it was great. I was gone just enough to get that much-needed break from small hands and mouths and voices and diapers and being touched out. I got to engage in conversation with adults, and I got to enjoy the feeling of being good at my job (and being recognized for it).

Our family's economic reality, however, meant that once the children were big enough, I needed to work full-time. Many people in my generation are not doing as well as their parents, and the cold, hard truth is that we probably never will. My friend Anthony sent an article to me yesterday...pages of statistics and facts and analysis that gives substance to my thoughts and concerns.

I'm not going to dance around it. Six or so years ago, Craig and I were drowning, financially. I will rest most of the responsibility for that squarely on my own shoulders, as I was in charge of the finances and I didn't do my job well. However, a moment of clarity (no, I don't remember the moment at all) changed how I was dealing (or not dealing) with the money, and things got better.

Last Friday I made the final payment on a signature loan we took out in that era. I'm horrified to think of the interest we paid on that loan. But it's paid off, six months early, because I got very, very serious about our finances a couple of years ago. To say that I feel lighter is a huge understatement. Making that payment every month reminded me of a period in my life marked by a lot of fear. Fear that the mountain of debt would swallow me.

Improvements notwithstanding, I'm not saying that we're all living happily ever after. Yes, we have retirement savings to which I contribute at a fairly aggressive rate, and we're putting away money for the kids' education (though not as aggressively as I'd like). Our credit is very good, thanks to my obsessive bill-paying (and a few letters to creditors asking for some mercy in their reporting). But we still don't have much of a cushion; our income and our expenses are nearly identical, which doesn't leave room for savings. And I'm not sure that I'm willing or able to make the lifestyle changes to save more. We're already frugal. We don't drive fancy cars or wear fancy clothes, and we don't eat out much. I even walk to work! We both work more than one job.

So what's the deal?

It's our career choices. We both could have chosen more lucrative careers. But we didn't, for good and not-so-good reasons. Part of it is geography. We wanted to remain in Memphis. Part of it is the kids. We didn't want them to be in day care, and we think it's important for them to come home from school and have a parent there. Part of it is circumstance. Hiring freezes have kept Craig from getting a tenure-track position. Part of it is education. I majored in art; he majored in psychology and communications/film. And that takes us back to geography.

There's more, though. There's a mindset. There's ambition. And neither of us has a lot of ambition, at least not in regards to career. Because any career that would bring in the type of income that would change our tax bracket would also change our lifestyle. It would mean less family time, more stress, more responsibility. It would mean aftercare for the kids on school days, and worry every summer about what they're going to do while we're at work.

And I sometimes wonder if we're winning the battle but losing the war. If we sacrificed some family time now, if we were willing to put up with more job stress now, would we have more time to spend with our grandchildren, unencumbered by stress about money? Are we limiting our children's futures by not having enough money to send them to private colleges? Will they resent not getting cars for their sixteenth birthdays?

Perhaps, though, they'll learn from us. They'll learn that life is the result of choices. And even if you think, in retrospect, that the choices you made were not the best, you have the opportunity, every day, to make the best of your circumstances.

We have a good life. We own a house: it's big enough for us, though modest. We have good health insurance. We have never gone to bed hungry. We pay our bills and give to our church. And most of the time, it feels like enough.

Parenting in a fishbowl

Nobody said parenting was easy. Most people, instead, say it's the hardest thing they've ever done. It's exhausting, exhilerating, humbling. And it changes you.

But this isn't a post about the lovely and transformative powers of parenting or a flowery exposition about how much I love being a mommy. (I do, but that's not what I'm here to say today.)

Our modern, middle-class world is very different from life just 100 years ago, and is so totally different from the many centuries and millennia of human culture before that. Where humans used to live in tribal groups, we now live in cities and towns with larger populations but more separation between nuclear family units. Where humans used to live in multi-generational groups, we now have mom, dad, and two kids (or any other variant thereof - please don't flame me and say, "What about two dads, or single moms, or whatever else?" They're in my mind. I promise.)

New mothers used to have a lot more experience with small children. New mothers used to have sisters, aunts, and other women to show them the way. If a woman could not nurse (or raise) her own baby, another woman would step into that role. And I'm sure that was great.

But that's not who we are now, as a species. Or at least not in middle-class America. (Yes, I know there are exceptions. Stop arguing with me!!) Most young women have not seen a real, live birth until they give birth themselves (and maybe even then they don't see it...I didn't). Most young women have never witnessed breastfeeding (except maybe as very young recipients, if we were lucky). Many young women have never changed a baby's diaper until they're changing their own baby's diaper (this one shocks me, since I was the queen of all babysitters as a teenager). (And I'm not even going to describe how much less most young men have experienced of providing child care.)

So we're not terribly well-prepared to be parents.

That being said, most of us muddle through all right. When I shared the pulpit on Mother's Day with our minister, Bill, he made a good point. He said, "This is what I’ve seen, anyway, not having any children. I’ve noticed that parenting advice from people with children to people with none tends to end with something along the lines of, “you’ll be fine, you’ll figure it out.” Sometimes there is a lot of advice leading up to that point, sometimes too much, but it often ends there, with a gentle realization that mothering or fathering is something that has to be lived to be learned." (Full text here.) And he's right. Most of us are fine. We do figure it out.

But we also sometimes have a hard time, and the well-meaning advice we receive from the audience (family, friends, the internet, that woman in the grocery store, etc.) can make it worse. Other bloggers have written about it, and the new word "assvice" was coined.

So what do you do when you see that young mother struggling at the grocery store, toddlers on the go, holding onto her temper by an ever-shrinking thread? Do you speak? Do you hold your tongue? What if she asks for help?

I've been that mom, and I've seen her, too. I've received all kinds of advice, as much of it good as bad. I've certainly given my share as well. But I've clammed up, too, and sometimes I regret my silence.

What I try to remember is that the older lady in the grocery store who complimented my children, the hygenist at the dentist's office who told me I'm a great mother, my mom telling me that she loved watching me interact with my kids, their words stayed with me.

And I try to be that older lady in the grocery store. I make eye contact with that struggling young mom. I smile. I sometimes even tell her that she's doing a great job.

Because sometimes just keeping your head above water is enough.

Oh crud.

At least I'll have lots of friends there. I'm pretty sure that nobody I like is omitted from this list.

hat tip to Tête-à-Tête-Tête

Wherein I tiptoe around a difficult subject

There's a local media frenzy these days about a doctor. I know the family, not terribly well, and I'm just plain sad about it all. I wish the media would stop drooling and frothing at the mouth. This guy has a wife and three wonderful children who don't deserve all this.

I'm going to dance around the subject, but let's just say that I've been on the phone a lot because of this situation. And most of my phone time is during dinner preparation. And last night, Susie was helping with dinner. (Aside: that girl is getting to be very helpful in the kitchen....if any of you readers have 9-year-old girls that aren't helping in the kitchen, you're missing out! Seriously. Chica can cook!)

Which means my daughter got an earful last night, and then I sort of explained the situation (and my very minimal, non-media-worthy involvement) in age-appropriate terms. We talked about how these kinds of things effect kids and families and other people, and we talked about the local news and how they behave (or not).

As our soup was simmering, we headed to the living room, snuggled in a chair, and watched the news. (She's an interesting kid....during the last presidential primaries, she insisted on watching the Democrat candidate debates....at age 6!) We talked about the stories, sometimes pausing the tv (hooray for TIVO!) to discuss a little before watching the next story.

And then the teaser for the local news comes on, and guess what??? This guy is the first story. So we watch while the reporter goes to where he works, then goes to his house (golly gee, nobody's home...imagine that!). And the reporter is foaming at the mouth. And when the story is over, Susie sums it up perfectly: "What a mess."

Yes. It's a mess.

So if you're reading this and you pray, please say a prayer for this family.

What makes me so pretty?

Synchronicity. This evening is that girl scout meeting I'm still feeling so conflicted about, and today is the CHBM carnival topic: Favorite Beauty Secret/Product.

So what's my secret? My favorite product?

I walk at least 30 minutes every day. I wash my face with Arbonne RE9 cleanser twice a day, every day, no matter what. I moisturize, use sunscreen, and mineral powder foundation. That's it. Oh, except the lipstick. I really almost never leave the house without lipstick. And it's mostly reddish-brown.

Oh, and I also use a ceramic straightening iron to straighten my hair and I use glossing serum. Because I like shining.

That being said, however, I think I need to write more. Because I'm much more beautiful than my skin or my hair.

What I'm going to tell the girls this evening, and what I truly, truly believe, is that beauty comes from the inside. There's a magic to girls on the brink of womanhood that is easy to spot, even through the pimples and the awkwardness and the strangely-proportioned adolescent bodies. Girls that age (and I'm referring to late elementary school age, so ten and eleven years old) have not become inhibited by self-consciousness. They're smart enough to carry on interesting conversations, they're clever enough to understand and make good jokes, and they're confident enough to speak up. They're at the top of their game. You see the sparkle in their eyes because they'll look you in the eye. They're comfortable in their bodies and love to run and skip and jump.

But we (and I mean society, the media, etc.) do something to make them stop. We show them images of supermodels whose bodies don't look remotely like their own. Those supermodels don't have pimples or hair under their arms or stringy hair or spaces between their teeth. Those supermodels aren't real. But the little girls don't understand that.

I look around at this group of girls and sometimes I feel sad and scared. Sad and scared because the awesomeness of who and what they are today is so fleeting. In just a year or two, one or two of them might be fighting an eating disorder. Or, less seriously, might just really not like what she sees in the mirror. Their posture will change, and that wonderful, confident eye contact will be gone.

We all do it, right ladies? We look in the mirror and find that thing (or those things) that we hate. Thighs, hips, butt. Or that one scar from chicken pox or picking at a pimple.

So, do you want to know my real beauty secret? The honest-to-goodness one?

I know I'm prettier than those supermodels. Sure, I have my moments of wishing I looked different - taller, thinner, whatever. But I'm not going to model that attitude to my daughter. No. She looks too much like me. If I look in the mirror and say that my _____ is so awful, she's going to start hating hers, too. So I choose to be happy inside my own skin and enjoy the body I've got, imperfections and all. I smile a lot. Even though I didn't wear my retainer long enough and I don't have perfect teeth. I wear the makeup that makes me feel pretty even if it's not the "perfect" color. And I wear clothes that make the most of my good points.

Because life doesn't have an airbrush.