Astoriamom

Making My Own Kind of Music

Yesterday for Mother's Day, I went to church. By myself. I do not get to my Unitarian Church on the Upper East Side as often as I'd like, or really ever.  But I thought the holiday would allow me some time for peace and contemplation. And when the minister started the service saying Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, birth mothers, adoptive mothers, and those regardless of gender identity who have played a nurturing role in the lives of children, I knew I had come to the right place.

A mother in the congregation gave the sermon. She quoted a beautiful poem entitled Starfish by Eleanor Lerman who says life lets you "choose the way you have your eggs, your coffee". She spoke eloquently about how we had all arrived there, at church, at that moment because of the choices we had made. We chose to come there, we chose our method of transportation to get there, we chose what to wear, what to eat for breakfast. She talked about how so many of those little choices seem inconsequential, but when you put all those choices together, you have the totality of your life. She also pointed out that if we are unhappy with our life choices we have the opportunity to redefine ourselves at anytime. 

Choice is a big thing for me. I try continually to instill the idea of choice into my children. To remind them that they choose their own actions and to never blame others for what they have chosen to do. All of us have free will. Like Mooana says, Every turn I take, every trail I track is a choice I make. 

Choice and redefinition have particular significance for me at this point in my life. At the beginning of the school year, I made a decision that I needed to increase my sense of agency in life. I have written before about struggling with the identity of a stay at home mom, not because I think there is anything wrong with this role (indeed I think it is a very admirable one) but that it doesn't jive with my sense of self. And with two small children, born relatively close together, I have occasionally felt a lack of control over my life. The chaos of life with children, their constant needs imposed upon you, can be overwhelming. I love my children immensely, but I do have an existence outside of them. I decided at the start of this school year that if I was unhappy with something, I would change it. And I have.

It started off with small things. I missed the wine nights a friend of mine used to host, so I decided I would host them myself! I wanted to meet parents at Nate's new school, so I organized events with them and cultivated friendships which have already enriched my life and the lives of my children. Unhappy (to put it mildly) with the election results, I protested them. I write to my representatives, talk to my children about current events. I wanted to play the harp more and maybe even get paid to do it, something I had never done before nor even had the confidence I was talented enough. I used local contacts to get in touch with some neighborhood churches and started playing professionally. And then started playing on a monthly basis for the Giving Tree Yoga Studio. I am playing at a wedding next month. In response to the bride's request, I searched for Nirvana and Guns N Roses sheet music for harp. It does not exist. At first I thought there was no way I could play a piece on the lever harp without appropriate sheet music. But then I realized, I can do it. I found piano music and reworked it for the harp, sometimes quite extensively. I used this method for a number of songs, creating my own music niche since not many harpists play rock. 

If something doesn't fit you needs, you can change it. I have found this applies to so much in life. If the instructions, assumed path, or conventional methods don't work for you, try something else. You don't have to follow each ingredient and prescribed amount in a recipe. Maybe fiddling around with different ingredients, you'll come up with something more delicious. Something more to your own taste. And why follow every note for sheet music when you can use your own intellect and creativity to make it sound more beautiful on your instrument of choice?

One of my favorite songs is the Mamas and Papas, "Make Your Own Kind of Music". The song states that "nobody can tell you, there's only one song worth singing" and that you've got to make your own kind of music even if nobody else sings along. I sing this song to my children (and Willa always joins in with her loud, joyful voice). I hope this message becomes a driving force in their life, as it is in mine.

This is what life lets you do. Things beyond our control will always happen to us. But we get to choose how to react to them. After church, I chose to walk through Central Park on my own. Twenty beautiful blocks through the park's trees and flowers. I made the perfect choice. 

Return to the Forest

I have struggled to write in recent weeks since politics have dominated my thoughts. And while I have decided not to completely avoid political topics, this is not a political blog. So I'll discuss something else that's been on my mind lately: Ferngully.

I recently rediscovered this movie when I decided to introduce it to some friends about to embark on a rainforest vacation. I had seen it in the theater when it came out in the early 90's and it had a strong influence on me. Fueling my future in primatology, it inspired my desire to see the rainforest. The association of magic with the rainforest remained in my mind. When I took a field course in Costa Rica, I felt it - the forest bursting with life, the beauty of the trees, the fairytale vision of giant blue morpho butterflies - an echantment born out of the memory of this movie. Always a nature lover, I remember feeling a deep connection with the film. It nourished my environmentalism and I have never forgotten its key moments. Like when Zack carves Crysta's name into a tree. Crysta gets upset and holds his hand to the tree, saying,  "Can't you feel its pain?"

But other parts I didn't remember. Tim Curry's performance as the evil Hexis - basically an evil force which feeds on pollutants and all things bad - is reminiscent of his other performances for more adult audiences. His song "Toxic Love" has strong sexual overtones, even including a seeming climax. Not that it's inappropriate, because children wouldn't notice - at least hopefully not!

The movie also contains possibly the most beautiful depiction of death in a children's film. After demonstrating the power of creation, the old fairy Magi starts to fade. Crysta calls, "Magi, don't leave me!" And Magi responds, "I love you! I will always be with you." As she fades, she turns into sparks which become part of every other being present. Not just a beautiful image, this visualization of mortality recalls a Golden Compass philosophy where death means the continuing of energy from one thing to another - not an easy concept to illustrate to children.

When I saw the movie Avatar in the theater, my first thought was that I had seen it before - Ferngully! The plot is nearly identical except aliens replaced fairies and the military replaced loggers. The message is the same: all living things are connected, nature is beautiful, and greed is destructive. When people were raving about it, I had to agree - Ferngully is great!

Home with two sick children today, I read them Ben's old copy of The Great Kapok Tree. With beautifully intricate illustrations, this classic tells the story of the creatures who depend upon a huge rainforest tree about to be cut down. Each creature tells the would-be logger some different way the tree contributes to the world, convincing him to abandon his destructive task. I read it complete with different voices. After I finished, Nate said sincerely, "I would never cut that tree down."

Things have seemed bleak to me these last few months. Phone calls and marches can do only so much to sway ignorant or selfish minds. But I am comforted knowing they are not the ones who hold the greatest influence over the future. Parents are. And if we cultivate a garden of compassionate thinkers, nourished by knowledge and empathy, the future will be covered in blossoms.

 

Primal Rights

Photo by YinXia Ng

While studying anthropology, I once heard a story about bonobos. Bonobos are great apes related to chimpanzees but with a big difference: whereas chimpanzees are male-dominated and highly violent, bonobos are female-dominated and use sex to establish social bonds and ease tensions. In both chimps and bonobos, males are larger than females, more so than in humans. While observing a group of bonobos feeding at a fruit tree, my professor saw a high-ranking male push a low-ranking female out of the way to get some fruit. She almost fell to the ground and let out a scream. Within seconds, the other females in the group descended upon this male, basically beating the crap out of him. He crawled into the forest, presumably to die, and was never seen again. Now I'm not one for violence, but clearly bonobos have something figured out.

When I was in high school, I said I thought a black man would become president before a white woman, meaning that sexism was even more ingrained than racism. I recalled this prediction on the morning of this election, gleefully adding that I hadn't thought it would be directly before. Sadly, I had underestimated just how deep sexism runs in this country.

Gender inequality can filter into every stage of a female's life: a little girl praised solely for her cuteness, a young woman exposed to constant and inappropriate sexual attention, a mother often given a heavier parenting burden despite lack of support, or a woman berated for not having children, and finally an elderly woman frequently devalued and ignored. It manifests every time the term "babysitting" is applied to a father watching his own children, in every cleaning product commercial that shows only women, anytime a woman's value is measured by her appearance, or whenever a victim is blamed for her own assault. It also permeates the lives of males, who are often infantilized and excused from tasks as simple as clearing the table after family meals (something I make even my five-year-old son do) to more important activities such as controlling themselves sexually. Things have certainly improved over time. The feminist movement of the 60's and 70's did pave the way for women to have their own careers. But it fell short. The old expectations placed on women -- to have a perfect household, be a great cook, be a great mother, look beautiful -- still exist in addition to the new expectation that a woman should also have a successful career.

A recent Marie Claire article called Alpha Girls of Silicon Valley describes an East Coaster's experience as a woman in the tech industry. She learned that her New York style of dress (such as a dress) was frowned upon as weak, with no other purpose than attracting men. Women dressed in a more masculine style. This irritated me. While under the guise of feminism, this mentality seems to view masculinity as inherently better than femininity. I like fashion and feminine clothes. And not because I want to make myself more desirable to men, but because I think it's fun. It gives me pleasure. Just as Hugo said in a Sofia the First episode when he comes out as an ice dancer, why can't we all just do what we like?

So these issues have concerned me for a long time and when I first heard of the women's march, I thought about going. But I made no plans. Then a couple weeks ago, I was simmering from a New York Times article about rural Americans voting for Trump when I got a text from a neighborhood mom friend asking if I was going to the march. I told her I was thinking about it and she told me she had a spot in her car. I had to consider. Ben had an important work event that day, so I would need childcare. And it is a big trip to do back and forth in one day, with some potential risks involved. But I confirmed my parents as willing sitters and after watching Obama's farewell address, my hesitation turned to firm resolve. I texted my friend back that I was in. She had everything already planned, had been planning for months. They had reserved a cheap parking spot in a lot on the DC Metro line. They would drive down early, take the Metro in, and head back to home after the march.

I chose my outfit with care. Aiming to merge comfort and practicality with style, I opted for a layered, mostly black ensemble: Black tank with mesh, long-sleeved black shirt, black leggings, charcoal grey hoodie. Good attire for a ninja heist or a funeral that involved parkour. Sneakers were a must, partly for the march and also in case running was required. A light-weight but warm jacket. And the pink Pussyhat that one of my fellow marchers had made.  

I enlisted Nate and Willa's help in making the sign, which read "Marching for my Children". Nate drew a masterpiece of smiling family members holding hands along the bottom, flanked by butterflies, a tree with heart leaves, and at top a smiling sun and rainbow. Willa added her signature blocks of color to the sides. Since no sticks were allowed, I found a large ribbon and Ben poked holes so that I could either wear it around my neck or carry it over my shoulder like a bag.

I carefully laid out everything the night before, including the lentil/butternut squash cookies I had made as snacks. My mom friend had provided me with a handy runner's pack which clipped around the waist and fit my id, phone, and snack (since backpacks were not allowed). I attempted to go to bed early, but had the same jitters I used to get the night before a theatre performance - that nervousness combined with excited anticipation. When my alarm went off at 3:30 am, I was up. I put on my planned outfit, grabbed my laid out belongings and walked to my friend's apartment, just as our ride was pulling up.

The car included four of us: My friend, YinXia, mom to another kindergartener at Nate's school and a toddler. Her sister, Sydney, another Astoria mom who generously provided her car and did most of the driving. And their friend Holly, maker of our wonderful Pussyhats and whom they have known since their years at Suny Purchase. I had only known YinXia since September, from the school playground. Early in the year, I attended a morning meeting for parents and found myself sitting alone until YinXia invited me to squeeze in at her table. Eventually, we met up at playdates and parties. We bonded over our outrage with the election, the reason why she invited me to fill the one spot left in the car. I had never met the other two women, but we quickly fell into coversation and I felt honored to be included in a group of such intelligent, strong ladies.

We stopped at a rest stop somewhere in Delaware. Never before have I seen one so packed! A long line of pink-hatted women waited for the bathroom, everyone with a smile on their face. At a later stop, the crowd of women was so large that the men graciously allowed women to use the their bathroom.

We parked at our appointed lot, grabbed our signs and headed into the nearby Metro, packed with people buying tickets. Like the other New Yorkers there, we found the DC Metro machines unnecessarily complicated, but got our tickets and walked down to the crowded platform. The first train that arrived was packed and we were too far back in the crowd to board the second. Then the train stayed in the station, with an announcement that all trains were being held due to traffic ahead. We waited for a while and then YinXia, a seasoned runner, suggested we walk. Her sister pulled up our route, estimated about an hour walk, and we agreed. We wanted to move and the walk was pleasant. 

     Photo by Holly Bishop

We saw more and more marchers as we got closer to the meeting spot. One group of women wore red maple leaf hats and held signs that said "Your Sisters from the North" while chanting "Solidarity!" A moving display. A cheer went up and we caught a glimpse of former Secretary of State John Kerry walking his dog with a smile. We assembled on a lawn along the route, crowded with other protesters. The crowd was diverse. Largely, though not all, women, all races, all ages. The signs were as varied as the people. Some were funny, with phrases like "This Pussy fights back" and "Melania, blink twice if you need help". Some were more serious, with an image of a hanger and text "Never Again" or "Dissent is Democracy". Specific issues were addressed with pride flags, "Black Lives Matter" signs and Planned Parenthood sashes. Princess Leah was in attendance with a call to join the resistance. Despite the crowded conditions, the mood was completely positive. Everyone was happy and polite. Accidental bumps were accompanied by quick apologies and smiles. People admired each others' signs. A fair number asked to take pictures of mine and my companions' signs (YinXia's read "I Walk 4 My Daughters" and her sister's read "I Walk for my Sons"). As we waited, a woman started a chant "Tell me what democracy looks like" and we responded "This is what democracy looks like". Waves of cheers rang through the crowd, though we were never quite sure why. Eventually, the crowd got more packed and ready to march.

Once we started to move, the congestion opened up. Other chants erupted through the crowd, including "Hands too small. Can't build a wall" and "Hey hey. Ho ho. Donald Trump has got to go" and (hilariously) "We want a leader, not a creepy tweeter". Along the sidelines, crowds watched and cheered. One group held up a Mexican flag and included a woman with a sign that said "I am not a rapist".  Unlike during the inauguration, the bleachers were packed. We only saw a few people protesting the protest with Trump/Pence signs. They were simply ignored and no harassment on either side occurred. No animosity existed with law enforcement either. We passed a group of smiling national guard members early on. Then later saw another group, monitoring the march. Marchers, including myself, called thank you to them for their service. One female soldier made direct eye contact with me and pointed, saying, "No. Thank you." I teared up. Another emotional moment was seeing a large Obama Hope sign lined elaborately with flowers, reminiscent of a funeral procession. Standing nearby was a man with a sign that read "My Mother taught me that just because you have a dick doesn't mean you have to be one". A woman walking near me called to him, "Your mother taught you well." When we passed the Trump hotel, now in violation of its lease, boos rang out through the crowd. When we pased the Department of Treasury, I couldn't help humming some Hamilton. Later, we spontaneously broke into a verse of This Land is Your Land.

         

Photo by Holly Bishop                                                    Photo by Holly Bishop

At the end of the march, folks just started dispersing. We made a brief attempt to get to the National Mall, but the area was blockaded. We observed some protestors engaging in newly legalized activities nearby. We decided to end the day with a nice, big meal. And perhaps a drink. Along our quest for food, which proved the most challenging part of the day, we saw more signs. One woman held a sign that said "Muslim women rockin' the vote since 610 AD". Most restaurants were packed with famished activists. It wasn't until we finally sat down at a table in a nice spot, that I noticed my fatigue. After a good meal and good conversation, we walked to the car and drove back. 

Exhaustion hit me hard the ride home. After a long ride with more good conversation, we arrived home about midnight. In bed, I found myself still high on adrenalin and couldn't sleep without looking through the many pictures friends had posted of themselves marching in various cities. As I finally drifted off to sleep, I had one thought - what next?

I hope this march has urged people into the vital action needed to make this place worthy of our children. They deserve a world which embraces all genders, all races, all religions, and all facts. Even though these rights are pretty basic, they require work. And they require working together because alone each of us is smaller than the thing we are fighting. But if some apes can do it, we can.

 

 

Starting the Year with Yes

"It is time to stop standing at the edges of rooms. Hugging the walls. Living in my head... if I don't poke my head out of my shell and show people who I am, all anyone will ever think I am is my shell." Shonda Rhimes

New Year's means new beginnings. New diets, new commitments, sometimes even a new lifestyle. It means for many people, in the words of Shonda Rhimes, saying yes. Many mothers find this difficult—to say yes to who they really are and the layered lives they lead. Social media often involves an onslaught of picture-perfect family images, all smiles and sweetness, free from the frustrations of everyday parenting. Motherhood is not always so blissful. It includes challenges, hardships and sometimes tragedy.

Christine Serdjenian Yearwood, the founder of UP-STAND, was reading Shonda Rhimes’ Year of Yes while coping with such a tragedy. Coincidentally, I had recently read this book and it inspired me to take a more active role in my own happiness, including attending the momtrepreneurs meetup where I met Christine. It inspired her to speak out about her experience.

Like her first pregnancy, Christine did not have difficulty getting pregnant a second time. A cycle into trying, she felt pregnant—vivid dreams and all. But every pregnancy test she took came back negative. When she got her period, she thought she must have been mistaken. But the bleeding continued for another week, then two weeks. In Maine visiting her parents for a vacation, Christine called her doctor. The doctor asked if she had taken a pregnancy test and instructed her to take another one. She did and this time it was positive. Her family and husband (in New York at the time) were overjoyed. But she knew something was wrong.

On her doctor’s instructions, she went to the ER. Since Christine’s mother needed to watch her daughter and her father was at work, she went alone. An ultrasound revealed she had an ectopic pregnancy. She was taken by ambulance to another hospital where the specialist helped her through the experience. With so much internal bleeding, it could become septic. If the fallopian tube hadn’t ruptured, she was told they could make a small incision and take the embryo out. If it had ruptured, they would have to remove her tube. It had ruptured. They said there was no way to save the embryo; it could not survive. While Christine had known something was wrong, she didn’t think her life was in danger or that she might have part of her body removed. Her father joined her at the hospital. Her doctor was going back and forth to another room, delivering twins. She left the hospital, only a few hours after surgery, by her own choice to return to her daughter. While her doctors were not worried about her health at that point, it was a too-short stay for such an experience.

Soon after this tragedy, Christine and her husband had a scheduled trip to Italy. The trip had been planned, before this second pregnancy, as a kind of celebration—in part for their anniversary and for their freedom together after having gone through the first pregnancy and over a year of breastfeeding. They had always enjoyed traveling together and now with their daughter older, they could again. After the loss, the trip naturally took on a different feel. Having that time together in such a beautiful place after something so emotional helped them heal. But when asked about her Italian vacation after returning home, often in public or group settings or via text message, Christine would hesitate and reply, “It was so nice to have the time together” and “Italy is a beautiful place.” It can be hard to navigate how and when to share something like this, even when you want support and sensitivity.

At times when she felt comfortable sharing her loss with friends and family members, some responded with well-meaning phrases like “Well, you only have to wait one cycle and then just try again” or “Just be happy you’re alive.” To Christine, that sentiment represents a bare bones kind of existence. Another woman responded, “Oh I’m sorry, but life goes on.” All these responses lack an awareness of the emotional intensity involved. Pregnancy loss is a traumatic event. Even just Christine’s surgery which included the loss of a body part is traumatic. Such experiences inflict a kind of PTSD that doesn’t simply go away.

I know because I also experienced a loss. When I was 20 weeks pregnant with my first child, my water broke. I went to the hospital, hoping to save my baby, but I had developed an infection and was induced. My daughter was stillborn.

While pregnancy loss is not uncommon (over 20% of pregnancies fail), talking about it is. The majority of losses occur in the first trimester. When I started spotting at 18 weeks, the doctor on call told me not to worry since miscarriage was highly unlikely that far into pregnancy. The chance of your water breaking early (preterm premature rupture of the membranes) is 1-2%, oddly about the same chance as having an ectopic pregnancy. Experiencing such an unlikely event is an especially frightening feeling. It removes the comfort of having numbers on your side in the future. Anytime some bad thing is unlikely to happen, you know it still could.

No matter how far into a pregnancy, the pain of loss is still poignant. Even in the early stages of a desired pregnancy, hopes and plans have likely already begun. From that first positive pregnancy test, many expectant mothers start thinking about their future child, imagining what they’ll look like, how to decorate the nursery, the things they’ll do together. Even prior to pregnancy, many women start this planning process. That is partly why failed attempts at pregnancy or a failed IVF cycle can feel almost as devastating. The loss and grief still exist.

Pregnancy loss is both a highly emotional and physical experience. In my case, I went through a painful labor and held my baby in my arms. In Christine’s case, she experienced a life-threatening condition and lost a part of her body in addition to the baby she hoped to have. On top of the intense emotional pain of losing a wanted child, there is also a feeling that your body failed you. For someone as athletic as Christine, the physical element of loss plays a large role. When you depend on your body operating at a high level and something goes wrong physically, especially with such unlikely odds, you can feel like your own body has let you down.

When people have no experience of such tragedy, they don’t always understand the magnitude of grief involved. Just be happy you’re alive, you’ll have more, everything happens for a reason. All those well-meaning platitudes often have the opposite of the intended effect. If you know someone coping with loss, don’t try to make them happy. It will almost certainly fail. Just be there for them. You don’t know what to say, say that. You don’t know how to help, ask. Offer food. Offer support. Offer love. Don’t offer empty promises of future happiness or health that cannot be guaranteed and do not hold much appeal to someone suffering. Grief is important and necessary. To make someone feel that they should not be grieving is the very way to make them feel worse.

Christine started her company as a way to help other women. She is sharing her experience for the same reason. No one loss is the same and everyone grieves differently. But knowing that others have gone through something similar, that a community exists that understands this grief and that you can talk about it, can help. It definitely helped me. It is the reason why I am open about my loss and choose to share my story. Because if we can be bravely honest, if we can share ourselves and support each other as we struggle through these unlikely tragedies, they will be just a little easier to bear.

We have all experienced some kind of challenge or loss. As the year begins, let us say yes to being a community of mothers who support and do not judge. Saying yes to who we are takes courage, but it is easier if we do it together.

The Politics of Parenting

Never have I directly posted about politics here. This is a parenting blog whose readers include good people I love and care about with different political beliefs. But I need to express something as a concerned parent. Because being a parent has been the hardest part of this election for me. The hardest part is the unshakeable feeling that this world is not yet worthy of our children.

I was raised to be politically aware and involved. I first remember watching presidential debates in 1984 and think I have rarely missed a presidential debate since. Over the years, I have attended Iraq war protests, volunteered for political campaigns, and participated in marriage equality rallies. So naturally, we discussed this election with Nate. He watched intently as Hillary Clinton made her acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention. He listened to us discussing Trump and he began on his own calling him a bully. He was excited to help his father fill in the circle for the first "girl" president. One of the hardest moments for me the next day was explaining to him that she did not win.

How do you tell your child that sometimes a bully wins? The most important value I want to pass down to my children is kindness. The election of a man who capitalized on fear, mocked the disabled, and degraded women poses a challenge. I do not want my children to think this behavior is acceptable. Nor do I want them to grow up in a world which validates sexism. When I look into the eyes of my beautiful, intelligent daughter, I want to tell her that she can accomplish anything she wants if she works hard enough. But right now, I don't believe that is true. 

I have heard many comments describing the protesting as whining, saying liberals (or rather the majority of voters) need to just get over it. That might be an appropriate reaction if we were talking about a sports game. But this is not a game. And this election was not just about economics. Trump used racism and a message of hate to mobilize his base. I accept the possibility that he may have used these techniques simply to boost his popularity, but regardless, acts of hate and bigotry have been escalating throughout the country. In our own neighborhood, one of the most diverse parts of the country, a friend of mine witnessed such an event. She was walking her five-year-old daughter to school and heard a group of elderly people talking about how good it was that Trump was going to return America to its core values. Then a few 8ish-year-old Latino boys walked by and one of the men said loudly, "Their days are numbered."

Speaking out against hate is in no way whining. It is bravely doing what is right. The very idea that a child could be a victim of bigotry in one of the most diverse places in the world is terrifying. If you are a Trump supporter, please make it clear to the President-elect that you are horrified by these incidents and want him to speak out against them. That is something that could help unify the country and might curb this outbreak of bigotry.

But I don't only fear the spreading of hate and bigotry. I fear for the well-being of the planet. I fear that Trump's casual military rhetoric and alienation of our allies could lead to yet another war. And I fear that his denial of the scientific reality of climate change could lead to an environmental collapse in my children's lifetime. Trump has proposed dismantling the EPA and getting rid of environmental restrictions, not to mention discontinuing investment in renewable energy.

These fears have felt immobilizing at times in the past couple weeks. But we concerned parents and others need to move beyond fear and into action. Here are some ideas:

1. Voice your opposition. Whether your preferred medium is writing, art, protest, or conversation with friends, now is not the time to stay silent. It is not just a democratic right to stand up for your beliefs, it is your obligation. We need to be vigilant against hatred, bigotry, and ignorance.

2. Teach your children kindness. No matter how people in power act, children need to learn that bullying and cruelty is unacceptable. Some great anti-bullying books are Each Kindness, The Invisible Boy, The Other Side, and Stand up for Yourself and Your Friends.

3. Teach your children to stay informed. Trump bamboozled people with outright lies about violent crime, immigration, healthcare, and late-term abortion (his characterization of which is particularly grotesquely wrong). We need to teach our children to rely on facts. They need to be knowledgeable of the different issues and have a historical context within which to place them. 

4. Donate. If you have the resources, invest in organizations that fight for things a Trump presidency may endanger, such as the ACLU, Center for Reproductive Rights, Earthjustice, and Planned Parenthood. For a complete list, go here. 

5. Do your own part to save the planet. With the inevitability of environmental disaster made more imminent, we all need to do our part. Embrace walking or public transportation over driving whenever possible. Eat less meat, particularly beef (since the beef industry is energy intensive). Use reusable grocery bags. Start collecting compost - if you don't have outdoor space, many places accept your compost (there is a compost pickup at the Steinway library on Monday mornings). And please don't fall into an all or nothing way of thinking. We all have a carbon footprint. Making yours a little less will help. And it will teach your children to do the same. 

If we raise our children with ideals of love and an awareness of the world, the future will be bright. I really do believe the world is getting better and in times like this I remember this quote,

"The arc of the moral universe is long. But it bends towards justice." Martin Luther King, Jr

Stay strong. Stay kind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bloody Good Night

I love Halloween. The decorations, the costumes, the chance for my ever-present-but-usually-latent inner Goth to emerge. But I also love it for another reason. It marks the anniversary of Ben and I meeting two of our now closest friends, Jess and Adam - our friendiversary.

On Halloween of 2009, Ben and I attended a party at our old house - this is the house where we met. A long story in itself, basically I lived in a house with a bunch of twenty somethings who had come together on craigslist. I went away one summer to do fieldwork in Borneo (as you do) and while I was gone two housemates moved out. Through my occasional email contact, I told my housemates not to choose a straight man to move in (the original group included 3 women and 2 gay men), but they did. And he eventually became my husband.

Anyway, every year the funhouse (as it was known) held a Halloween party. Given the large portion of theatrical and artistically-inclined guests, the costumes were often impressive. In 2009 (the year after our wedding), I went as Jennifer from the movie  Jennifer's Body, which I was slightly obsessed with at the time. Ben kept it old school and went as Indiana Jones. We entered our old home, which never ceased to feel like home to me, and soon discovered that Ben was not the only Indiana Jones in attendance. The other man, whose costume included a far more accurate jacket, naturally struck up a conversation with us. The abundance of blood in my costume intrigued his wife, who had gone as a toddler in a tiara.

The conversation progressed and honestly I do not remember what we discussed. But I remember finding them both incredibly nice and intelligent and easy to talk to. They had not even planned on coming to this party. They were on their way to another party when they decided to just stop by this party whose hosts they didn't even know - a friend of a friend sort of thing. They came with a friend who ended up spending most of the night intimately engaged on the dance floor with a man dressed as a Spartan whom she had just met. (Crazily enough, despite the natural assumption that this was a Halloween night only affair, this couple stayed together and recently got married! Congratulations to them! I will forever think of the man as "the Spartan").

We left the party together after exchanging phone numbers. I remember feeling sad saying goodnight, unwilling to end our conversation. Sometime in the next week, I nervously asked Ben, "Do you think it's too early to ask them to brunch?" We decided it was not too early and met up at the old Fatty's on Ditmars, a thoroughly enjoyable meal despite the presence of a rather large cockroach near our table!

Our friendship grew close quickly, something not always common with friends acquired in adulthood. We had been friends less than a year when tragedy struck us. Our daughter Sylvie was stillborn at 20 weeks. Almost immediately after I was released from the hospital, we needed to move but I was struggling to function even at a base level. Our relatively new friends rose to the occasion, helping Ben move our furniture and literally packing my entire (and considerable) wardrobe and bringing it to our new apartment. A psychologist with infinite empathy and an understanding of grief, Jess supported me through a long emotional recovery that continued through my next pregnancy which I was convinced would also fail.

Jess and Adam visited us in the hospital after Nate was born. In the weeks that followed, when I was exhausted from nursing on a hourly basis with almost no sleep, Jess would come over. She helped me put together the mind-boggling contraption that is a breast pump and use it for the first time, which allowed someone other than me to feed Nate. She helped me sort out how to put Baby Nate in the carrier, an at first confusing task that soon became second nature, which allowed me to get out of the house. At dinner at our place one night while we held the baby, I made some comment asking if they wanted one of those. Jess said (and I remember distinctly), "Not now. We'll catch you the next time around."

And that's what they did. Several months into my pregnancy with Willa, I learned that they were expecting their first baby. We experienced time pregnant together and their daughter was born only a few months after Willa. Now considering them family and with our daughters so close in age, we decided to ask Jess and Adam to be Willa's godparents. 

Unlike with Nate, I attended no Mommy meetups with Willa - I found mothering two exhausting and couldn't see bringing a toddler into a room full of babies. So Jess was really my only mom friend with a baby near Willa's age. That is until she introduced me to some wonderful mothers she had met. We began setting up regular playdates (which at first just involved the babies lying on blankets while we chatted and occasionally fed them). These moms I now count as good friends, friends I would not have if not for Jess. These friends in turn introduced me to other moms with whom I also became friends. All of these people have enriched my life and the lives of my children. They have supported me while I waded through the occasionally murky waters of motherhood. Without them, my life would be very different and almost certainly worse.

So I owe a lot to that Halloween night. Whether it was some kind of mystical force in that house which brought so many people together, a cosmic costume coincidence, or the lucky stroke of bloody make-up, it was a charmed evening. I do not believe things happen for a reason. But I do believe something magical happened that Halloween. And the spark from that magic has brightened my life ever since.

Into the Dark

   

On a recent walk home with Willa from school, I saw a little dead bird on the sidewalk. Not a common bird, but a beautiful goldfinch or some other little yellowish bird, just lying there. I hoped Willa wouldn't see it, but she did. And she of course asked me what happened to the birdie.

I am obsessively honest with my kids. They already know the truth about Santa Claus and if they asked where babies come from, I would read them one of those child-friendly picture books that gives the real anatomical facts. Like my parents (who also never made up stories about Santa and who showed me such a book when I asked the question around 8-years-old), I believe that being honest with your kids builds trust and helps your children learn about the world. It did work with my parents. I always trusted them and consequently never lied to them (or if I attempted to, I inevitably did it very badly and failed). So I think honesty is key. But when it comes to death, things are...complicated.

In the season of Halloween, such dark matters surround us. Zombies, ghosts, skeletons decorate neighborhood houses and the local pharmacy. Personally, I love it. I have always gravitated towards the macabre with a fascination for all things spooky. My children seem to share my delight in the joyful scariness of the season. But not everyone does. I have spoken to other mothers who are concerned at the frightening images so common around Halloween. And the fact that so many of the standard decorations and stories are routed rather disturbingly in death.

It raises the issue of how much children should be exposed to this darkness. In some such discussion, children's movies came up. Disney movies, particularly the old ones based on fairytales, do contain some frightening scenes. Evil queens requesting the hearts of innocent princesses, sorceresses changing into dragons, young girls escaping their captors only to be chased by fierce wolves. Many of these movies include the protagonist losing a parent and almost all of them end in death for the main villain. They are dark tales.

But they are not nearly as dark as the fairytales they are based on. The original Grimm tales are gruesome. To the point that when I read our beautifully-illustrated version of the original Grimm translation of Snow White to my daughter, I edit out several parts, including the evil stepmother's horrific end in which she is forced to wear hot iron shoes until she falls down dead. Why were these stories so terrifying? They came from a time when death was a frequent visitor. In days when child mortality was high and it was common for children to lose a sibling or a parent to illness or child birth. Children needed to deal with death and darkness because it was part of everyday life. Evil witches and fairy stories served as a safe way to explore some serious and scary situations.

Luckily, this is no longer usually the case. Thanks to modern medicine, most children in this country do not have to face such terrors early in the life. But does that mean we should pretend that they don't exist? Do we try to shield our children from the idea of death and evil as long as possible? Should we wait until the death of a loved one necessitates a discussion? Or perhaps even then hide the truth. 

While maybe not a common view, I don't think so. I think death is a part of life. And while naturally upsetting, I don't think it's something we should lie about or work hard to hide from our children. When we hang up Sylvie's Christmas ornament with her name and footprints on our tree every year, I have explained to Nate and Willa that she was their sister and is now in heaven. I did not go into details and I don't think they completely understand it, but I felt it important to say something. 

I think those frightening moments in Disney movies are a safe way to explore fear and learn that evil exists in the world. Of course, it varies depending on the child. If your kid is easily frightened or has an active imagination, it makes sense to exercise caution with such images. I made the foolish mistake of introducing Nate to my favorite Disney movie, Beauty and the Beast, when he was just under 4, at a time when he was having frequent nightmares. I thought to myself that it wasn't too scary, Gaston is not the world's most frightening villain. But Nate took one look at the Beast and burst out sobbing. Poor kid! But if your child is not prone to nightmares or fearful fantasies, then I do think such tales can serve an important purpose. For older children, I think Neil Gaimon's novels Coraline and The Graveyard Book explore darkness in a frightening but safe way.

I decided to tell Willa that the bird had died and was in heaven. She said, "Poor birdie!" I told her maybe it was flying around and happy in heaven. She told her father and brother about the experience. She seemed interested but not particularly disturbed which I suppose is the best reaction. After all, we haven't eliminated death. Sooner or later, my children will come into contact with it, however much I may want to shield them. My role, as I see it, is to be a flashlight. A little glimmer that serves as a guide. Because at some point we all need to tread into the dark.

School Amnesia

I am not someone who is "not ready" for their kids to be in school. I think a healthy amount of separation is just fine at their ages and feel that it will not only help them grow, but make our time together more...special. However, I am not ready to leave my son for over six hours and find his entire day has disappeared into a Sarlacc pit with almost no evidence of what occurred. Yet I am faced with this loss daily due to a serious illness that Nate has acquired - school amnesia.

Willa does not suffer from this disease. I pick up my three-year-old before lunch and when I ask her about her morning, she launches into a monologue about the songs she sang, the toys she played with, who cried, and what color play dough she used. But not Nate. Our normal pick-up conversation goes something like this:

Me: "How was school today?"

Nate: "Great."

Me: "What did you do?"

Nate: "I can't remember."

Me: "What did the teacher talk about?"

Nate: "I can't remember."

Me: "Who did you eat lunch with?"

Nate: "All my friends."

 Me: "Did you have fun?"

Nate: "Yes."

So clearly Nate is enjoying school. He is happy to go in the mornings and he is always in a good mood when I pick him up. But I need to do serious detective work to find out any specifics about what he did all day. Once when he was coloring after school, I heard him hum to himself "Ta Ta ti-ti Ta. Ti-ti ti-ti Ta." So I asked him, "Nate, did you have music class today?" Sure enough, he had! I know the key to extracting information about kids' school days is specific question. Scholastic lists a few such questions on their website:

1. Tell me about the best part of your day.
2. What was the hardest thing you had to do today?
3. Did any of your classmates do anything funny?
4. Tell me about what you read in class.
5. Who did you play with today? What did you play?
6. Do you think math [or any subject] is too easy or too hard?
7. What's the biggest difference between this year and last year?
8. What rules are different at school than our rules at home? Do you think they're fair?
9. Who did you sit with at lunch?
10. Can you show me something you learned (or did) today?

Now I do ask most of these questions and still generally get either the standard "I can't remember" response or a very vague answer. But sometimes it works. Nate will usually remember a specific story the teacher read. And at some point, something will leak out about his day - often completely out of the blue. He'll tell me about how one of his classmates got in trouble for talking when the teacher was talking. He'll start teaching his sister how to do a frog jump vs a rabbit jump and when I ask he'll tell me he learned that in gym class.

I have also just learned that the class has a color-coded behavior chart - all students start the day at green. If they do good things, they move up to blue, light blue and violet. If they do bad things, they move down to yellow, orange, and red. Nate loves a visual reward system, so this works great for him. And it is something concrete that I can ask and he can remember. I do trust his answer, because he does not generally lie and on the rare occasions he has tried to, he is not very good at it! This week he's been violet and light blue, so I'm happy!

I'm hoping for a string of violet and blue days. And that I can hone my Sherlock skills to discover a cure for this severe case of school amnesia!

 

Bringing in the New Year

      

I think of the calendar in terms of the academic year. For me, Labor Day is vaguely equivalent to New Years Eve and then the new year begins with the start of school. I realize that I personally have not been in school, even grad school, for a rather long time. But that way of thinking stuck. Plus, I taught preschool for years and then worked at a university for another few years. So to me September is the beginning of a new year. And this September is the beginning of quite a few other things as well.

Nate started kindergarten last week, on his fifth birthday. Luckily, he was happy and excited. He ended up at a school and program we really like and so does he. It's kind of a big deal - he is in elementary school. He is a school age kid. He wears a uniform. He has his longest school day ever, but it is going great. Let's hope the trend continues! I am not concerned about academics, which he thrives on, but he has all new classmates and I hope he makes some good friends. Because school is about social development, not just academics.

Willa is starting her very first school experience, preschool on weekday mornings. She is also excited. Throughout the summer, going to school served as an impetus to get her to use the potty. She needs to be potty-trained, which she kind of is...I have a feeling I will get some calls to come change my daughter in the first month or two! We went to visit the teacher and classroom last week and she told me she wanted "to stay there forever". So that's a good sign!

Now that I have both children in school, I will have a few kid-free hours every day. Many people have asked me, "What are you going to do with yourself?" If you're a stay at home parent, you might agree with me that this is a somewhat thoughtless question. What am I going to do with myself? All those things I try, often unsuccessfully, to do when I have two kids constantly requiring my attention. Laundry, cleaning, writing this blog, practicing my harp, going to the grocery store (what a dream it will be to go there alone on a regular basis!) and going to the bathroom without children interrupting me (the lack of doing which has already led to potentially permanent health problems). I have plenty to keep myself busy. But I am planning to do something else - I want to find an income-earning job.

I have said before that I have never felt completely comfortable saying that I'm a Stay-at-home-mom. Not because it's not an extremely important job, but because it feels out of place with who I am. It did make financial sense for me to stay home. But the children are in school now, they are not nursing, they are both happy to be in an environment away from home (fingers crossed they stay that way), so I think it's time. I am not sure what exactly I'll find. It is a bit intimidating being completely out of the work force for five whole years. Even though I spent those five years multi-tasking, dealing with crisis management, and working in a frequent state of exhaustion, I do not feel these experiences have made me more...marketable as an employee.

I will need to redo and reorganize my resume so it's not just thrown out at a glance. I should also probably decide if I want to go back part-time or full-time, though that probably depends on what is available. I have decided, since I have the extreme fortune to be able to decide, that I will only take a position I want. Long hours at some for-profit company, even if I'm well-paid, will not work. I would like to be back at a university or a non-profit, somewhere I enjoy doing something I feel is contributing to society. I am not foolishly thinking that such a position will be easy to find. Who wants to employ someone who hasn't worked out of her house in five years? But I don't need to find anything instantly.

I already have two leads for something I haven't been paid to do since junior school - play the harp. I've been able to actually practice on occasion since the children can now play on their own without complete disaster for short periods of time. So I used some contacts and may have landed myself two harp gigs on a monthlyish basis for a couple local churches. If those opportunities do indeed pan out, I will already feel I've accomplished something big.

The decision to go back to work is mostly a selfish one. But not entirely. I have never wanted to raise my children with traditional gender roles. I want them to see me going to work, to know that the roles of men and women are not fixed. I want both of my children to pursue whatever path they choose, regardless of gender.

It's going to be a big year for all of us, with a lot of changes. Let's hope we meet them with as much joy and excitement as Nate met his first day of kindergarten.

 

Reunion with an Old Neighbor

On a recent visit to church, an enjoyable but relatively rare event, I listened to a sermon focused on someone I have barely thought of since childhood: Mr. Rogers. I had no idea that Fred Rogers was a minister or that he got into television for the sole purpose of providing ethical entertainment to children or that he gave a speech to Congress back in the 60's to argue for funding for PBS. Betty Jeanne Rueters-Ward, the woman giving the sermon, noted that his television show followed a similar format to a church service: an opening hymn of sorts, a homily, a closing hymn in a consistent, comfortingly familiar style. She also brought up an idea that I had heard before but had not realized where it came from: look for the helpers.

In the Mister Rogers Parenting Book, Fred Rogers wrote,“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world."

This positive message provides a way for both children and their parents to deal with horrific events. In this age of social media, it is increasingly difficult to shelter children from upsetting stories. I personally struggle to process anything that involves mass shootings or hurt children and the quick glance I allow myself on Facebook is generally enough to learn the latest disturbing tragedy in current events. While I truly believe (and the facts support) that the world is a safer place now than in the past, this constant exposure can make it seem like the reverse. But what Mr. Rogers said holds true. These events always include helpers, heroes trying to make the situation a little better. People who remind us how to act when disaster strikes and who can inspire our children what they can grow up to become. People who reinforce what I have always believed: that good exists in all of us.

Since that church service, I have introduced my old neighbor to Nate. Watching the show again for the first time in so many years, I realized just how good it is. So many kids shows today include a bombardment of noise and images. Everything in Mr. Rogers' world is calm and quiet. He deals with heavy issues like sadness and fear, as well as educational information on science and the environment (I watched an episode from the 70's that discussed reusing and recycling to reduce waste!). But he lays out each lesson in a peaceful, accessible fashion. And he ends each show reminding children how special we all are. Nate loved watching it and I loved returning to that neighborhood. It's become a mother-son bonding activity that we both enjoy. 

In an interview shortly before his death, Fred Rogers said, "I'm just so proud of all of you who have grown up with us, and I know how tough it is some days to look with hope and confidence on the months and years ahead. But I would like to tell you what I often told you when you were much younger: I like you just the way you are."