Opinion: Prop 8

My parents were divorced by the time I was born. As a result of their decision I grew up in a house where marriage took on a less than ideal (or even traditional) meaning. There were periods of dating, divorce, remarriage, more divorce, more dating, more marriage and so it went. I grew up not knowing my biological father, being introduced to other men, some who became momentary step fathers, others who remained the "uncle" or the "boy friend". I was told from a very early age that he, my biological father, was not important in my development or nurturing etc., because I had a good (step)dad who provided for us and took us as his own. At the age of 8 the last of the boyfriends married my mother and we did have a father figure.

There were times (even after the assurance that this last dad was going to stay) when I went to my mother and begged her for the norm, the ideal, the kind of marriage and family that my friends had. I wanted to be like the other kids I saw, the happy ones with a mom and a dad always there, without fearing that, any day now, someone would leave, change their mind and another divorce would occur.

I am now 50 years old. I still wish I had the kind of home Thor has. The ideal: Imperfect parents who committed to each other, fought along the way, built a home and family that endures through all the muck of life. They have been through it all and the fact remains, the best thing about Thor's mom and dad is that they love each other and committed to each other and their children -forever.

I have worked through my childhood insecurities and tried to deal with what my reality was during those first 8 years. Many people calculate that 8 out of 50 is a minor amount of time, especially when you figure that I was married at 18 and left my "home" rather early and could just "go on with my life the way I chose from then on." Their good meaning reasoning being that 8 years is a very short time for a child to deal with, and if there was a good man in the house after that 8 years, why was I complaining or feeling slighted?

The fact is every child, no matter who, every child needs one mother and one father to be created and gain a body. Every child has a right to be reared in a home where both that same mother and father will lovingly commit to that child for the rest of their life and to each other. This is not a faery tale, it has occurred billions of times over the last 4,000 years. Even when parents no longer were in love, they stayed together "for the children". They bucked it up and did what was right so that their children would benefit.

Usually at this point in this kind of conversation, someone will point out that they know of a couple who fought and argued so much it damaged the children and the family was actually happier once a divorce was finalized.

My answer is, well whoopi-doo for that family, my family situation was not so lucky. And like all children, I wanted the ideal. I still wish I had one mother and one father.

I have nieces and nephews whose father was taken away from them by an early death. Not divorce, not by choice, but by an accident. They have had a good life, again with a man who "stepped" up and fathered them. However, they too long for the original set of parents.

I place any and all bets that if every child were polled, they would choose the original set of parents, their own personal mom and dad, and wished they loved each other, committed, and built a home similar and as imperfect as Thor's parents.

I know there are exceptions to the ideal and I am grateful for good men and women who married into families and take the role of parent to children that are not their biological own. I believe in adoption and wish that every child have a family. I do however still believe, that even in the most severe cases, given the choice, a child would choose a home with a mother and a father.

If they were given a voice in the matter...

The hard fact is, children do not get a voice in how they are reared. But should those of us who do have a voice and a vote chose to give each child the ideal instead of the lowest common denominator? The argument of "any home is better than no home" is a good one, but the lowest acceptance of a home. Every child deserves the best we can provide, not accepting or settling for the least we can insure. We who can vote should vote for the best possible future for our children.

Normally I avoid politics like the plague, however, in regard to what is happening in California and also in other states in the U.S. I am jumping in the pool to discuss my personal opinion.

"Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother who honor marital vows with complete fidelity." -The Family (which reads, to me, as a child's Bill of Rights.)

For those who believe the current ads/commercials saying that no religious rights will be taken away from churches or organizations, please read this from (what is considered a liberal media source) NPR.

This San Francisco Gate article again proves that yes, indeed, our children will be taught that gay marriage is just fine, and go out of their way to make sure your child gets a front row seat as a witness. I don't know about you, but our children's schools eliminated field trips years ago because of finances and school budgets. Any trips our kids went on -we had to fork over at least $80.00 for bus fare.

In the above article it says that two families opted out of the experience and the children of those two families were placed in another classroom for the day to do regular school work as the other kids went on their wedding field trip. In Massachusetts however, a state where same gender marriage is and has been legal for a few years now, The Parker Family warns that their father was threatened with jail time because he wanted their children to opt out of certain teaching in their school's curriculum. Sorry, but in Massachusetts, parents are not informed every time a same gender issue is taught; and some curriculum is mandatory by law.

Voting "Yes on Prop 8" will not take away or further discriminate GLBT people/couples in any way. GLBT couples will still be able to form legal partnerships with all the rights of visitation, health insurance, and other rights-currently on the books as laws. No one wants to take these rights away! In the state of California laws are already in place to insure that GLBT couples have equal rights in partnerships, the work place, schools, hospitals, and courtroom. The only thing they will not be able to do is "marry". The word: Marriage.

I am coming to 90% of my conclusions because of personal experience and 10% due to my religious preferences. If you want to know more about my religious views and the "why" behind them please read:LDS view . Please click the following links if you want more information (both LDS and others in California) on Preserving Marriage or Protecting Marriage.

Thank you for reading and please consider voting YES ON PROP 8!

memories, migraines, and dead meat in your bed

One of the memories I have of my Gramma is of her sitting on the "Davenport" -feet apart, elbows on her knees, bent over leaning in to listen to Vince Sculley on the radio or on t.v. as he commented on the Dodgers. "Hot Damn!" she would exclaim as she slapped her knee when she saw or heard a great play by "one of the boys." Listening to the play by play meant it was time to clean something special. She had a chrome cigarette lighter that resembled the Chrysler Building, or maybe the Empire State Building, I don't know, I was 4, at the time it's what I thought they might look like.

The lighter was heavy for it's size, about 4 inches tall, rectangular, and at the base 3 or 4 'steps', the tall mid section and then, again 3 or 4 more 'steps' to meet the cap that had spring loaded hinges that snapped open and closed. Inside was the magical little wheel that she would spin with her thumb, a tiny mechanism with grooves around its' edge for friction, spin it just right and it would ignite the same flame, blue and yellow, that was on the tin of Ronsonol.

I would watch as she would load the minuscule tabs of red flint into the cartridge and soak the felted lining with bright chemical smelling lighter fluid. Anyone who touched it would leave dull gray fingerprints smudged on the shiny chrome. Gramma would methodically and almost ritualistically wipe the chrome down with fresh Kleenex as she listened to Vince talk the Dodgers into a victory.

She would stop to smoke, and I can remember how she would blow the smoke high into the air through her wrinkled and pursed lips. The smoke would shoot almost straight up, then begin to curl and dissipate, the gray soft curls of her hair a faint reminder of the 'magic' she just blew away.

Grampa also smoked, a cigar on occasion, but more often a pipe filled with cherry tobacco. He too would clean the pipe while listening to "the game". Multi coloured pipe cleaners would be pulled from their clear plastic bag one by one and carefully twisted through the stem hole. Not the thick chenille stems people call "pipe cleaners", but the actual pipe cleaners. The bowl would be tapped and the unburned contents removed. It would be cleaned before repacking it with more tobacco, fresh from a large round tin with a deep red label and large white lettering. He also, would use a fresh Kleenex to polish the deep burgundy coloured wood on the outside of the bowl until it shined. Packed and readied, he would carefully light the interior and blow large thick puffs of 'cherry scented' smoke balls into the small apartment. It took me several decades to realize the scent of their home was actually that of Lysol, LifeBouy soap, and stale tobacco, seeped and almost steamed into their immaculate furnishings.

Mom and dad also smoked. I am not sure of the habit count, was it a pack a day or more or less? All I know is that when mom decided to quit it seemed to happen without incident or remorse, although it was then that she gained her weight; weight that would never come off. Dad was another case. His habit drug on (literally) for years. He would try to quit. Claim to have quit, only to be discovered at work during a surprise visit or to have the claw of dependence dig into him during times of stress or crisis. It was years before any of us truly believed he had kicked his habit. I can remember the cigarette breath and now when I smell it on a stranger there is a familiarity to it as to almost make them an immediate acquaintance. The smell of smoke drenched clothing sends me to home closets and the smell of Aquanet and cigarettes makes me think of mom's Beehive hairdo dotted with spring daisies and carefully wrapped each night in toilet paper to keep it looking nice.

High school would not have been complete without the smoke in the girls' room or the "smoke" out in the field. But by the time I was in high school there were already rumors and those trying to convince the public about the dangers of smoking.

Seeing the trouble my family had when trying to quit I decided to never start. I had plenty of bad habits to keep me going a lifetime, I didn't need this one. As the years went by I found myself, as most adults do, surrounded by people I chose to be with rather than forced to be with. That group of associates was sans smokers. There are still a few smokers in the family, however even they prefer to smoke alone and away from the group. I am just not that exposed to smoke anymore.

Several years ago I realized that I -somewhere over the years- developed a keen and nasty allergic reaction to smoke, any smoke. My sensitivity in regard to smoke is like Spiderman's "Spidey-sense" or perhaps Obi Wan's connection to the force. I can tell if someone is smoking in a car two cars ahead or in the lane "over there" before we have physical proof. I smell it in malls or parks or at the beach when most people are not aware of it. And smelling most smoke gives me an immediate migraine headache complete with nausea and vomiting. Burning tobacco products, pot, or (real) weeds or wild land fire smoke will induce immediate throbbing in my (usually left) temple. The pounding, if left untreated will radiate down into my eye and then into my stomach where it violently tries to exit my body via my stomach and throat.

The only solution is to (within 5 minutes, seriously) of smelling the smoke, ingest 2 Excedrin with a large glass of (as cold as I can get it) milk. The milk is really just there to stave off the eminent nausea on an empty tummy. If it goes any longer than the five minutes I can count on trouble.

This morning (now yesterday...I wrote this about 11:30 at night) I woke up to someone in the neighborhood burning their weeds, which kicked a headache into gear. I was asleep at the time so I missed the window of opportunity to stop the sledgehammer of doom from cracking open my cranium. It was the throbbing in my eye that initially woke me and I knew I was going to have a bad morning as soon as I stood up. The room began to pitch and swirl, the light from the morning sun began to poke me in the eye like a dull finger intent on touching the back of my skull via my orbital socket, and I had an immediate urge to sacrifice to the porcelain gods.

The dry heaving began before I could reach the bathroom, and once there I began the gag inducing reflex exercises that rival a morning workout with Jillian Michaels.

I decided to head to the kitchen for a glass of milk and then remembered that I had run out the night before. (Lesson learned: Listen to the Little Voice when it tells you to go to the store now, not later.) I got dressed and put my head into the shower. Two reasons: One, because ever since cutting it short I have amazing bed head in the morning, but I'm not brave enough for my 15 minutes of fame -even with a migraine; and Two; Cold water would help alleviate some of the pain until I could get some meds in me. I made my way to the local store and grabbed a carton. Obviously, I didn't learn my lesson and again ignored that Little Voice when it told me to grab a bag of frozen peas while I was there. I get home, down two Excedrin and a couple of swallows of luke warm milk. It makes me gag and I think I need to get my head on a pillow and into a dark room pronto. I go to the freezer to get the last of the required ingredients to save me from tearing my head off in search of relief when I notice I am out of frozen peas.

Frozen peas. The saviour of gray matter during these times, frozen peas, are not to be found. I can't take it anymore, I run to the sink and gag a few more times, and turn to grab anything frozen in there. Walk to the drawer that houses tea towels, wrap a rock hard slab of ground beef and press it to my forehead and eye as I make my way down the hall and into the bedroom. I get undressed, because even though I am sick I still need to be undressed to lay in bed, it's weird, but yeah. I also know that I am going to need to be under the covers, so I turn the fan on, knowing I will burst into flames without it and tuck my head under a pillow, adjusting it just so. I need enough room as to not feel my own hot breath and enough coverage to block out any light. Freezing my eye into a solid dull aching orb and feeling the icy brick against my head I fall into a fretful, yet grateful-to-have-it sleep.

All this, because of smoke.

Why the photo of the green spiky ball? 'Cause I didn't have any other picture to grab your attention.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off in search of the towel wrapped piece of (now thawed and warmed) beef, I have forgotten until now, that is buried somewhere in my bed. I sense another gag coming.

Don't Try This At Home! Try It At A Friend's House!

Well, as long as today's theme is water I thought I'd set up this video for you. It was pointed out to me by my Sis, Chronicler. You see, she is the mother of three daughters. I have three sons and two daughters.

The thing with boys is this, they discover things, they have adventures, they act before they think things through. They freeze amphibians because they have watched one too many National Geographic Videos ("Beaver Pond" - I don't recommend it.)

If these were my boys I can tell you right now, things in this video would have been different. After each of the boys involved had a trial run, things would have been kicked up a notch. Say, surf style (standing up), or after dark with sparklers. I know, because when we had the advantage one summer of living where a pool was in the back yard and accessible, swimming was JUST. SO. BORING. yawn. No , we had to figure out ways to propel our bodies into the pool from various and sundry vantage points, like the roof. Or fence. Or off a moving bike. The diving board was just a means to an end, an additional tool in the arsenal of dangerous toys. Anything that could float was employed as a surfboard. Including your best friend. Contests and feats of strength were invented, and commentary was sometimes pre-scripted as to make sure nothing got left out. Boats were made, slides were invented, rules were constantly changed to promote manhood and the growth of chest hair. And the loss of cousins. kidding. I think.

We only lived in that house one summer however, so learning and testing had to take place in other arenas. Little sisters were also used as tools or physics experiments. Their smaller bodies lent them to be used as keys ("Shove your hand through the hole and turn the nob!"). Their cat like legs begged to be dropped from trees to see if they too (girls) landed on their feet. Or as human propellants ("As soon as you get this high...JUMP!) Poor little things were flung across the yard, into pools, off of trampolines and skate boards, and onto old mattresses or boxes (...like in the movies!)

One summer our then 16 year old was at his best friend's house. No parents. No sisters. Just the two of them. They had spent hours and hours filming each other trying out the newest tricks on their skateboards and decided to go indoors. One thing led to another and they began to wrestle each other while on the boards, in the house, in the living room (probably while eating something). My kid lost. He went elbow first through the fancy glass coffee table severing all the muscle systems, the ligaments, the tendons, and chipping the bone in his dominant arm about two inches above the elbow. When I first saw it, his arm muscle looked like a red sea urchin. Lovely. His brother drove him to meet me at the local ER and I have been informed that along the way the injured one managed to flirt with a girl in the car next to them at the stop light. (Never miss an opportunity.)

Long story short, he also severed the nerves, so he wasn't in pain, but that night he had an 8 hour appointment with a neuro surgeon who had to reconnect all of the above. He had an amazing recovery (one for the books actually) and a few months later had a "ligament transfer" (read: The neuro plastic surgeon harvested the extra ligaments in both of his arms and rewired his hand so that he could use it again, like the bionic man, only without the cool noise and slow motion, and um, six million dollars paid by the government.) He had 33 "entry points" in his one hand and after 130+stitches we stopped counting. Again he had a miraculous and amazingly quick recovery and he was the youngest patient to ever have this procedure at the time.

So yeah. Boys. I could go on, but suffice it to say, keep your eyes and the first aid kit open, never leave them alone for a second, and if you do, make sure your medical insurance is paid up!

Oh What Do You Do In The Summertime...

When all the world is green? Do you fish in a stream, or lazily dream on the banks as the clouds go by?
Do you swim in a pool to keep yourself cool, or swing in a tree up high?

Do you march in parades or drink lemonades, or count all the stars in the sky?
Oh what do you do in the summer time, when all the world is hot? Do you drive with Grampa, pet a bear with big claws? or pretend to be Dan'l Boone? Do you you to the park before it gets dark and see the log cabin there? Do you eat M&Ms, and make cool new friends and wish that the day never ends? Is that what you do?

So do I.

"Mouse-a-lina" Ballerina

A thousand years ago when I had little girls I wanted a special little child sized "cookie cupboard" for the to pretend and play with. I drew up some plans and gave them to a friend of mine and he build the little cupboard you see in the photos.

He used scrap lumber and finished it off beautifully with a gorgeous stain that match all that country look we all had back then. My two girls (and yes, my boys too!) played with that little cookie cupboard for years and years.

Eventually they grew up and away from pretending and the little cupboard was placed in the garage to wait.

A couple of months ago one of the kids decided to give it another try. His wife thought it would look fresh with a new coat of paint and some frills. It was sanded and handles and hinges were removed and Gramma went a painting.

Mommy decided that a "Mouse-a-lina Ballerina" would go perfectly in a French nursery, pink, celery, creamy butter, and a few variations on those colours would do just right.

A few days work, new pewter finish hinges and hardware, rose coloured glass knobs and pulls- she's all updated! The little cookie cupboard is seeing a band new day and gearing up for new little people playtime. When all is said and done, this recycling job was well worth it!

I'll post more photos after it hs been completely reassembled and I can get to it!

TIMOTHY

Here's another set, this time for a little guy named "Timothy". He is a huge fan of the movie "Automobiles", so his parents wanted his letters to reflect that theme in his room.

Luckily for me, this was a 'freebie' job so they didn't complain about the way the cars actually came out. Yikes! I need to work on drawing cars more often...these are a tad funky.

Tomorrow: Not letters but a recycle project!

NATHAN

I hope you don't mind, but here goes some more of those projects that have been keeping me busy.

A while back I did two sets of nursery letters. One thing leads to another and it seems that I am getting a bit of business decorating wood letters now! This is way fun! This set spells out "Nathan" whose mother said loves all kinds of animals, so we have the following in his name:

a shark, a lady bug, a skunk, and a peacock "eye".

a turtle shell, flamingo feathers, and giraffe skin.

an orca/killer whale, snake skin, and cheetah print (his personal favourite).

tiger , zebra, brown bear, and alligator skins.

butterfly wings, brown cow, raccoon eyes, and a clown fish.

a toucan, an elephant, a honey bee, jaguar and dalmatian skin.

All they need now is a ribbon and to be placed on the wall!

Tomorrow: More letters!

Gramma Camp

Day One:
We went straight to the park and played a "round" of golf, (with rules adjusted slightly), raced so many races Mogli decided he was "done with races gramma!", scaled all kinds of play ground equipment, and went home so Rafiki could take a nap.

While Rafiki napped, Mogli and I made all kinds of noodle necklaces, played a few games, and watched Stuart Little. Rafiki woke up and Mogli fell directly to sleep!

When everyone woke up we went in search of hot dog buns and bird seed. After baths and family prayer Rafiki went to bed and Mogli and gramma made wild bird feeders.

Today (day two) we got up (6:30!), ate Mickey Mouse pancakes with "French Toast stuff (confectioner's sugar) instead of syrup please", dressed, and made a trip to the car wash, which was closed, grrrr. So off to the fish hatchery! Neither had been there before and let me tell you- they were amazed! We strolled up and down each isle and saw how they grew from tiny baby fish into big grampa fish! Lucky us, we also got to meet the workers as they were in the process of cleaning the "tanks". Interesting at any age; the only problem being that once the machinery had dredged through a "tank" it was very murky and difficult to see the individual fish. Luckily we had seen most of the fish before it got to that stage.

Back home for Rafiki's nap and then back to the park in the afternoon. We hung our bird feeders in the lowest branch we could find (gramma is practically a dwarf, small limbs make it difficult to reach the taller branches). Then we filled a jug with water and set out to make a sand castle! The wind was particularly strong this afternoon, so we plan to try again tomorrow morning. Instead we worked through the equipment again and met some other children who were waiting for a bus transfer. They kids had a blast and ran poor gramma to near extinction!

We coloured pages and pages, made a few other things, and had "yo-grit" at snack time. Read a couple (dozen) books, sang songs and did a bit of dancing. Bath time, phone calls to mommy and daddy, and tomorrow we start it all again.

We've done three loads of laundry in two days and finished off the oatmeals cookies and a fair share of strawberry milk straws. The best thing of the day today? When Mogli sneaked off down the hall to look at the family hand prints. Measuring each one he found a perfect match...his own daddy's! He was so excited they fit and he insisted on a photo moment, which of course we did. So cool.






Bird-feeder Update: We went back to the (freezing) park this morning and the bird feeders resembled a Denny's in Sun City on a Saturday morning! There was actually a small line of birds hanging out at the Giant Claw machine, just waiting for their table to open up. As we left I think I heard a pigeon shout: "Quail, party of three, Quail, party of three..."

Me and Dory

I remember being a (very) young bride; and life, it seemed, would never get around to happening for me. I felt then, and still do at times, that I had lived through a tumultuous childhood fraught with many trials that not one of my peers had. I was a bottom feeder, and I felt as though I would never see the top of the tank. Still, there was sibling love, remembrances of giggles and good times, and hope.

I was 18 and my new husband was a very old and wise 19. We moved into a small apartment in a bad neighborhood and thrived on the extra $12.00 a week we had after we paid all our bills. We kind of threw ourselves into the deep end and learned to swim with the currents. Tuna was 52cents a can then. I would measure the economy by that can of tuna for years. Anyone wanting to know our fiduciary skills could monitor it easily by checking out the counter in the kitchen. It would be 20+ years before we would splurge on paper towels.

Prior to our marriage Thor and I had long discussions on children, how many, how soon, how to rear, where to rear them, what kinds of discipline, even if they would share rooms or get a car at 16 if we had money enough. We made goals for home, education, work, and missions before we ever "walked down the aisle." One of those goals was to retire by age 40. We did the math and decided that we could do it.

Well, time goes by and the storms came and went. But you know, even with several years of absolutely no work (hello 80's recession) we were still 'vested' and eligible for retirement at age 42. Wisdom somehow comes with age (at least one hopes), and with that we changed gears and decided that in this new economy, tuna @ $3.49, we probably should continue working and bank more hours into the pension fund. "...just keep swimming!"

In a way it has proven to be a greater blessing than I had anticipated. In these later years Thor's job remained in the same field, but his duties and responsibilities changed. He was now working behind a desk, and often behind the wheel or in the air. He has been sent all over the US and Canada to learn and provide a better way of life for those in his company. He has had opportunities and experiences we never dreamed of. I have also.

As a little girl I could never have hoped for the blessings I have been given. For the trips with Thor to Alaska or Hawaii, to Washington and Washington D.C., to Las Vegas (which I am never really fond of, but I do enjoy being with Thor) and Monterey. Heck, up until 8 or so years ago I had never even considered getting on a plane!

I have met all different people and seen many different cities. I head for the 'sights' while Thor is stuck in a basement. At night we drive to see what the non-tourists do and where they live. I am always able to find interesting places and new things, even if I have been there before.

Tomorrow we head out again to Las Vegas. I will visit with some family and do a lot of room staying! I can catch up on some much needed reading and do a bit of photo shooting. I'll be sure to post the days finds.

I'm not really sure what this post is about other than the idea of sometimes life throws you into the deep end, you get chased by sharks, you ride the swells and surf the waves. As a child I learned so much more because of the 'breakers'. As an adult the 'waves' have also taught me, but they have also been terrific fun.

I have made it to the top of the tank many times during my life. For the most part I live among the kelp, in the middle, a little above and a little below. I just keep swimming.

In the end, looking back, my curvy little knot in the string, my swim in life's ocean, has been very blessed. I am pretty blessed.

"We can help, but YOU have to make the call..."

Ahh, kids. Back in the day I would gather up all of my 5, and a couple of other kids, and we'd pile into the minivan and head out for school every morning. I was the Kool-Ade Mom on the block, so I got a lot of kids hanging out at the house both before and after school. I loved that.

This was the day before law required seat belts. Yes there used to be a havoc in the streets and people just threw their offspring haphazardly into the back of whatever vehicle they owned and off they went. Let me tell you, a kid understood the laws of physics much faster back then.

We had the first Caravan off the line! It looked like a small white refrigerator on four wheels. Yeah, we were stylin'! We had bucket seats in front a 3 passenger bench seat in the middle, which did have a baby car seat, and the third row consisted of two folding lawn chairs. Heck, those third seats were EXPENSIVE! Ingenuity! Thor went down to Thrifty's and picked up to lawn chairs for a total of $12. When the kids complained about not having a seat belt, Thor took two of his old belts and wove them between the plastic webbing and TA-DA! seat belts! It was really fun to watch the boys tip over when you took a turn a little fast...they loved that. (You should have seen the face plants when you had to brake fast!)

The morning routine was:
1.Everyone in the neighborhood who needs a ride to school meet at the house.
2. Have neighborhood prayer. (It used to be just family prayer, but the kids began to protest so that circle on the living room floor got rather big.)
3. Everyone pile in the car. Leave the car seat for the youngest; and find a seat, or just stand, whatever... it's only 6 or 7 blocks.
4. Grab my hot chocolate travel mug.
5. DRIVE!
6. Unload everybody and their duck.
7. Drive home.
8. Do this all again in reverse at 2.

One Wednesday, (I know it was Wednesday, because in our house each kid was assigned a day. This part of the story is about #3, and the third day is Wednesday...see how this all works out?) Anywho, #3 is in the front seat crying as we leave. Everything went well until we start to pull out of the drive and she just began crying....hard.

I inquire to her distress and she burst out with, "YOU NEED HELP MOM! I LOVE YOU, BUT YOU NEED HELP!" I am even more curious so I ask why I need help? "BECAUSE YOU DRINK AND DRIVE ---EVERYDAY! AND NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO DRINK AND DRIVE!" I tried (not to laugh) to calm her down and she begins telling me that "there are hot-lines" and that I "am not alone", and that "there are people who can help " me, but that I "have to make the first step". "And while we're talking about it, THE BABY NEEDS HELP TOO! SHE ALSO HAS A DRINKING PROBLEM!" and the crying reaches an almost fever pitch. She is completely undone.

Now, in the back seat and the lawn chairs, other children are beginning to come undone also, only with laughter, which doesn't help the situation up front.

I finish the drive to school and drop off the minions but keep back screaming Mimi. I try to calm her down. She finally gets to a point where she is sounding more and more like Mary Richards, with a very high pitched staccato voice. "The. Ba. AY. BEeeee. Has. A. Drink. Ink. Ing. Prob. Lem!" (Oh Mr. Grant!) "Ev. REeee. Time. She. Drink. Inks. She. E. SPIIILLLLS!"

After a long talk I convince her we'll get the help we need; and resolve to never allow her to watch t.v. again.

I am sad to report, that after all these years, I still drink and drive.

childhood

Over at Conversation they are having a thread on the book, "The Secret Life Of Bees". It struck me that some folks actually had such good childhoods they could not/cannot comprehend the disastrous situations that may occur in others. It is hard for them to conceive of children being traumatized to the points they are by people who "love" them. Or that life in general hand some folks a lot more odd/dangerous/unrealistic events than "normal" kids. I think this is a good thing in a way. Seeing the world as a place where "too much" is over the top and could never have happened.

For me, it was often the opposite. The "too much" was my reality and I could not comprehend, even into my adulthood, that things could be "as good" as they were sometimes portrayed. Life was a never ending drama filled with running from and into adult troubles, terror, and living like people in the newspapers and t.v. As an adult I find it amusing that I can relate to almost any situation via a personal childhood experience!

I had a mother that "loved" me. For me, from my viewpoint, which may or may not be correct, I felt that love was different than the love my siblings shared with dear ol' mom. I can hear you saying, "Well, DUH! Every kid feels like the picked on one." It's Tommy Smothers all over again, "Ma always did love you best." But I really felt the difference.

There are too many reference points I could illustrate, but after I had grown up and looked it all over, I could see that each of my siblings felt the same real lack of love, just in different areas of their own. We have a "different" kind of mom. Love is there, but it isn't the love we feel for our own children and for our spouses; and that has made things very clear for us as adults. It's the kind of love that has to be there out of some sort of responsibility or to keep "losing face" at bay. The kind of love that is there to promote one's self sacrificing when really, the sacrificing wasn't there- or could have been diminished by being a "normal" definition of "mom". She worked hard, no one doubted that, but the whole mom gig wasn't her cup of tea; and we all felt it and carried the burden we gave her with us - even to this day. (mom=sacrifice kid=burden, pick a category and label yourself. we were an ungrateful, greedy, collective burden to mom's selfless and never-ending sacrifice.)

The following is an illustration at how I began to grow out of childhood thinking and into what was reality or the "norm".
When I was 2 months pregnant with #3 my appendix burst. If you have ever had this experience you know the kind of pain and how it progresses. It began for me as a "really bad intestinal flu" and progressed to the stage where I literally could not un-coil myself from a fetal position. I was sane enough, but MAN! it was pretty intense.

At the point of not being able to function enough to care for the two older, yet toddler-esque children I did not panic, but went through my options for assistance. #1 Thor. He was at work, far from home and would be home later that night tired, but could take over if I was not better. So I thought, "better try for someone else who can just take the kids for a few hours." This led me to review friends first. This was prior to cell phones and after finding no one home I resorted to the sisters in law who lived in my community. 2 of them were also not home, but the third was. Let me tell you it was very difficult for me to call this woman and ask for a favor, but by this time I was concerned for my children and needed help whether or not it was via this sister in law. It wasn't that she and I didn't get along, it was just this gal doesn't open the door to her own mother who may have traveled a while to see her. (but that's a different dysfunctional family!) I made the call and, to her credit, she came over.

One look at my ability to mask pain, she pronounced her diagnosis: not the flu, but losing the baby! I knew, deep inside, that I was not losing the baby, but forgetting all the Marcus Welby MD episodes I had seen, I dis-associated the "lower right side+intense pain" equaling appendicitis and clung to "flu" instead. That, and there is no possible way one can be pregnant and have appendicitis, right? So I just wanted her to take the kids until Thor got home. She would not have it and we headed to the hospital that was one hour away.

I called my mom. I told her my sis-in-law thought I was losing the baby and was headed to the hospital. She replied with questions and a follow up of "let me know how it goes." Which in reality did not shock me, nor hurt my feelings. I did not expect any other reaction and the phone call was just to inform her of the daily happenings.

After waking up from surgery I was faced with strong wrath from my father-in-law. His anger and absolute rage sprang from not being called, from not being allowed to care for me. I almost couldn't wrap my mind around why he was so angry at not being called. My end of it was reason. "If I called my own mother and she didn't seem interested, why the heck would you?" Even I knew that a mom (supposedly) was the one person you could count on, that one person who loved you above all others. And if she didn't care, no one else would or should! I couldn't understand that my father-in-law was scared to death for my safety, my child's safety, and had been insulted by not being allowed to help, pray, or even just take care of the grandkids. I couldn't understand how he could worry that much about me. I could get that he actually loved me, it was weird. Really weird. All that fuss because he loved me.

Childhood ideas taught me that I didn't matter. Grown up events began to change things, although there are still bugs in the system that was wired so long ago.

Now, the first call for help is to those I can trust to help me. I go where I can count on love. Dear mother is frustrated when she sees that I actually get along with other folks, it hurts her feelings and I feel guilty over it. But eventually one learns about real love. About real sacrifice. About real burden.

And eventually one learns that not everyone had the funkiness that I had. Some had the ideal. Some had good. And some grew up a lot faster than even I did.

Mister Rogers

Every once in a while you come across a post, or a comment that makes you sit up and reread it. The following is one that did that for me. Following the passing of Mr. Rogers, a thread began on
MetaFilter, analyzing the personality of Fred Rogers. Some of the comments were nostalgic, some were cynical, some were a comment, not only on Mr. Rogers, but our society.

There are some misspellings, and some terms and words that I don't approve of, but all in all, I believe that "Pastabagel" has said something important.

You know, it's quite a strange thing. The single most common adjective applied to Mister Rogers in this and other thread is the word 'creepy'?

I think I know why he strikes people as creepy. It's because his isn't at all 'cool'. There is no cynicism, no irony, no condescension in him at all. He is not simply unhip, he is ahip. And this is what people calling him creepy are picking up on.

We are conditioned to traffic in cool. You have to look cool, not look nice or distinguished or presentable, but cool. But it's all so generic. Everyone seems to have the same new haircut that no one 5 years ago had. We all have the same cynical politics.

Something about the counterculture from the 60's is still with us but it has been co-opted into a form of synchronized periodic obsolescence and mockery of that which came before. There is something fundamentally anti-intellectual about this, but I can't quite articulate it. There some element of arrogance there. Like everyone is perpetually 18.

Cool is America's code, and I really do think this is an American problem, because cool is propagated mainly though mass media, and there is no greater media saturated culture on earth than America's. Will I look cool wearing this? Will I sound cool saying this, or reading this or doing this. We're committing mass murder in other parts of the world because somebody figured out how to make violence cool and tough-talk politics cool, and then they combined the too. Swagger is cool. Cowboys and fighter jets and JDAMs and war porn are cool. So that's what we have. We are the Kingdom of Whatever.

Of course he hated ad-libbing on camera, because ad-libbing on camera is inexcusably lazy. It's what you do so you don't have to write or rehearse. Actors and comedians and musicians improvise as a way of living within a moment that is in some way artificial. A method actor may improvise because he is trying to become the character, but he isn't the character to begin with. A Jazz musician improvises because while the structure and the changes are the same, and the audience is familiar with them, the particular moment of performance is not, and that has it's own emotional context.

Mister Rogers was the same guy, so why improvise? The show wasn't about his character, it was about the kids, os you have to work out ahead of time how best to communicate with the child viewers. Everything was planned.

He talks slowly not because kids are dumb but because as studies have shown, children's brains are considerably more active than adults', and they need time to return to the original thought communicated to them after branching off in multitudinous directions.

The puppets? Puppets are good because they are considerably smaller than the human actors around them, and thus kids perceive them as safe. They look like toys. Contrast this with a giant seven foot all yellow bird, and ask yourself which inspired more nightmares.

The show is glacially paced and had the same structure with the same things happening in the same order because children respond to structure and routine is a source of comfort, particularly in children whose lives were anything but predictable.

Maybe that's what cool is - withdrawing from the context of one's life into an artificial one, in which the cool perceives itself to be somehow outside of reality, looking in and commenting on it. But this isn't insight, it's not reflecting on the world. It's standing at the edge of the world sniping into it.

Mister Rogers isn't creepy. CSI with is gruesome bloody corpses every Thursday at promptly 9:14 EST is creepy. Thirty million people looking at that and snaking on chips while they watch is creepy.

Listening to some rapper sing about his genitals and sexual conquests is creepy. Approach crowds of people and talk to them about the aroused state of your genitals, and watch how quickly you end up in a squad car. But somehow it's ok on TV because...why exactly?

Watching a war unfold on television in near real time is beyond creepy. It is obscene. You watch people screaming over their dead loved ones, and then you turn it off and go have dinner, or go to bed? No empathy, no revulsion. What the hell kind of civilization is this?

You know, I watched some 9-11 footage on youtube the other day (because I'm a masochist, apparently), and it occured to me that in the 6 years since it happened, I've never once heard anyone say "I'm sorry for those people who are so consumed by hate for people they've never met and places they've never been. What can we do to lift that burden from them?"

Because that isn't cool. That's being a pussy (or a fag if you are on FreeRepublic). There's no posture to be struck there, no pose. It's something that has to be done in earnest, and that's what's been lacking in the American culture.

Think about the Pope, entering the cell to confront his assassin. He forgave him, we all know that. But can you imagine the conversation? Can you imagine either someone being so perceptive that they can reach into a perfect stranger and expose their soul, or someone whose personality is so shallow that their emotions or ideologies are so shallow that any attempt to probe their depth displaces them entirely?

Mr. Rogers may have been the last earnest man.
posted by Pastabagel, on June 1,2007 at Metafilter