Broken

Addie was opining about how she wanted a different family, how we are mean, and how she doesn't like this house. As usual when she's ranting like this, I said very calmly, "I'm sorry to hear that because we all love you." Usually when I say that she says "no, you DON'T LOVE ME." Today she said, "I don't want your love. Your love is BROKEN!" And so began our evening of toddler drama.

Just stop a minute

I took nearly three weeks off over the holidays. Maybe a lot of you are busy bees when you're home too-buzzing aroung and taking care of all the things you don't have time to do when you are working all day. It took a while for me to slow down enough to stop buzzing. I find that I vibrate on a high frequency all the time-which generally makes me a very productive person. Most days I start before 5 am packing lunches, and I leave the house before 5:30; I work a solid 10 hour day, take the train home, and immediately start dinner; then it's bath time, lotion and jammies time, and one-snuggle-on-the-couch-and-show time; then books and milk, and bed (for them) and straightening up (for me). I go until I collapse into bed, like most parents. The few times I have had some time off and was able to come to a standstill kindof result in a coma-like state for me-my head gets fuzzy, I feel really, really tired, my eyes get dry, and I feel a little groggy and brain dead.

These past few weeks-an honest-to-God-staycation, I didn't kill myself editing videos, or making a photo book for anyone, or overbook my life (or the girls' lives) with social outings (always well-intended), or wear myself out running chores when everyone else was sleeping or recharging. This time, I recharged-I took naps with my girls, we played my little pony and veterinarian, and we just hung out. I did the other stuff too, but I had more time to get reaquainted with my children in a very profound way. And you know what? My girls are absolutely, breathtakingly awesome.

When I talk to other parents about kids, we can sometimes have this haggard, pained overtone because someone in the house "is in a phase" or because someone isn't getting sleep, or because (in my case it's true) siblings are at eachother's throat every second. Wheedling, and whining, and arguing, and fighting can wear you down-really wear you down. Especially when you're tired and stressed out for one reason or another. It's a lot like your marriage-when it's hard to focus on the awesome when the annoyance of the every day starts to grow seeds of resentment inside you. Then somehow, all we notice is what isn't right and what didn't get done. We forget to be grateful.

It took a while-to meditate on that...to take a bite and savor that bit of truth. I have been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and I'm convinced that many family woes can be remedied with Thanksgiving. Maybe in a marriage, partners would be more forgiving of eachother's shortcomings or mistakes if they knew they were loved and appreciated; if they were cherished and adored. Maybe as a parent, we could understand that helping define boundaries that lend security to our children and constant criticism of children (that can become habitual and destroy our magical child's self-esteem) are very fine lines to walk.

And so, when I feel like a grouchy wet cat that MY kids are the only one in their music institute that wait for their lessons in a common area NOT EVEN CLOSE TO patiently (while most kids quietly sit and do homework or obediently do some other quiet activity (iPad, movies, you name it), Gillian won't get up off the floor under the waiting bench facing her teacher's office door; or maybe the girls get into a pretend-I'm-going-to-hit-you match and start in on eachother in the silent-as-a-church hallway; or how Addie might deliberately swing something into the doors of the offices where people are taking lessons to test me.....), I should remind myself that these kids are MY KIDS. My discipline should come from a place less about my concerns over the comfort of people I don't know and how annoyed they are by my kids, and more a place of tolerance for them being children. After all-it is my choice to take them there in the first place. Where does respect for other people's comfort end and harsh over-judgement begin, anyway (the balance part of parenting is off the chain!)?

So, during my break, and our naps, and our snuggling, and all our conversations, I settled into a different vantage point-one where I could REALLY observe them-beyond all the silly stuff that can block the view of their precious true selves. What if I chose to be humbled by the fact that they want to play with me every.single.second instead of getting bent out of shape because I planned on getting something done that day? What if I sit with them on the couch in the mornings we're all home and watch their insipid shows instead of doing laundry and cleaning the kitchen after making breakfast-and luxuriate in the beauty of holding tight to my babies-that-won't-be-babies-much-longer and simply breathing together? What if we really savor all sitting down and coloring together and admire eachother's handiwork-recognizing that these moments are absolutely numbered (oh, how they love to make and illustrate story books right now!)?

Here is how reframing taught me to look at a situation differently. For several months, Addie has done or said something mean, and when we call her on it (with even, non-yelling, patience 99% of the time) she gets really upset and cries and tells us she is waiting for us to say we're sorry or demands that we say we're sorry. For the longest time, I refused to apologize and always tried explaning that no one yelled and that if she hits someone or says something unkind, she should be the person apologizing. One night I had an epiphany and asked her if it was hard to say she's sorry-and she admitted that it was. I asked her if it made it easier to say she was sorry if I said it first, and she said it did. Now she will sometimes tell me she needs help saying she's sorry when she does something she's ashamed of and we tell her it's not ok. I finally stepped back away from my frustration at her stubborn refusal to apologize and realized that her shame made her stubborn about apologizing-much like something I had to overcome as a young adult. Compassionate awareness in this instance is changing the game. I don't want to break her for the sake of "showing her a lesson"; I want to model the things I want her to weave into how she deals with people.

All of this to say I'm not even close to a perfect parent. I don't even know what that means. When I think good parenting means constantly engaging children, I read studies about how detrimental that is to a child's independence, self-reliance, and creativity. We shouldn't be telling them what they should be doing, thinking, drawing, and playing every second...constant parent-guided activity/structure creates a dependence on parents that can have terrible outcomes when those kids leave home. I really think there is a natural social order that plays out, and kids teach eachother what is acceptable much of the time, with or without parents stepping in to correct situations. Like, if you're being a jerk, no one wants to play with you. I am even now trying to deflect tattling for the girls to address their own problems-e.g. "did you tell her that it hurt your feelings before talking to me about it?"

It's really easy to second-guess yourself with the false front given us all with how happy and perfect social networking makes every family on earth seem. One thing I know-it's important to talk about the challenges and difficulties of growing another human being because it's therapeutic, and it helps us process a path forward when we're in a rough patch. It gives us more ammo for our parenting tool box. I stopped trying to keep up with the Jones Family well before Addie joined us-because chances are, they're at least as dysfunctional as we are. Every single family has their own challenges-things you can't even begin to imagine. I know my set of challenges are the ones given to me because I am specially equipped to handle them with the strength allocated to me by my life experience. Every person has experienced hurt, and loss, and heartbreak that you may never know unless they tell you. I'm pretty sure perfect parenting is an oxymoron. I think at the end of the day, parenting success is to just love your kids and get out of their way, and try to be kind to yourself during the journey. I think we should deal with other parents and children with great compassion, no matter the behavior, because they might desperately need some love and support.

The point of my rambling? I reaquainted with the girls. I got all wrapped up in them and them in me, and it was luxurious and humbling and fantastic. When you have nowhere you have to go, and nothing you have to do, you have to sit together in complete honesty. I stopped fighting to do anything. We just were. And wow, these girls are beautiful, and funny, and charming, and sweet, and brimming with love. They are really kind. They are polite and creative and good. I was humbled by the pride I felt. For once, I let myself feel like we had done something right, that we had parented well. My children are good people, really good people, aside from all the evolving-into-conscious-beings pains and figuring-out-their-place-amongst-the-stars pains. And I am proud that they are so spunky that they can barely sit still in a quiet room, and so passionate and self-assured that they argue their side of a story until it makes me insane. That is who I birthed-they are mine. And I love them exactly as big, loud, stubborn, and spirited as they are.

Another year passing by

As our neighbor across the street practices her opera runs and my babies are (finally) napping, I have a sweet moment to consider 2012...

Another year has snuck past us, whirling us along in the currents. We are all older, and maybe a little wiser but it seems there is always more to learn. The older I get, the more I realize the ocean of human context, human emotion, is so vast I will never be able to anticipate exactly how to weave through it all very masterfully. I guess the best I can hope for is that I will minimize my harm to others, and that that those that I hold dear, hold on to, I hope they know how much I love them. And that I can let go of anything, and move beyond things I can't begin to understand that other people do to survive in their own right-those things that sometimes hurt me. These human experiences make it clear that there are forever things, and season things and they are hard lessons about what truth and love really look like, and how unconditional forgiveness is part of that deal.

I have learned that when I said it was impossible to make lasting friendships as an adult, I was completely (gloriously) wrong. I had a theory that you could only cement relationships through knowing each other in formative years, weaving into each other, growing together, but my beautiful friends and neighbors here in my neighborhood have proven that a foolish notion. I have met some of the most amazing women I could ever hope to meet in the past 18 months, through thoughtful, intentional parenting. I have come to realize that home is truly where your heart is, where your heart speaks, and that there are no hard, fast rules about what that place looks like. I thought that the best place to raise my kids was in a neighborhood in some suburb where there are good, safe schools (probably down south), and where neighbors know each other (now I think suburbia would end me)....but what I have found is such profound safety in a place where people assume that couldn't exist, and a tight-knit community in a giant city that feels exactly like I always hoped home would feel like. I love Rogers Park. I love the people that live here. I love the Tibetans who wear traditional skirts and Elmo t-shirts and flip flops, and the well-spoken homeless people, and the plastic bags swaying poetically in the naked winter trees. I love the frozen lakefront with the smooth rocks sleeping underneath, waiting to sway again when spring comes. I love that I know the names of the owners and managers of our neighborhood haunts, and that every single person I meet who lives here is equally in love with this place-would never choose to be anywhere else. I love walking down the street and always seeing someone I know, and the safety and security of knowing my community always has my back should we need anything. We have a parent group that is a place of support and love and exchange of ideas, and stuff, and information. We had picnics and gatherings all spring and summer and fall, enjoying our bond of parenthood. And truly, each and every neighbor is amazing, and beautiful, and profound...each conversation humbles me and challenges me and teaches me just how complex and strong these gossamer strings are that bind us. I have searched for home all my life, and with all the instability of my home as a child, I know I have finally found it-here, in an imperfect place, full of imperfect people (just like me), doing the best they can. But they do it without pretense, without shame, and openly. I love my home, and my friends, warts and all. Unconditionally.

My girls, my angel girls, are my greatest achievement. All my professional life's work, all my reputation as a scientist, my respect, my nominations for high awards and early promotions-they don't hold a candle to my children. My babies that at this moment are dreaming their own dreams and thinking their own thoughts- the babies whose life energy inexplicable passed through my body to their own. They are absolute magic, and they are so difficult-the personification of light and dark. They show me what the masters mean about context and that you can't truly know anything without knowing the anti-anything. Every day they teach me more about my values and my beliefs-every day they challenge what I think I know and prove to me that I should never get too comfortable, that things are always changing, and that instead of trying to control things too much that there is tremendous value in observation, and humor, and learning to be malleable. Everything changes-every single second. The people who accept and eventually find peace in that will live long and happily. The others will manifest frustration in chronic illness, disease, and and stress. No one has ever been able to make that lesson more clear than my sentient, purposeful, very self-possessed daughters. They are not extensions of me-they are themselves. I can try to guide them, and then get out of their way. Most of all my job is to accept them and love them, and try to be open and withhold judgement from their life choices. At the end of their lives, those choices will have molded them to be who and what life (what God) intended them to be-to teach them to become, and to also give important lessons to everyone around them.   

So, as 2012 ends and 2013 begins-I am grateful. I am grateful for our tiny space in the universe and that it is so beautiful. I am grateful for family, friends, health, and our home. I am grateful most of all for all the love that surrounds me and all the people that manifest that so palpably. I look forward to the beauty and challenges of the new year and hope that I can handle my moving through the tides with acceptance, grace, and humor. They say the best is yet to come; judging by what has been, I can't wait.

(New Year's Eve with neighbors and about 15 sugared up spastic kids = 1000% awesome)

Angels & Demons

When I was 11 years old, my mother was the victim of a violent crime. She was shot-in the head-by a mentally ill 16 year old boy. She was working at a convenience store in a small town in central Florida, LaBelle, where my dad (a PTSD-ridden Vietnam Vet) had gotten a job teaching high school history and economics.

In many ways, LaBelle was a small town the way Newtown, Connecticut is a small town-except not nearly as affluent. When I lived there in the early 1980s, there was 1 elementary school, 1 middle school, and 1 high school. At last census, LaBelle had less than 5000 residents, and its claim to fame is the annual “Swamp Cabbage Festival”. I remember how excited we were when we got a Burger King-because there was only one other restaurant in town (White’s). We also had one grocery store, and had to drive to Lehigh acres, 25 miles away, to go to the closest department store-Kmart (but I really loved the smell of all the orange blossoms in the winter on the way there). I spent many, many hours of my young life “exploring in the woods” by myself or with my friends, even as young as 8 years old (we moved there when I was in 3rd grade). I spent many more hours swimming with friends, unattended, in the community pool on the main road outside our subdivision, and within sight of my mother’s convenience store (where, inevitable on summer days, we would go and beg her for candy and soda and play the Pac Man machine). By all accounts, we lived in a safe, small town, where everyone knew everyone.

In 1985, my mom was working her usual long shift when a 16 year old boy entered her store with a pillowcase over his head. He wielded a gun, and demanded the money in the safe and cash register. My mom gave him everything she had access to, but he was nervous and told her to go into the storage room with him. She went, and said there were a few minutes where he seemed like he wasn’t sure what to do. He raised the gun and pointed at her face, about 5 feet between them. She turned her head and braced for the impact of the shot. Because she turned her head he did not deliver a lethal shot in her face. Instead, the bullet embedded in the back of her head, entering through the side, and although some bits of it could not be removed because of their position near her brain, she survived (well, at least until she died from cancer 9 years later).

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was in 5th grade at LaBelle Elementary School. My Aunt Debbie came to get me out of school-in the middle of lunch. She told me something bad had happened. She told me my mom had been airlifted by helicopter (nearest hospital that could treat her was about an hour away) was at the hospital, and that she had been shot.

If you know me, you know that my mom was my lifeline in my weird, emotionally detached family (with even weirder family dynamics). I had started attending Baptist Church with a friend at age 6 when we lived in Clearwater, FL, and when we moved to LaBelle, I quickly started going, alone, to Grace Baptist Church, which was a short 5-10 minute walk from our house. I needed the security and sense of belonging available to me there. I did Vacation Bible School every summer we lived there, and spent three hours every Sunday there. I got saved one Sunday (it was one of the most powerful emotional moments of my life-even now) without any (biological) family present-at the ripe old age of 8. I was baptized in water, surrounded by my new church family (but not my biological one) one Sunday. When the minister went to dunk me under he put his hand over my nose and, always the avid swimmer and control freak, I said “I can do it”, and he whispered kindly, “I’m supposed to do it!” (and winked at me). After the baptism, I was convinced my parents had to get saved…no easy feat for me to accomplish in my family, but as always, I rose to the occassion. I couldn’t stop worrying about the salvation of their souls-uncharacteristically I cried and begged and pleaded until they got saved (which they definitely did to shut me up). It didn’t occur to me that we were unusual-I never noticed how we never hugged or kissed each other, or how we never said “I Love You” in my family; my evening visits with my mom, when she tucked me in and we talked about our day and life (until I moved out at age 18), were sacred to me. They were our only tender, loving alone moments…having her in my life was what saved me-I am convinced of that.

When she was shot I was devastated. Just the year prior I had watched my beloved grandfather (my very best friend), who I spent every waking second I could with and who lived just a quick bike ride away, die of bladder cancer at home. At 11, I had seen just about enough of death and the ugliness of the world (I was also abused as a young child) to make me renounce God. And so I did-bitterness and disillusionment turned me from the church instead of drawing me into it. Never fear-that didn’t last too long-I found my spiritual heart three years later when I discovered the Tao Te Ching and the poetry of Rumi in a new age book store when we moved from LaBelle. Ever since I have found solace in eastern philosophy and eventually joined the Catholic Church, and my family and I are happy members of the amazing charitable, compassionate, and tolerant community of St. Gertrude.

So, I know from the vantage point of a child what it is to worry that a parent would die from a gunshot wound. Luckily for me she didn’t. But I don’t know, as a parent, how to reconcile the death of a child from a violent crime. I cannot stop watching the news, and weeping over the photos of those children in Newtown. I can’t stop thinking about my oldest child and that she is the exact age of those children murdered. I keep asking myself “how do you keep going when your child is lost?“ I can’t stop thinking of the mentally ill boy who did this and the mother who tried to protect him by keeping him home after a short stint in high school, who undoubtedly loved him too. The entire situation weighs on me, as it does on every person I have communicated with about it. It defines tragedy.

Our system is broken, our families fragmented. We don’t know each other anymore, except through the internet and video games where we can kill people who are so well animated they look real, without batting an eyelash. Television regularly shows violent images and glorifies the savvy and violence of criminals, and I think most people have no idea their kids are watching it, or maybe how much it affects them when they watch it. Many parents are so busy working long days and disconnected they either don’t see the warning signs or chalk up emotional distance to adolescence. And even the ones who desperately try to get help, who know their child could turn on a dime, get absolutely zero mental health support because our country’s infrastructure for mental health SUCKS.

So, what’s the answer? I’m on the wagon with banning assault rifles or semi-automatic firearms. They have absolutely no place in society. Their only purpose, as far as I can tell, are to kill as many people as possible as quickly as possible. This conversation is way bigger than gun laws, though. It’s about where we are going as a global community. It’s about mental illness in combination with mass isolation and the convenient, false sense of humanity that comes with our technology. I mean, we are all too bothered with the effort of making a phone call that we often defer to texting these days-even voice to voice communication is often too much effort in our packed daily existence.

These kinds of tragedies were exceedingly rare before 1982, even with looser gun laws and less protected schools-but has happened 62 times since. The status of metal health services and the stigma around mental illness seems to be generally equally as inefficient before and after this period. One site succinctly notes, “The history of mental health services in the United States is one of good intentions followed by poor execution; of promises to deliver better services for less cost; and of periodic revolutionary change with neither the evidence to support the new programs or the financial investment to see if the new approach could be effective if carried out adequately.” What has changed, though, is the infiltration of pervasive violence into American culture, and a growing detachment from our interconnected lives.

Most places don’t have a “community-raising-families” mentality anymore, where everyone is looking out for each other and the children of friends and neighbors. Mentally ill people can hide inside their homes and neglect their children, almost to death, while they play violent video games or role playing games online; or they can communicate with and get egged on by violent groups on various web sites. People, children, can learn how to make bombs, how to plan strategic assaults, and research the best assault weapons 24 hours a day-from the comfort of their own bedrooms. Then they can go watch zombies graphically get their heads cut off or bashed in with rocks and hammers or clever criminals execute mass murder or violent crimes on television, or watch slick, well-produced movies that glorify hit men, car thieves, or other criminals who murder, blow things up, get shot, and unrealistically survive to live another day. And children and innocent people are murdered every day in acts of violence...and we sit in our false coccoon of safety, and may or may not give a passing thought to "those poor people".

Somehow it locks our attention when we relate, so intimately, with a scenario like Newtown. For me, it's that I have a six year old daughter-the same age as those who perished. For others it's that they are teachers, or are married to teachers. Or maybe it's because we are parents, and the horror of this feels like it's our own nightmare played out in real life. Somehow watching the suffering of others throughout the world doesn't feel so real to us when we see it on TV, or get mailings from international humanitarian organizations asking for help. Some people find the suffering of others (on a fundamental level, like human rights, hunger, disease) much more real, like my friend Roxanne, who spent years among people who die from not getting $3 worth of medicine for simple infections. For her and her family, who lived, worked, and prayed among the suffering, the sorrows of the world are a lot more real than those of us who have never stepped outside a relatively benign middle-class american life. I had the opportunity to talk to her about the shooting, and we discussed how ugliness has a place in this world, just as beauty does. We both explained what happened to our children so we could be the ones to answer their questions and tell the story. Some places, violence, disease, hunger, and suffering are basic realities of every day. We have these problems here too, but not on the massive scale as third world countries.

Inexplicably, every time a mass shooting happens, we walk around wondering “how could this happen?” I just told you how it’s happening. So, now we can’t claim ignorance-now we are negligent, RESPONSIBLE, if we continue as we were. WE are creating this culture of violence by doing nothing, accepting these events as "the way things are now", and hoping that somehow things will get better without having to do anything to make it better. If we don’t wake up, more innocent babies, their selfless teachers, or people going about their business at malls and movie theaters will be murdered en masse by people just like this school shooter. If we don’t start trusting our gut that someone isn’t quite right and keep assuming someone else will report a person who appears unstable, or if we do report them and that person isn’t actively taken in to the mental health system for treatment-then we are responsible for what comes next.

Assault weapons should be taken out of the hands of American citizens, and a healthcare infrastructure should be created that supports mentally ill adults, children, and parents who know full well their children are capable of doing the worst we can imagine. And for those of us that fill in the spaces in between-we should turn off our computers, put our cell phones away, and pay attention to the people we are accountable to. We should know who they are-what their hopes and dreams are, what they are afraid of, who and what they love, what they are watching, writing, and doing... We should conversations-real ones-with friends and neighbors. We should know and look out for the people around us-and the kids around us. We should be aware. We should be kind, and cultivate the compassion that comes with personal relationships with others-and teach our children that. That is how they come to value individuals. To value life.

Giving Thanks

For thanksgiving, we went down to Florida to spend it with the family in Jacksonville. We flew down on the Saturday before and Nonni and Grandaddy rented a condo in town because the river house was full of family already. It was a great location, and had a cute little playground:

The girls got to spend lots of quality time with their grandparents and we got to spend time alone together and to see Sean's cousin William, who is like a brother to him. William and his wife, Erin have a sweet little boy who is 1 year old, and are pregnant with #2. Sunday night before thanksgiving we went to their place for dinner and ate amazing food (William is a fabulous cook), got to catch up, and I got to see their very cool house in Avondale.

Monday the grandparents took the kids to the children's museum and Sean and I got to relax and go see a movie. At the theater! (If you are not a parent of young children, this feat means nothing to you). Monday night we relaxed and ate some of Grandaddy's fabulous pork tenderloin and enjoyed being together.

Tuesday, Suzi, Sean, the girls and I went up to St. Mary's, GA to visit Suzi's sister Alyce and her daughter Jennifer and grandsons (Cooper and Cannon) in a cute little town called St. Mary's. Gillian and her second cousin Cooper seem to still be sweet on eachother, which is fine by me-we know they have a good family ;-) It was nice to see the kids enjoying the backyard and getting to know eachother-and watching Nonni bust a move on the trampoline!!! (she's still got it y'all!) We also went to a great little restaurant by golf cart (it's a small charming town, and golf carts are not unusual for getting around town)!

Tuesday evening Sean and I went out to a jam session William goes to all the time (William is a great musician, and he and Sean love playing old time music together). I even played a little guitar and banjo (William has an awesome banjo that I could play for hours!).

Wednesday, Suzi and I took the kids to Toys R' Us (or TOYZRUSS, as it were) for a little gift from the grandparents, and then we headed down to the family's river house to hang out with William, Erin, and their little son Shephard and visit with the O'Learys (Sean's dad's sister, husband, sons, and great-nephew, Connor). Lots of joking, reminiscing, and a brand new generation of young children to enjoy the peace and magic of the place (it is a wonderful place to get away and just breathe)...

Some cute pics of the cousins:

And here's one of William, Erin and  baby Shep:

And some scenes in the evening:

The girls learned to play bumper pool from their older second cousins:

After a wonderful day and evening of catching up and lots of playing, we headed back to town for a good night of sleep. The followign morning we went back down to the river for Thanksgiving festivities. Grandaddy was hard at work a couple of weeks before and created a treasure hunt for the girls. He found a map and helped them navigate!

(Navigating maps is easier with a mimosa)

Addie uses her gynormous muscles to dig the treasure up....

Swings hung for the girls to play on (clever-they added two=no fighting):

All this while our masterful hosts of the year (Mimi and Dave, below) friend two huge turkeys!

Auntie Kim got some play and snuggle time in before dinner:

And everyone got to catch up:

Then we had dinner and took some family photos. The Farm has been in desperate need of a plumbing overhaul, and at long last, it happened. That was enough reason to celebrate-WATER PRESSURE!!!! Wheeee!

As the day wound down, I was reminded of how lucky we are-we have a place where we belong-to eachother. We have a home where we can go to recharge our love batteries-together. That means something to me, having grown up in a family that wasn't close at all...so, you know I love my family. I want my girls to know where they come from, and to have the security to KNOW they are loved-to be told every day. To be kissed and hugged and adored. To be kids. I don't take this for granted.  So, we give thanks for the many ways blessings enter our life, and for all the places we find warmth in life.

Our trip ended the next day after a nice morning at the zoo, and a very tearful drop off at the airport. Addie and Gillian were beside themselves. And though it made my heart ache to see them sad, the tears came from a place of love. They love and are loved. They know where they come from, and what makes them safe. I am grateful for that.

The Philosopher

Sometimes I wonder about my mystical Addie. I mean, I never question that kids are far wiser than us, having just come from There. But Addie is sometimes otherworldly, and I revel in that. When both girls were babies, they would stare at the sconces, remembering pure light (I am convinced). Gillian has always been very sweet, very charitable (except to her sister), and very kind. Gillian follows the rules, and can plug in anywhere. She easily makes friends, she is well-liked, and she is wonderfully musical and creative.

Addie marches to her own drum. She doesn’t care if people like her. She does what she likes to do, and has the humor of a 40 year old. I feel, all the time, like she is just barely tolerating being in her little 3 year old body. Somehow it’s our secret that she is far older and far wiser than what the limitations of her development suggest. When I lay down with her to tuck her into bed, she just stares into my eyes, and says something like “my beautiful mama” and strokes my face and hair like she’s the parent or the nurturing spouse, and I’m the life apprentice. When I get up to go pack lunches, I say “give me a kiss”, and she will say, intently, “do it slow, like we’re married.” For the record, she has been fixating on getting married lately, and in the My Little Pony Episode with Shining Armor and Princess Cadence they share a long magical, transformational kiss at the end, but still. That kiss is meant, by Addie, to represent the truest love. And I am the chosen one. It makes me weepy to have all the love in her little soul directed at me like that. I know she won’t want me to kiss her one day, so I’ll log these into my memory box to pull out when she’s 16 and yelling about how much she hates me and how unfair I am.

Addie is full of mischief; she loves to interject just the right amount of action or word to set off a chain reaction of effect. Like when we went on a field trip and after the play we saw, it was time for lunch. We went down to the basement of the place we saw it, where there was a cafeteria. She told the child next to her how nice it was to eat outside (remember: we were inside in a windowless basement). The other child told her they were inside. She said, cheekily, “nope, OUTSIDE! It’s a beee-yoootiful day!” and this went on and on, until the other child collapsed in a weeping heap of frustration. His crying went on for at least 30 minutes. Addie was more than satisfied at her control mastery. I was fascinated, and horrified, by that exchange. She does the exact same thing with Gillian all day long. And it works. No matter how many times I tell Gillian to ignore her (this is especially true of Addie deliberately repeating everything Gillian says. When they copy ME, I say things like “I love my mama. I want to listen every day and do what she says because I love her. I will clean up my room, and not fight with my sister”…they lose interest quickly in my self-serving comments. Gillian gets upset instead of following my lead, but she’ll learn.). Addie has said mean things to me before (“I don’t love you” comes to mind, but she doesn’t know the word “hate” yet) and she often follows a mean comment with “I WANT to hurt your feelings!”.

Addie also blows my mind regularly with weird, insightful things to say. One Saturday morning she was singing, and then stopped and said “swallet, white and sick”. I asked her what a swallet is. She said "when you swallet, you get sick and come back, and get sick and come back and get sick and come back". I asked, "come back from where?" She answered "from you". So, this exchange sent me to the internet to google “swallet”, a word I had never heard before. It appears to be an English word for sinkhole…or more specifically, the point where water leaves the surface and flows underground (sinkholes may or may not have a swallet). Some say a swallet is a “cave that swallows a river.” But it also has a historical connotation in mining, as when “water breaks in upon miners at work.” Was Addie recalling some experience in another lifetime when she was a miner who became ill and died or someone around her did? Does “white and sick” mean “pale and sick”? Was she giving me a message from the great beyond that we become sick, die, and come back over and over again? I have felt that is true-in our wide magnificent universe-that God is serenity-pure life-that we are infinitely wise and return to the light of pure energy, pure serenity. I believe we are here, learning the craft of infinite compassion, oneness, and eventually mastering these things after many lifetimes here and then become teachers. I have always thought that is true, and near death experience stories and Buddhism have a similar basis.

Here are some stories:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBgI8W5xf4A

This website has a lot (http://www.near-death.com/), and many repeat the same themes, but this is one of my favorites:
http://www.near-death.com/experiences/reincarnation04.html

This is not all there is. I know that. It seems so impermanent, and like this is the part of our existence that is temporary. Quantum theory tells us time is relative, that multiple possible outcomes, occurring at exactly the same time, are infinite. Maybe that is what connects us. It is much easier to have patience and compassion for others when you see them as fellow souls moving through the matrix of learning to perfect their understanding and connection to others. To teach others with embodying illness, death, crime, or experience loss and suffering to get to a higher level of understanding. None of the things that happen to us are personal. Things just happen. We learn from it. It carves a deeper cavern for our joy, as it were. If we can truly find a place of observation, tolerance, and compassion we cease suffering. We become open and loving. We stop beating ourselves up over the minutia of every day existence, or beating others up for indiscretions. Our wise little Addie has our respect as a teacher. Some days I feel awake, like today, but many more days I am distracted and preoccupied with the everyday details that are of no real consequence in the grand scheme of life. Mindfulness meditation is intended to connect a person with the part of them that is immutable and full of grace-to let go of “things that happen” and focus on “that which IS”. These things go along with my need to commit to taking better care of myself, starting with enough sleep. It’s just a blink, after all. Best not to miss it.

Musician

Adelaide, at the tender age of 3.25, is learning to read music. I wasn't sure if the piano would be a good choice so young, but we had a very laid back few tries in the summer attached to Gillian's lesson when G's school music teacher did the rounds to give teach in people's homes. Addie loved it. So, we continued into this year. Their music teacher is fantastic, and the girls have a wonderful rapport with her. So, without further adieu, here is Addie actually reading the notes to "Merrily We Roll Along" or for most of us, Mary Had a Little Lamb. Note: she isn't there yet with figuring things out by ear, so, she was really reading the notes. Gillian's violin teacher told me that the siblings always pick music up faster. She says "it's almost not fair" how much better they do in Suzuki as a result. If all goes according to plan, Addie will start cello next Fall when she's 4. Like Gillian, I hope the piano provides a good foundation for her musical beginnings with string instruments! I need to post a video of Gillian, who started violin in mid November of 2011. She has progressed at warp speed with a very excellent, very strict teacher, and a very dedicated father to help her learn.

Hanging On

I feel like someone who has Alzheimer’s and is totally aware of that, but can’t stop a runaway train hurdling toward the abyss of cognitive dystrophy. Except it’s with my kids. I am acutely aware of how I won’t get this time back, but somehow I can’t get to a place of blissed out motherhood these days the way I did when Gillian was little. I remember with fondness watching her in absolute peaceful happiness personify rocks, but those days are long, long gone and have been replaced with a constant feeling of Just “hanging in there”. I guess I know the various factors contributing to not feeling super connected and tender every second. They go kindof like this:

1.      Whining-constant

2.      Fighting and bickering-constant

3.      Selective listening-constant

4.      Resistance to acquiescence-constant

5.      Mess making-intermittent

6.      Saying no when we ask them to do something-more often than not (which = Time Out)

7.      Meltdowns-for whatever reason, more frequently of late with Addie

8.      During said meltdowns, zingers thrown about like “I DON’T LOVE YOU”; “IF YOU SAY THAT I WON’T LET YOU PLAY WITH MY PONY”; “I HATE YOU IF YOU DO THAT”, “I WILL ONLY LOVE YOU IF YOU APOLOGIZE” (the apology usually follows something unfortunate she did to ME-I have yet to know how she figured out how to be so hurtful; each one is followed up by me with a “Well, I’m sorry you are feeling that way. I love YOU.”).

9.      I never get enough sleep

10.  We have lots of stress having to do with changes that are putting a serious financial strain on us.

11.  Don’t need to say it but: EVERYONE IN THIS HOUSE THINKS THEY KNOW EVERYTHING (including yours truly). Yeah, that’s a big one.

Add that all together and VOILA! Skipping record quality of correcting the children, asking them not to hurt eachother, putting them in time out, all of this while I am feeling blaringly exhausted, stressed, and overextended. It makes sense, then, that the kids’ behavior isn’t nearly so tolerable in this state of existence. With of all this surficial BS distracting me from living and connecting with my family, you can add a heaping serving of guilt to that tall order (oh, that and the added guilt of knowing I am whining about a situation that could be approximately 90 million universes worse in a slew of other infinite possible circumstances-the proverbial White Whine).

So, what do we do? Well, I would say take a deep breath and know it won’t last forever, except we have had a pretty good run of disruption lately. It all started with that oven fire in July (I haven’t told you about that yet-needless to say, we finally got the house put back together in September). OK, so I’ll just say we need to take a lot of deep breaths and have faith that this is in our deck of cards, that it is just a part of the plan en route to sunnier days. Because there are no accidents, you know.

Another good thing would be to show myself some compassion, but that has never been one of my better virtues. I think a good bit of parenting your second child when you have a first child pleading for your every extra second of energy involves operating in survival mode. All the time-which gives the second child the shaft, completely, and makes you feel like an absolute failure most of the time as a mother. I’m not sure if it’s that or the fact that our psychological angst is manifesting itself in all kind of crazy in their behavior that makes it feel worse.

So, here I am, having my usual October-where things are drastically in flux, where I am feeling melancholy at best, and where God is asking me to step off the cliff and have faith he will provide. I need to take better care, get some sleep, do some yoga on top of my walking, restart the meditation, and put our current brand of crazy in perspective. I need to have more afternoons like the other weekend when the girls and I made a giant mound of leaves and played in it for hours. I know when I do that, my lenses will be clear to see my beautiful little girls being beautiful, and silly, and sweet, for me to see my blessed life, and so that I can recapture my usual iron clad tenacity for dealing with what the world throws my way.

All about the teeth

On Wednesday, October 3 Gillian lost her first tooth. As fate would have it, I happened to be there at lunch helping out in the classroom when Gillian said "OUCH! Mama-I bit my tooth and it HURT!". Then a second later she said "Oh, here it is! It came out!". Instant celebrity. All the kids gathered around as if it was the hottest ticket in town to see her tiny little tooth, freshly plucked from her little mouth with a drop of blood on the bottom for legitimacy.

The teacher, Mrs. K., immediately went into tooth loss mode: whipped out a ziploc baggy and a little cardstock tooth board, wrote the date and "Gillian-congratulations on your first lost tooth!", stuck it in the baggy, and Gilllian proudly displayed it throughout the rest of lunch time. For this was a SPECIAL day-the day she became a big girl (in her own mind, anyway-let me tell you, a lost or wiggly tooth is a status thing in the jetsetting Kindergarten crowd). For me, well I was both proud and verclempt, though above all, relieved-this is proof that Gillian is not enough of a biological Colledge to freakishly hang on to her baby teeth into middle age like her Aunt and Grandfather (the Aunt, into her 50s, had her canines removed and had braces pull the adult teeth down; people like to tell the story of how the grandfather lost his last baby tooth when he was in the war, or something), or lose them really late, like everyone else. I was proud that she was delighted with her bloody little tooth and not freaked out by it. I heard her tell someone that the tooth fairy brings gold coins, and made a mental note for later to get me to the bank for some gold dollars.

And then y'all-after lunch was done and the floors and tables were clean I got in my car and wept like a baby about that little tooth. I wallowed in the realization that my little girl is growing up-a visceral feeling of loss. What can I say- I remember this toothless sweetness:

I pulled it together like mamas always do. I went to Target and got a few groceries and then went to the bank and got three gold dollars because this was a SPECIAL occasion-first tooth loss and all. And I found a suitable little box for the tiny tooth. And I located some fairy dust glitter (because every fairy I ever knew left a trail of fairy pixie everywhere they go, don't you know..?)...and some pretty paper to wrap the gold coins.

Gillian decided the box should go under her pillow. We had a discussion about how big the tooth fairy is, and Gillian was a little worried she wouldn't be able to lift the lid of the box (interestingly, she was NOT worried how the tiny fairy would lift her melon sized sleeping head and pull the box out from underneath the pillow, but I digress). I assured her the tooth fairy was hella strong and not to worry, but also at least as tall as her hand is long. Luckily, all the excitement on earth couldn't keep Gillian awake, so she was asleep before she even got her evening back tickle. Still, I waited a bit to swap things out. I fashioned a tiny scroll and wrote this (I wonder if she thought it curious how everyone always seems to nag her to be nice to Addie-maybe Santa gave the TF a heads up that this was a recurring issue):

I tied it with a little ribbon and put it in the little box with the wrapped gold coins. Later, we discussed that the fairy was probably a good 6 inches tall given the size of the scroll and handwriting. At any rate, the fairy left sparkly pixie dust everywhere, and Gillian was beyond herself waking up and discovering this. Faith in magic and everything else, preserved!

(While we're on the subject, I would also like to mention that Addie's teeth have really realigned since the num num went away. They almost look like she never had an oral fixation.)

Every since the tooth loss day, Addie has wanted to read Dr. Seuss' The Tooth Book. Addie likes to look at Gillian's dental crater (and enjoyed marvelling at the tooth itself before it got taken by the TF), but doesn't seem to be wishing for her own. That tells me she's a little creeped out by it, because she always wants everything Gillian has. Anyway, new Milestone-came and went on our high speed trajectory to adulthood.

The Epic Appliance Circle of Hell

We had an oven fire on July 12th. With a 1 day old oven. Let me explain our summer of appliance hell.

Our old oven that came with our condo stopped baking a few weeks before, and when we did the math it seemed like getting a new one was a better value than paying hundreds of dollars for a service call for the old one. So we called a locally owned appliance store with a sterling reputation, and it was delivered and installed expeditiously. Sears should take notes-because by the time July 12th rolled around we had two dishwashers (yeah, the dishwasher had up and died in May) we had bought from them-all backordered, finally delivered, and then they died-either they never worked or died within days. The third one was a charm. Well, it seemed to be by July 12th, anyway.

So, we had our oven for approximately 22 hours when I decided to bake the kids some chicken nuggets for dinner. I preheated the oven to 350 as directed, as I had a million times before. Except this time, it started to smoke as it approached 350 degrees. In fact, smoke started pouring out and my sad, weak ventilation fan did nothing. The smoke smelled toxic. I told the kids to get out of the house. I turned off the oven and called Sean (who worked in the basement) and told him I thought the oven was in fire. He ran up the stairs and told me to get out. The smoke was dense and thick and I grabbed the cat and got out. He had brought out a one way fan and blew the smoke into the back yard, but the damage was done-there was soot all over the house and the smell of burnt plastic and chemicals was nauseating. I made Sean wear my respirator because no one should be breathing that.

When it was all said and done, the culprit of our fire were rubber-handled grilling utensils Sean put in the bottom drawer out of habit. Except in THIS stove, the bottom drawer was a broiler, not a storage drawer. Even though the broiler wasn't on, it got hot enough to ignite our rubber utensils. Sean and I both earned a Darwin Award that day-him for putting the utensils in there in the first place, and me for believing the salesman who told me that we could store stuff in it. I called their customer service department and told them what happened and they said "fire" (and I assume, "stupidity") is not part of the warranty.

Anyway, instead of having Gillian's friend over for dinner, the girls and I spent the night at her friend's house. This is important because it illustrates that no one is an orphan in Rogers Park (and man, do I adore our community of neighbors). I called our insurance company next to see if "stupidity" was a covered benefit, and indeed it was. I was so grateful I nearly wept because our house was a disaster. But I started getting an inkling of what was in store when they told me the professional cleaning and decon team would be at our place at 7:30 the next morning. I was giddy at the idea that not only would our stove be covered to replace, but the whole house would get cleaned! And we could stay in a hotel for the duration of the cleaning-which, amazingly, was four solid days. Booking a nearby hotel proved to be a challenge-there was nothing with a kitchenette or separate bedroom available anywhere...so we got to shack up in one room (the kids did not go to bed before 11 pm any of the nights we were there). But before that, when we arrive at the hotel they told us we didn't have a room (thank God for printed receipts) and after over an hour at the desk, the rate I was given over the phone was not honored, which equals another 30 minutes if irritation. We had no toys, a little food we tried to keep on ice, and not much clothing. Luckily we were near the gym where the kids take swim class, and could go swimming. Also, on Saturday we had arranged to spend the next day at a friends place going to a kids concert and generally hanging out.

At some point the insurance company told us they would cover all the food losses and anything destroyed in the oven. I was to inventory everything in the cabinets. I made a Type A spreadsheet and threw lots of things away. They also decided to cover the microwave, and eventually the refrigerator (both had so much soot in them that it was more expensive to clean them than replace them). They also covered the window units, which had stopped working after getting gunked up. After the cleaning crew came and went, we went home. The house had definitely never been so absolutely spotless. My online claim told me that USAA had paid $8,000 for my house to be spotless. At some point, a professional dry cleaning came and took all our curtains for professional cleaning to get the soot off.

The kids had a doctors appointment on Thursday. We came home to a strong plastic burning smell and I noticed that the faceplate where the industrial air cleaner had been plugged in was melting and turning black. I freaked and we turned off all the breakers and called an electrician. Within a couple of hours someone got our here and took care of it, but told me he didn't think that fix was permanent or safe, and that it was a systemic issue-which he linked to our oven fire "surge" (which I wasn't surge was true or not, but he seemed very interested in making it part of the claim). Generally, our crappy wiring was a fire hazard. The electrician said he thought we should redistribute the electrical because most of the condo was on 3 circuits. Some of the wiring looked like it was 50 years old or more. He said it was a tinder box waiting to go up. USAA said he needed to do work that was to code and in order to bring the condo up to code he was authorized to redistribute the lines, which he estimated would cost $1600. So, a crew of two men who didn't speak English worked on the electrical for two solid days. Then they billed us $6800-which was a LOT more than they estimated. The electrician blew it off and said they ran into more than they bargained for in the walls. USAA didn't sound alarmed. At 6:30 the next morning our neighbor downstairs (who had a 2 day old baby) knocked on our door and told us water was pouring out of his ceiling. I had officially had enough and this was the last straw. Our dishwasher line had become electrified and the holes resulted in an enormous amount of water going into the walls and ceiling below us. Our overpriced electrical job had made things even worse. And to top it off the damned dishwasher had died. For the third time in two months.

So, I called USAA and the electrician in a panic, and they came back out. USAA again told him to fix the issue, which he determined was a grounding problem. They worked two more days and billed us $5,000 more. Our $1600 job turned into a nearly $12,000 job. I was furious. USAA routed our claim to the fraud department and threatened not to pay since the electrician didn't get preauthorization for the work-anything past the $1600. I called the electrician and told him to call USAA or I would put a stop payment on our Visa and he wouldn't get a dime. He called them, they relented, and decided to pay. It was a screaming nightmare. And they left spackled holes all over our house. USAA said they would pay to paint the house, so I went with a really respected painting company. By the time the house got painted, it was September. The haggling, the house being in shambles, the lack of normalcy, the delivery of two refrigerators (yes, one of them didn't work for us either), two more dishwashers (even the one they delivered after the ceiling incident for the neighbors was a dud-that made four dead dishwashers from Sears), the stress of not getting reimbursed for all the work, but finally getting reimbursed, the haggling with contractors who did more damage even while they repaired things (like the wall damage from when they moved appliances to clean the walls), electrical, and painting, and endless negotiation took 11 weeks. And then we got to deal with being stiffed by Sears who had reimbursed us for one dishwasher and charged us for four more. I spent many hours on the phone and finally spoke with the store manager. She had the money back in our account within 24 hours.

So, by mid-September the house was finished. New electrical, new paint, new appliances, clean (only after Sean and I scrubbed everything after the drywall patching and sanding, which unfortunately happened after the professional cleaners came and went). The relief was palpable. And that is the story of our anything-but-simple oven fire.