Kids and the School Shootings: 7 Tips Left Out of EVERY Article I've seen

I couldn't keep silent.

Tell your kids you don't understand, either.

There are some VITAL points being left out of EVERY article I've read about "how to talk to kids about the school shootings in Connecticut." Yes, my heart is heavy; yes, it's terrible, and yes, many of us are having knee jerk reactions about gun control, religion in schools, and so on.

But, as a widow and parent of a sensitive, resilient 8 year old, this is in my wheel house, it affects you TODAY, and it's important. So I'm just going to write about those bits that have NOT shown up in the many articles shared by my more than 2000 FB friends, on my neighborhood, PTA, official school, and church list servs.

In general, these tips will help you with elementary school age kids but they may be useful for your own emotional health or with talking to older kids or even adults. Every child is different -- listen to your instinct and your experiences about your own individual child and do what works with your own parenting style. If you recognize something negative about your parenting style from what I say... well, crises can teach us things, and today is a new day. 

So listen up.

1. Make your words honest and age appropriate. DO NOT LIE to your kids and do not try to conceal what happened. You WILL learn a lot if you listen well to their questions FIRST and this in some way works best if you talk less, and if you don't start the topic. You do NOT need to give them more details than they ask for. Many articles have been saying, "don't bring it up" and I hear a lot of parental discomfort with this point. Well, this does depend on the context. You may feel the need to control the story -- and at some ages, in some school situations, this may make sense. I find if I keep in mind that phrase -- honest and age appropriate -- it helps A LOT.
2. Be honest about your own feelings. OK, this is mentioned in SOME of the articles but it's too important for ANYONE to skip -- and it is the one, that, in my experience, parents are most likely to be uncomfortable with. One of our most important tasks as parents is to demonstrate to kids that feelings -- sadness, anger, fear, helplessness -- can be overwhelming. It is not their fault, it's not only them, and it's part of being human. As they grow, they will learn (from you!) how to manage this sense of overwhelm... which is VERY scary, especially at younger ages. DO CRY in front of your kids. If they don't like it... help them understand it's natural and you can't control it (or maybe, you might say, "it's dangerous to cry while driving. Mommy's going to pull over for a minute." It is also up to you to model for them how to handle this intensity. 
3. Share also HOW YOU DEAL with intense feelings. Do you hit, clam up, try to shove it down? Your kids can tell EXACTLY what you are doing. My daughter notices from tiny movements of my eyes or lips when my thoughts or emotions have shifted. Don't think you'll be successful at hiding your feelings from your child. If you're in a bad mood, you can say so. If you're sorry you reacted a certain way, say so. DON'T apologize for your feelings or for healthy manifestations of those feelings. Play loud music, go for a walk, have a comforting snack. Drink water to remind yourself to take care of yourself. Breathe to calm down. These are sophisticated tools peddled by gurus, but you know them. SHARE your good ways of coping with your child. (If alcohol is part of your coping, you probably want to hide that, okay?)
4. Depending on your child's age, share your uncertainty. An important part of your message is that you, as parent, are not able to control what happens outside in the world but you will always listen and you will always (poof!) be honest. Caveat: this is less useful for younger age kids who may feel scared. You should reassure them that they are safe and that you and everyone (school staff, police, local and national government) is doing everything they can to keep kids safe -- and that these terrible things do not happen very often. A side effect of providing this reassurance is that it may remind you, too, of a larger perspective and your real safety.
   If your child asks a question you can't answer, say "I don't know" or "I wish I understood, too" or share something from your faith tradition. DO NOT TRY TO CONTROL THE STORY and do NOT force your point of view (religious, political, whatever) on your kids. This makes you look "shut down" to them when you MOST want to be open to their questions.
5. Give kids time to process. Understand that kids learn things AS THEY GROW. We often explain children's grief -- and many other topics in emotional and cognitive development -- as "like peeling an onion." Children's feelings and thoughts unfold in layers. You may have a concise and terrific talk with your kids and they don't ask questions. You may be disappointed or push them. Let them lead you -- they may just want to go off and play. They will ask more questions later IF you make it clear that you are listening, not terrified of the topic, not reactive, do not have an agenda, and that you are fine with them being "slow to understand." (They're not slow -- but parents are often impatient). Big topics tend to unravel slowly, to be understood over time. New contexts, other developments in their lives, and the cognitive growth that is the main quality of childhood, will mean that they ask you similar questions over time (take each one seriously... they are actually asking something different). It will mean that a question pops up when you least expect it or when some rigid family member is visiting. You can handle it by being....
6. I'll say it again: HONEST AND AGE APPROPRIATE. Keep this in mind, because every few months, as your kids grow and learn, and the new questions come up, the meaning of "honest" and of "age appropriate" will change, too. 
7. Respect your own feelings and understand that your experience of this may be completely different from your kids' experience. It's okay for you to take care of yourself, too. Get comfortable with the fact that you can't control the world and that our own feelings can sometimes feel like "too much." Your comfort level will enable your children to "hear" that you are open to questions -- even though we know you don't want to handle this terrible topic AGAIN. Dealing with "shit that happens" (in all forms) is part of parenting and part of our world and you can handle it.

Okay, end of lecture. No, not quite:

I learned this stuff from being a widow and parenting my grieving child. BUT, the more I learned... the more it was really about my own spectrum of emotions and accepting responsibility for parenting in an uncertain world. Parenting a child through this kind of crisis is not all about "grief" -- a topic that too many people find intimidating or frightening. Most of these tips are really about life. When you really think about it, there is very little in our kids' lives we can control. But we CAN help them through it, and we can learn from them.

I know these tips are not concise. I know there is a lot of intermingling and melding and overlap between them. I wrote this quickly and when have I ever done that?

And it's not complete. I'm assuming you've already read at least 6 articles. I still hope it is helpful.

Please, share. 

Obligatory Post Titled "Hey Jealousy"

(Let’s just get all this out of the way.) I’m jealous of widows who had life insurance, or whose husbands had good jobs with automatic coverage despite preexisting conditions. I’m jealous of those who got to be married longer. I’m jealous of those whose marriages were the most happy they’d ever been. I’m jealous of those who were still falling in love when their partners died.

I’m jealous of anyone who has more than one kid. I’m jealous of parents who didn’t have to pay thousands of dollars to get pregnant. I’m jealous of Moms who have time to work out. I’m jealous of women with good skin and no back fat.

I’m jealous of folks with real careers and who have found the answer to their life’s meaning and the world’s need early in their lives. I’m jealous of folks who are happy just doing their job, or who have pushed through to have real power at my age. I’m jealous of many people who made different choices than I did.

I’m jealous of celebrities with book contracts, and I’m jealous of stupid products that make a lot of money (like Katy Perry and the Baby Einstein videos).

I’m jealous of people with wonderfully supportive extended families that are not neurotic or abusive, and those with independent income. I’m jealous of people who live in inarguably gorgeous places like San Diego.

I’m not jealous of widowed people who “had a chance to say goodbye,” even though hearing this prickles me, because based on living side by side with a dying husband for two years, I think it very rarely happens and I don’t begrudge the few people who may have had this fulfillment.

I’m only a little jealous of those who have faith, the universe holds many ambiguities I can live with, since I believe they are true. I’m not someone who needs answers. I am, however, jealous of people who believe in affirmations and Louise Hay. I crave seeking and process but prefer it when it’s accompanied by genuine original insight. Talk about asking for the world!

I’m a little jealous of people who have good digital SLRs.

I’m not jealous of anyone’s problems, I believe the old adage that if we all put our problems into a giant hat, we’d each take back our own. With pleasure. That’s probably why I hold onto mine so hard.

I’m not jealous of people who’ve had really easy lives, because I think they are often bored and boring. But I am jealous if they seem to be satisfied with that all.

I’m not jealous of anyone’s sense of humor, mine is as good as it’s going to get.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s education or innate smarts.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s kid, mine is perfect.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s creativity, mine exceeds almost anyone’s.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s garden, mine is growing.

I'm not jealous of anyone's entire life, or of this moment, anywhere, anyhow. 


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Powerless

I have been feeling like I live in Brazil. Not the country (is it “third world” or not?), the movie.

We were without electricity for four days due to wild thunderstorms. This, 24 hours after returning from a week away with very spotty internet and phone service. It doesn’t sound so hard (and the weather wasn’t as hot as it might have been) but the scenario started to feel stressful for mellow me by the third day when I realized the power utility had no idea what was going on. When I ran out of towels. Oh, and when all of the adjacent blocks got their power back, all within 48 hours.

*

The power company has opened a special line for this crisis and to provide “service restoration times.” I call and they say they don’t have a time for my address yet, I should call back that evening.

I call back and they say Thursday at 11:30 pm. Conveniently, a time when the call center is closed.

I am pretty sure they are making this up. No one has even been out to look at the downed tree yet. It is Tuesday afternoon.

*
Why does it have to get dark so early? It’s hot as summer.

Doing dishes by hand, by candlelight, does seem to get better results than we’ve been getting from our dishwasher. Hey, silver lining.

*


My daughter asks me when we’re going to have normal breakfast again (toast instead of raw bread, real fruit not raisins, butter). I tell her when the power comes back on, we’ll replace all the food we had to throw out of the refrigerator and freezer. She asks, with a big smile, “Are we poor now?”

I tell her that in this country, even poor people usually have refrigerators. Then I recall the 5 kinds of bottled salad dressing I threw out and regret my callousness. But even in Brazil they have internet access. I tell her, no, this would be much worse if we were poor. But Mommy’s still frustrated.

Our home phone, run off our cable, is down. The cell phone is barely working. Whether it’s always being on low power, or a tower is down, I can’t be sure. I am conserving minutes and charge in case of a real emergency.

My mother calls and complains for 5 minutes that she is confused because she got my cell voice mail when she called our home number.

Everything is winding down, and I’m out of clean underwear.

*

I am a social media consultant preparing a PowerPoint for a conference and two client proposals and I can’t get on the internet except on my phone. It would be nice to fix that typo in my resume and respond to the edits on my catalog essay, but I can’t get online unless I run to Starbucks. Where I already spent all morning. AFTER drinking room temperature, supersweet bottled Frappuchinos.

I can get a few things done, as long as I spend a lot of time driving place to place for power and wifi, but not enough. My kid is delightful, doesn't mind a bit, except that she is pretty sure that I made it up about the TV. She gets extra playdates and that's fine.

*

I am getting in touch with the helpless and silent rage that fills me at times. This isn’t like someone is dying right next to me, but the uncertainly, the increasing dread that it will never turn, is suffocating. And the heat’s building up again.

*

My daughter is learning the complex meaning of the valuable term “room temperature.”

*

Linesmen from neighboring states are here to work 16-hour shifts to fix it. But there are still trucks patching potholes (why do we need roads if all the businesses are closed?). We hear scuttlebutt that the Governor has offered resources for tree removal and the power company said, No, thank you, we’re fine.

*

There was chatter on our neighborhood listserv saying that the company listed a fallen tree on our block as the culprit in just 5 outages, when there are at least 50. The power company made it clear they were trying to deal with problems affecting the most customers, first. So I called in to be counted.

The automated system asked me to confirm my address. I haven’t lived at that address for 8 months. I punched through to get a person.
“I’m trying to report an outage but your system is picking up my OLD address.”
“I’ll look that up… which number is yours?”
(I told her)
“And you live at (old address)?”
“No, we moved in November, now we live at (new address).”
“And your number is (old home number)?”
“No, it’s the number I’m calling you from, which your system understood…”
“Oh I see, the problem is that number is listed as your work number.”
“How is that the problem? You shouldn’t have the old address connected with any of my numbers. Work or home, I still moved. Can you change it?”
(click click click)
“Okay, that’s done. Now where is your outage?”
(I give her the new address).
“We already have a report of that outage.”
“They said they want every household to file a separate report so you know how many people are affected.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s already in the system.”
“Would you please make another report or record or whatever? Your online map shows only 5 houses affected and it’s been three days. If someone knew it was really 50 families maybe people would get to it sooner.”
“Oh. All. Right.” She sounded like my exasperated but resigned first-grader.
“Could I please speak to an executive about the confusing orders we’re receiving about whether to call? I’d like to clear up the confusion on my neighborhood listserv. It’s hundreds of your customers chattering about this.”
She might have shuffled some papers. “No one is available right now. Someone will get back to you this evening.”
They never did. Probably called the old number.

*

On the listserv a neighbor reported: “It seems we may be caught in a loop between the power company and the county. My wife spoke with the power company this morning and they said they can't touch the lines until the county clears the tree. A county employee came by on our street tonight to look at the tree and he said they can't remove the tree until the power company clears the lines.”

Buttle, Tuttle. What difference does it make?

*

On Wednesday I get an email from the power company telling me it’s best to keep my fridge and freezer door closed because the cold will keep most food okay for 24 to 48 hours. It has been 72 hours.

The email advises us to dispose of meat, dairy, and eggs first and check the USDA web site for details. Eggs don’t actually need to be refrigerated. I ponder using my scarce charge to check USDA.

I don’t know why I’d bother. I’ve already thrown everything out and propped the doors open so it doesn’t get too moldy. The inside of my fridge smells warm and brown, like moss might if you kept it locked up for a while.

*

I loved that being responsible meant throwing out tons of food. Imagine the rat carnival this will spawn! For the past few weeks our neighborhood listserv has been all about rats, crazy backtalk, energized. Accusations of cheap birdseed and compost piles fly.

We’re too like rats. We like the same things, and they are similarly social and family-oriented. That’s why they’re always around us. People only complain when they see them. If you really want to stop rats, you should stop eating, or at least, stop wasting food. Although rats can live on paper, drywall, and sewage. It’s your damn water feature that attracts them. Rats can’t carry water.

No one is talking about rats any more. A real emergency seems to bring out the best in people without suppressing their charming crankiness.

*

I fantasize about creating Molotov cocktails out of rotten jars of bleu cheese dressing and lobbing them at the power company’s headquarters.

*

The power company is expected to announce earnings this week. I’m not feeling much like paying the next bill they send. Listserv’ers suggest calling all the major media outlets but don’t provide the numbers. A newspaper columnist is screeching about his street, too.

*

Only 10,000 customers still without power. Nine thousand of them are due to one station problem. I start to doubt they will ever get around to our street. Our wonderful street which shoulder-to-shoulder shoveled a path out of 3 feet of snow this past winter. By hand. Maybe the grid is really going down.

The weather report shows more fierce storms headed our way.

*

There’s an article in the paper about the power company’s social media person, who started full time the morning after the storms. He’s doing okay and has a sense of humor. At least it shows that his bosses believe there will still be an internet in September.

*

I check my phone constantly for updates. Now there are five trucks on site. One from the power company, four from tree trimming subcontractors. Three hours later the joyous messages begin. A hundred machines washing seven hundred towels start up with happy hums.

I am plugged back in.

It'll be okay.



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Proof (Products for an Alternative Valentine's Day)

For several years in the mid-90s I used to sandpaper the mottos off of conversation hearts candies and use food coloring and a teeny, tiny, itty bitty paintbrush to write my own, nasty sayings. It was especially useful because it kept me busy, singing in my garret, after the Christmas craft sales were done.

I sold hundreds, in little boxes of six like the above, and by large handfuls for the occasional party of snarky singles (I don’t think we used to use that word? We’d just say “mean,” right?).

So, now let these pictures serve as proof that I used to actually be funny.
Proof that I have always been somewhat bitter, because I made them fifteen years ago, young and thin, even while I was in love.
Maybe I was fated to be a widow, disappointed, unhappy that others are doing well, pissed to see others in happy true love.

But they’ll also prove that Bittersweets, my version, were made and marketed years ago. You’ll see on the back of each box I’ve painstakingly included the year of copyright with my name (retouched for blogging benefit, but clear on the objects). Because actually, I don’t begrudge anyone their success. I just like to get paid. (Although I will lend the dig that mine are a way lot funnier than most of yours).

You can expect a call from my lawyer.




Also – I used to make these little boxes. It's hard to survive an entire commercial holiday like Valentine's Day with a single product. Imagine the presentation ... it’s funny for about 1 second. Still, at $3 a pop (in 1995 dollars), they moved.

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My Response to the Today Show, Part 1: The Baggage of Surviving a Happy Marriage

A young widowed friend of mine, Brenda Boitson, recently called in a question about dating as a widow to the Panel of Men who give women advice about men on the Today Show. The video is online if you wish to view about four minutes of embarrassingly shallow behavior, starting with “Why? We don’t want to become your next victim.” You’ll see that the response of this small group of 6 people illustrates the problem the stigma of loss brings to any social situation, without shedding much light on Brenda’s question of what to do about it.

First of all, I have to point out that the “next victim” comment, which annoyed so many viewers, is actually a prime cliché (it’s not meaty enough to be called a joke) and can be a little funny in the right situation. I use it. If I’d been the one calling in instead of Brenda, I might have said, “Dudes, why y’all afraid of widows? It’s not like I killed him.” I’m sure, in fact, that I did use that line sometimes. Possibly even in bed.

We widows are pretty used to feeling like we have cooties, and expressing this jokelet on our own time can cast folks’ hidden, negative thoughts in such a ridiculous light that it neutralizes the social situation.

Yes, it was a horrendous comment in the context of Today, and it may have hurt Brenda’s feelings (doesn’t sound like it), but mostly it just exposed panelist Chuck Nice as a man of weak humor and low maturity. (Later in the show he’d helpfully point out that he’s also shallow and not a very thoughtful husband). I’m not used to the low standards of morning television, but I’d have expected the producers of a national show to prepare the men (I can’t say “gentlemen”) better for her call.

Second, the responses of all the folks on stage can teach us something about why people have such a hard time dating, or rather, why it’s so easy for them to date and so hard to find a partner and live happily ever after.

Third, I have some words for Kathie Lee Gifford, whose incessant giggling is the prime irritant in that segment. I’d like to be constructive and compassionate even though she was neither. But I’ll make that a separate post.

So what can the response of these “boys” (not men) to Brenda’s question tell us? Their laughter and avoiding the question says they are scared of death and feel threatened that it would hit someone in their age cohort. (If you’ve faced a loss, you already knew that). Their words tell us that people who date are perfectly comfortable dealing with divorce. Above all, it demonstrates why marriages don’t work out and then the same people date and date and date: they have no fricking idea that they are looking for the wrong things.

Because here’s the thing: Everyone says widows have baggage. But by the time we’re ready to date, most widows and widowers have learned to stow it neatly under the back of the seat in front of them.

By age 40, everyone has some kind of “baggage.” (Often, it’s a code word for “kids.”)

Maybe a widow has the baggage of having fulfilled her vows, “till death do us part.” If she feels cheated, she’s likely to blame God for it. And we have some contempt for the polite world’s denial of death because we know everyone will go through loss sooner or later. We just had it happen earlier, when we were young and had many responsibilities.

As a widow, I often felt that if believing in your own mortality was “baggage,” I didn’t want to exist without it. After all, no one gets out of this life alive.

Divorced people enter the dating world working hard to get over their strong sense that they gave everything and in return, were rejected. The men’s ads often say “seeking an independent woman” and the women’s ads say “Looking for a man who MEANS WHAT HE SAYS.” Read between the lines and you’ll find that he felt milked by the divorce and she couldn’t get over a cheating episode. Sometimes the roles are reversed, but divorced folks feel BURNED.

If you haven’t lost a love you’ll think we’re crass and brutal, but every widow I know has said this statement: MY husband didn’t WANT to leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love divorced people. I married one. But if you think I have more baggage from losing my husband than he has from losing his wife’s affections AND his children – you’re wrong.

Widows argue that we had good marriages, but they ended as we pledged they would. We’ve been through tough stuff too and we figured out how to stay together. While we may not be ready to get hitched again, as daters, we’re arguably the only ones on the field with great track records. I remember thinking: I had one good marriage, I can have another if I like. I know how to make it work.

So here’s what’s wrong with their response to Brenda: the expert daters were framing all the questions wrong. (Not their fault; everyone does).

If you are looking for a good partner, you should date someone who was a good partner. If you want to marry, date women who think marriage is a good thing and who are able to be fulfilled within the institution. If you want to be treated well, date women and men who expect to be treated with respect and who view you as a potential commitment.

Yeah, death sucks, but if it’s baggage, you still have to accept it. After all, why else do you date, if not because you don’t want to die alone?

(Go to part 2, an open letter to Kathie Lee Gifford.)

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From the Bible to Tila Tequila

Bereaved women have never been pretty. (Hot, maybe, but not easy to look at).

I’ve been hearing these outrageous stories about the public trainwreck that Tila Tequila, the reality TV player (it’s not fair to say “star,” is it?), has become after the death of her fiancée, storied lost heiress Casey Johnson. (Johnson mixed diabetes with drugs and alcohol, a detail that is shamefully being left out of much coverage. Furthering the idea that something is "wrong" when someone young dies. ~buzzer~ FALSE!)

And Tequila (nee Nguyen)'s behavior has been pretty wild. Sixty tweets. Whoo hoo.

She’s showing off her grief so vividly. And I thought: she’s not that different from others I’ve known. Sorta, actually, like me.

It goes back to ancient days: the Hebrew traditions ask you to rend your garments, beat your breast, and tear at your skin. It’s supposed to hurt. And the skin is nothing when your soul has broken so wide open.

In the Bible, Tamar dresses like a whore after her loss and deceives Judah into fathering her child. Stealing sperm is turning some kind of trick! (What was she wearing?) Who would break all these rules? And why? Only a woman whose pain can’t be spoken loudly enough. And by this strange, horrific act of sluttiness Tamar mothers the race of David and Solomon. (Has anyone in a reality show done anything that freaky?)

In grief, I, too, wanted to look the way I felt. BAD. I wanted the world to see how I felt inside. I could never say it well enough, and no one seemed to hear.

Mourners seek to demonstrate, represent, and manifest these intense feelings. And grief is not just sorrow: we’re plagued by emotions without reason or apparent connection. Laughing hysterically one moment, smashing a favorite vase the next. Sometimes I felt like I wanted to disappear and break along with my world, a few hours later I’d be sure I’d never seen a more beautiful raindrop on a blade of grass.

Widowhood escalates our lives, and widows use their standing to make public statements. As others mourn the one who’s left, we often want to assert our own place in the world, whatever that place is. In grief, we sometimes becomes exhibitionist and often feel extremely sexual.

Tila Tequila is a widowed woman. If she’s different from how many of us would behave (and have!) in the same circumstances, it’s a difference of degree, not of kind.

Attention whore? Trainwreck? Loudmouth? Obsessed with fashion and Twitter? Yes, yes, yes, yes.

But isn’t that who she was before? She’s just more so in grief.

Widowhood is a journey, and she may come out stronger. I have, and so have countless others. Tila Tequila wouldn’t be the first to effect a radical change in her life.

In fact, her story sounds like one of the lives of the early Saints. Many of them were outcasts, pains in the ass, shallow and materialistic. I’m sure there was at least one, er, provocative dresser aside from Mary Magdalene.

So keep your eyes on this girl, she may yet have greatness in her. Try to keep your judgment to yourself if you haven’t been there. Mourners feel so alone, but maybe there's a Heisenberg Principle of Grief: letting Tila Tequila know she is heard, you might change what she does.

If you have lost a partner or a child, what do you think? Do you see any echo of your experiences in Tila Tequila’s behavior?


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Musical Monday: Show Some Emotion by Joan Armatrading

One of the Moms from church taught me this exercise to shake things up a bit when your kid is so angry neither of you can find a way out. “Okay, everybody, make an angry face, make a sad face, make a surprised face, make a happy face…” It nearly always works. The song, "Show Some Emotion" by Joan Armatrading, is sort of like that for me. When you’re really upset, there’s nothing like being reminded of the many emotional states that are available.

Aren’t grief and hysterical laughter so often side-by-side, each on the other’s heels? Both on the edge. Remembering the wheel of feelings can bring you back to center.

“Show Some Emotion” is really valuable for reminding us all our feelings are valid and real, which is a big emphasis in kids’ culture stuff these days. (When I was a kid, I was usually told to “stop being angry.” Absurd!) Somewhere I have started a playlist of alternative songs for little kids. The Cure’s “Friday I’m in love” introduces the days of the week, this song runs through the emotions, Mack the Knife is in for its condescending tone and what toddler doesn’t love sharks? There’s others, but who knows if I’ll ever uncover the list. It’s not a priority now, Shortie’s past suggestion, confidently making her own taste and scene.

I have always loved this song. Joan Armatrading was timeless, a hero to hippie and punk alike at my college. My friends and I sung her songs, melancholy when biking home at night, or rejoicing while we did dishes together. In this serious, joyful, generous song, which emotional expression is me?

“Some people hurting
Someone choking up inside
Some poor souls dying
Too proud to say
They got no place to lie
And there’s people
If they hear a joke
Can’t keep the laugh
Out of their eye…”

When I hear her sing that last line, I know Joan Armatrading has met me somewhere, that she’s teasing me to get back to it in just a little bit. And I start to breathe again in the corner of that smile.

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National Day of Listening

This may not work.

But I am going to try to talk to my damn mother for the Story Corps project, the National Day of Listening, on Friday. Maybe you can do it, too. It's a great legacy to leave, to include in the history of our real country, and a fantastic opportunity to connect with a loved one in a different way. The website offers tips as well as starting questions for your "interview."

There are a million ways and reasons I love what storytelling has become: a significant method that we use to frame our lives and our history. I never thought I'd see the day that ordinary people were recognized for their experiences and perspectives. I always thought that was the job of the Great American Novel, not reality TV, not computer networks, but things have changed. Thank God.

I love that I spent an hour on Monday selling a corporate client on how we'd help put faces to their "story," which they already value as a central part of their brand. I love that I have a chance to sell without lying, and use my skills to accomplish something rewarding while getting paid.

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The day after Thanksgiving, if I follow through on my National Day of Listening pledge, I'm supposed to listen to my mother for a full hour. We have a difficult relationship, but she is here for the holiday anyway.

Why don't I turn away when opportunity knocks like this? Maybe I'm strong enough to plunge right in to a challenging learning experience, perhaps flowers will pour from her mouth in a surprise fit of something-or-other. Could be that this process is just part of some rebellion I'm having against being healed, maybe this is my way to insist on banging my head against a familiar wall one more time.

I know part of my mother's annoying behavior is caused by illness, but after 43 years I still have trouble being around it and making room for my real live self.

Around her I feel like the child I was, the one who was constantly asked to be different; at other times I'm in the shoes of her parent, whose job it was to take care. The one who failed so miserably. If I saw my mother as a child who needed only love and empathy, I'd probably accept her and feel more sad than angry.

The sadness is like a well. I don't want to shine a light down there.

But an hour? With my ears? I'll try. Wish me luck.

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Married Life: Schmaltz Pan Spiel

[Mr. Fresh and I had a fight about something move-related and while I was cleaning up from dinner I schemed this rant. It's supposed to be funny. Just so you know.]

No, really, honey, thanks for making dinner. And it was delicious. Your plain roast chicken was way better than the rotisserie ones. THANK YOU. You’re great.

But fuck. The Pan. I can't believe you used that aluminum two-part grilling pan that you’re never supposed to use. What? You know, THE PAN. The one that came with the stove that came with the house. Yeah, no one ever uses those pans.

Why? WHY, motherfucker? Because it’s a piece of crap. It’s made to work exactly with this size oven but it doesn’t fit into the sink at all. It’s really hard to clean. All those holes. And it’s a flimsy material.

Dishwasher? What are you, crazy? That piece of shit would MELT in the fucking dishwasher.

You’re never supposed to use that pan. Everyone knows! Come on! Didn’t your Mom have “the pan?” She probably just didn’t want to tell you about it. I don’t blame her, you would have suggested she put it in the dishwasher!!!

What are you SUPPOSED to do with it? Put it aside or at the very bottom of the drawer and make sure no one ever uses it! That's what everyone does.

Waddaya mean "throw it out?" This pan, mister, is part of the stove, and when we sell the house, we’ll sell the stove with it and if the original pan is missing it’s not worth as much. And now, we’re moving out so there is no way I can leave the pan coated with chicken grease for the tenants. Okay, it’s not completely covered. But they shouldn’t be able to smell our last week’s dinner, you know?

What do you mean, “my usual cleaning standards?” Of course now I have to clean it better than I’d do for us. I don’t want the tenants to think we are total losers!

I'm sure they'll tell the whole neighborhood. Yes, the neighborhood we are moving out of. Why in the world are you laughing? Fuckhead. You wouldn't know community if it bit you in the ass.

And anyway I just heard this piece on NPR about grease and oil. You’re never supposed to put them into the sewage system, neither by dishwasher or by sink or by garbage disposal in sink. Well, as little as possible. You can drain it into a can and then wrap that up thoroughly when it’s full and throw it in the regular trash the evening before trash morning. Or, save it in the freezer and take it out mid-winter to make redneck suet for the birds. I know, pretty much every spring I find that I’ve forgotten it. But we’re not composting anymore, so why be THAT green?

Anyway, if I did compost now, I’d be making compost for the tenants and that’s just plain stupid.

No, I said I don’t want it going down the sink. I’ll wipe the grease off The Pan with paper towels… Trees? Smartass, you got a better idea? Oh yeah? Do you have any old shirts I can turn into rags? NO, BECAUSE YOU’RE WEARING THEM. “It’s my favorite,” “It’s so soft,” “It still fits me,” wah wah. And you think I’m ridiculous about “stuff?”

So I’ll stick the greasy paper towels in the can (it’s a whole damn chicken’s worth, thank you very much) and then use the sharp spatula to scrape off the big chunks of grease and stuck skin, and then maybe a big lump of baking soda will cut through what’s left… huh? No, well, SOMETHING has to go down the drain, I’m not CRAZY.

Or maybe vinegar if I have to. And then soap. And then maybe more baking soda or vinegar. That schmaltz shit is persistent. It’ll take a few hours. I’ll let it soak and watch some CSI with you. It’s going to be a lot of scrubbing though. Just want to make sure you know for next time.

No, Martha Stewart doesn’t have any better ideas about what to do with The Pan. She probably has a special warehouse full of things like this that she has to save. Like the mattress tags. Yeah, I think she pulls them off, but she keeps them in case there’s a rebate or something.

I can’t believe your mother never told you about The Pan. Or even your Grandma.

No, don’t ask your Dad, obviously he’s not gonna know, right? But you could ask him about the clitoris sometime. Maybe you had the flu when he was telling you that part.

Well, you know now. So when we get to the new house, I really do want you to feel comfortable in the kitchen, and that was delicious chicken, really, but can you just ask me before you pull out a pan?

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The "Grief" Category: Ruminations on BlogHer09

I finally figured out what was getting me about the BlogHer conference back in July. Why I went in expecting to feel different from everyone else, and came out disappointed that the only thing different about me was that I had hoped to be left out, but no one would play along.

(I’ll leave the psychoanalysis aside for a moment and just talk about grief in blogging.)

I went to BlogHer expecting grief in blogs to be like grief in real life: a difficult issue that no one is willing to talk about. I often found myself frustrated that there was no real category for me in the indexes (BlogHer, Bloglines, Blogopedia, Technorati, AllTop, Blogarama, Scribnia… ). I’d list my blog under “family life” or “parenting” even though those choices cut me off from single widows, with whom I generally feel great comradeship.

Checking the wrong box left me feeling misunderstood. After all every widow has a story about the first time she has to check “widowed” on a form, and another about some clueless organization that expects her to select among “single,” “married,” or “divorced.”

When I was at this conference with 1300 other people, mostly women, largely Moms, who write for different publics, I found that grief in blogs really is like grief in real life: a deep vein that shows bright if you scratch the surface. A stone a lot of people are carrying in an inner pocket. You can’t see it, but they might even be fondling it while they talk to you. Grief is so common and such a part of life that it doesn’t make sense to put all those people off in a separate room.

(Leaving aside for a moment, again, that a grieving bloggers conference would be TEH AWESOME). (See. I learned blogger lingo. I’m a pro now.)

We all hope to be lucky enough to write only occasionally about our loss and adaptation. Then we could talk about other subjects: recipes, cute things our kids did, politics... the whole world. Of which grief is, yes, an important part.

Maybe we grief bloggers are just stuck. I’m sure that’s what it looks like from the outside.

Or in some HEY LOOK AT ME phase of tearing hair and rending garment. I suppose it’s a good thing that we might move on to something else.

Blogs that serve only one need for the author do tend to die out. There are abandoned grief blogs all over the place.

But my demands are often unreasonable. Maybe topical categorization is less useful for subjects that span our serious, lumpy, camouflaged, ever-changing emotional lives. Seems we bereaved people do a fairly decent job at finding one another online using the same vehicles we do in real life: through friends (and their blogrolls).

What’s so wonderful about blogs is that they are as in-between as we are. A fresh source of rich, personal information and perspectives that shows humans in all our color and glory (leaving aside, for now, the skew towards people with internet access).

If this diverse democratic distribution of words and images favors the creative, the trouble makers, those who don't fit neatly into one category, who am I to complain?


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Sometimes Things Are Just Plain Broken

Oh I was so poetical about the kintsugi a few weeks ago. And I meant it, too.

But everything went wrong yesterday. A bunch of little hints showed me my car had been broken into the night before (it was unlocked, but things had been taken out of the glove compartment, just a little more chaos than usual). The lucky thief stole my gym bag and some JUNK from the trunk.

Though it was funky junk:
(1) A box of recipes "from a woman who hated cooking." Gavin's mother's yellow file box of Betty Crocker crap, handwritten, recipes with mostly canned ingredients. She didn't even like to eat. But I thought this awesome item should go to Tarrant Figlio after I heard her speak at BlogHer. She didn't look too happy when I told her about it, and it's been sitting in my trunk for months. Tarrant, you're welcome cause now it's the treasured disappointment of someone who hoped for an iPod (Nyah, nyah! I lost the iPod last month just so he couldn't get it).
(2) A tea pot and two mugs shaped like anatomical hearts in green and red ceramic. Heavily textured and complete with aorta, etc. This was a wedding gift (I told you Gavin had heart problems?) and while it was artsy, there was really nothing we could do with it. Recently a good friend, a genius intellectual art lover, had a bypass and I thought: REGIFT. Awesome! Hon, you're out of luck too.

I hope that bastard thief is as mad at me as I am at him.

Then I had several extremely exasperating lack-of-customer-service experiences (changed my mind: Don't save the fucking banks after all!) and broke a favorite bowl, see above.

I usually keep broken china for an "art project" but that's just plain stupid when I'm already completely overwhelmed with all the shit I've saved. Anyway the box of broken china is already packed and deep in the POD.

(Yes, thanks, I already know I'm crazy.)

*sigh*

So I guess that goes in the trash too. Trash Tuesday.

It's just a broken bowl. But somehow, around now, with everyone around me slowly losing faith, it seems like more.

(P.S. Wednesday was better. I got a Wave invite, fixed the bank thing, and got some other stuff done, but Mr. Fresh is in the worst mood I've seen yet. OK, maybe Wednesday was just not Tuesday any more. Good 'nuff.)

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Owning the Past

Among Gavin's many treasures was an unmatched set of unmarked pottery, Harlequin, which he noted was "a cheap knockoff of Fiestaware." He collected the pieces with love, one at a time in antique malls and yard sales and we used the bright mixture as our formal china, for holidays and parties.

But if it hadn't been for the Hans Wegner-knockoff teak buffet (with an expandable table and ten chairs) that we bought to show the stuff off, the china would be completely dusty. We often disagreed about dinner. Gavin thought you should invite a gaggle of existing friends, including some terrific cooks, and make a new recipe. I prefer to treat guests to a favorite dish that I'm comfortable cooking, and my favorite part is designing the mix of people from different spheres. It was easier to take friends for Burmese than come to peace AND clear a year's business off the table.

And people do have different impressions about the Fifties. To a contemporary viewer, the super mid-Century hipness of the mismatched Harlequin complemented our old house's post-war metal kitchen cabinets and our spectacular dinette set. But to him, much older, they represented an atomic age that he had lived through. The red glaze on Harlequin ware was made with radioactive lead or something; an astrophysicist friend assured us that using it once in a while was safe "enough."

I always thought of this set as one of his more valuable non-artwork possessions so I held on to it. Now that I'm remarried, I have another chance to buy new china. And we're moving. I hate packing. I have a hard time deciding. I emailed a friend who deals in 50s furnishings: "Call me. I'm ready to sell the Harlequin." It felt like a big step.

But as I wrote up an inventory, I hesitated. Does that mean the buffet has to go, too? What about all the unmarked pottery I collected to match and display all the flowers our cutting garden would produce? And the coordinating placemats and party bowls?

Can't I get one set of china for both daily use AND parties? Do I need a separate set for occasions? That system is so bourgeois. This is a second marriage. It's not like we're registering. I can choose something I really love, and buy twice as much. I can let go of "Gavin's special this-or-that." That he loved.

I got sidelong glances from two people who know me well. Perhaps I was protesting too much. The Harlequin is only worth like $10 a piece, less because for some bizarre reason people want stuff that matches.

So I made up my mind. I bought strong boxes and bubble wrap.

Maybe we'll have dinner parties at the new house. Strangely enough, it's a split level, which Gavin would have loved, and although the kitchen is "updated" (um, to the 70s) the pottery will still fit. Even with a small garden, maybe those vases will get some play. Hosta leaves look nice.

I'm packing it up because now it's mine.

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(Fragment 01) A Widow on Facebook

[Read my excuse for posting bits and pieces.]

Being widowed young disrupts your social networks, along with everything else. As in real life, the break is stark when you interact using Social Media:

01.
On Facebook, the freshly bereaved may be a bit disgusted to find they can choose between relationship status “single” or “it’s complicated.” The latter status may be a bigger bucket now, but as a child of the 60s, I imagine it’s used by the polyamorous and the thought of clicking that box makes me throw up a little. No, it's not fucking "complicated," you dolts. I'm not dating a goat and a girl. I was married and he died. Sounds simple enough to me.

Sure, it’s easy to offend a widow, but how hard can it be to add another check box? Hence there’s the group, “Petition for Facebook to create ‘widowed’ as a relationship status.”

02.
This group is categorized under “Dating and relationships,” which seems a bit off to me. The taxonomy of grieving is a topic that comes up often in these fragmented social media notes; I hope to pull thoughts on this together someday.

03.
Like many, I’m using Facebook to be found by old friends and to maintain relationships that were never (or aren’t now) close. But a lot of folks would just disappear after the initial contact. It’s not called “dropping a w-bomb” for nothing but seriously, how could I answer, “So! What have you been up to for the past 20 years?” without mentioning that my husband died? So I tried to prepare people a little, the way I did with my Match.com ad. Under “Info,” I added:

Friends,
Because I have had a lot of awkward FB conversations with folks who haven’t seen me in a long time, here’s a short bio:
-- I work as an editor.
-- Have had some jobs in the art world, but not now.
-- I went to college and graduated in 19xx.
-- I got married in 19xx.
-- I went to business school finishing in 20xx.
-- I had a baby in 2004.
-- My husband died in 2006.
-- I remarried in 2008.
I am comfortable talking about my loss, though it doesn't consume my life.

I have to say I don’t think it helped that much because the FB interface buries “evergreen” info. But I still like the idea, and I certainly (as you know) bring up “widow” as an early warning system in any transaction where I think it will be relevant. And I am more cautious of how I bring the topic up in that first FB "What up?!" response, given that e-mail is a less rich, less responsive medium than F2F conversation.

04.
I checked the Facebook page of an art world acquaintance a week or so after he had died. Friends continued to post wall messages, and he was a member of a group art project called “A Book About Death.” It gave me a chill. He must have joined before the accident which killed him. The only other option is that his wife signed him up posthumously, which seems unlikely (though I don’t know her well. Would I do it? Yes, but I’d use my name).

The net gets denser every day -- it seems really weird to me that I know the gallery and many of the artists working on the project.


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The Posture of Grief and Recovery

During active grieving, most of the young widows I knew described their cars as perfect compartments for crying: soundproof, childless, portable, and stocked with Kleenex. I was fortunate enough to be held by a faith community instead. Every Sunday church was a refuge where I could cry in peace or on a shoulder, and sing brokenly as loud as I wanted to.

By instinct and feeling, over many months, I adapted my own posture. The position is a little like Eagle Pose: my upper and lower body twist to enclose the heart in a knot, but it’s smooth on the outside and every part plays a role.

The legs are crossed, right knee over left. Left elbow nests on the right inner elbow, resting on the lap. My back is bent but just enough to fit the puzzle together. Two fingers of my left hand pinch the earpiece of my splendid eyeglasses, which dangle out to the right to avoid harm. The chin tucks naturally. The right hand is all business, cradling the bridge of the nose, offering a span of Kleenex to both eyes at the same time. The tail of the Kleenex is ready to spread down to the two nostrils if they flare or bubble. A dozen more Kleenex wait on the blue cloth seat of the chair next to me.

Unlike other slouches, in this one the lower back pulls up and forward and the head can still float like an egg about to hatch. In this position, you can really feel the breath elevate and spread the spine. It’s a bow being slowly released. You’re free to cry, well protected, still available to hug and somehow, you can even provide your shoulder to someone else.

I wept at service a few weeks ago, at a song or a sorrow, and it came back to me. I remember that grieving is a physical process and one that uses your entire body.

Being unemployed and newlywed has changed my body, too: I’ve been lifting weights and feeling as that strength helps my hard, crushed chest to open up by slight turns. I’m using my hips more freely when I run, and the wonky alignment of my right knee seems to be gone.

But one morning about a month ago I woke up in hell. The weak spot in my right side middle back was throbbing, unstretchable. It’s happened before, and usually goes away after 3 or 4 days. I saw the allopath and got two Rx’es, which help, but mornings are almost unbearable. I can’t stay in bed and stretching is hard. Sometimes I just get up at 3 or whenever the pain wakes me and I stay up. It creates a constant present where I want only one thing: let the pain stop.

Boy, pain really has a way of focusing the mind. I remember all the pain that Gavin suffered when he had a metastasis eroding his spine all summer long. I empathize with his long-lost daily struggle and remember all the pain meds he took.

Even as the pain seems to be stepping back, slowly, it’s still hard not to look at the metaphors. At 42, after years of unbearable stress, I am waking up. What is my body trying to tell me?

Perhaps I am strong enough at last to confront some demons and kill some gremlins. Surely one of the new directions pointing at me is the right one. Maybe I could throw out about 1,000 pounds of STUFF. I'm sure it was impulsive to remarry so quickly, though I have no doubt Marshall is the best man for the job.

I am on the verge of insight in several areas of my life, if I may be forgiven for hubristic navel-gazing on my blog (what else, excuse me, is it for?). But I know it will hurt to pull all those band-aids off. I suppose I’m not doing it fast, but can I handle it at all? They’re flesh colored; I’m sure no one can see them.

I’m surrounded by loads of natural, situational stress. We’re in the process of moving (nearby), girl begins Kindergarten in a month, Marshall’s new job starts Monday. These things are hard to untangle.

The only way out is through. I guess I’m going to stretch out my legs, slowly, at 5 a.m. as I have been doing, and listen to my poor neglected muscles and nerves with brave ears.

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Two Stages of Denial: Another Crappy Analogy

Skip ahead to the next dating-related post!

A few months ago, I watched everyone around me and everyone in town open their eyes. Shit -- this economic thing was not going away. It was real. Change hit us like a sack of bricks and people seemed distracted, off-balance, and not very bright. Perhaps even sad, thinking of all that would be left behind. The denial that had existed was pretty benign: we weren’t pretending, we just weren’t looking very hard.

And after a time we sort of got accustomed to “things.” People spoke of “matters” indirectly: “things,” “changes,” “uncertainty.”

Now we’ve hit a second patch of something. Seems to me my circle (which includes NPR) is in a second level of denial -- we understand that the first shift happened, but we just don’t think it will get any worse. In fact, everyone’s talking about positive signs.

(In some ways we don’t want the crisis to end yet. Everyone thinks it’s good that we’re prioritizing time with family, saving, sufficient sleep, conservation, and even conversation over material things. There is a major movement of folks finding their true direction in life -- or at least, a more socially-valuable but lower-paying way to spend time [how many of them are actually jobs?]. So don’t end this thing yet. I’m planning a mid-life crisis, can I just tuck it in with this whole restructuring-the-economy dealie? [My personal favorite is that as we green and cut costs we are required to treat ourselves to $500 phones because they are now part of our increased efficiency! Even if we’re not, um, working right now. (Well how do you expect me to get a job without one?)])

Major flashback to dealing with cancer.*

First you have a giant shock -- diagnosis. Important advice: Don’t drive for the first 30 days. You’re a space case. Wait till you adjust to dealing with the inevitability of death as an everyday matter. You can handle it. Sure! Thousands of people do it every year. Even worse! Heck, people live in Sudan! We’re very resilient creatures.

So you make a way to keep going. You can even be happy. You say you’re living in the present. Wow, you sure say it a lot. But things keep happening. And they keep sending test results no matter what. You have to keep spirits up because healing has a huge emotional component!

The cells in this second period of denial are malignant. This stage is qualitatively different -- this denial hurts, maims, and kills. You are watching your loved one dying, or it's your own face wasting away day by day. It’s high stakes to say anything. Everyone’s already oversensitized and if you name it, you create it. It’s funny, the doctor might be trying to tell you something, but you had to get used to tuning her out in the first stage. And God, you do not want anything to escalate. So keep quiet.

But no, it’s a crappy analogy. The economy is not a human body and it isn’t destined to die.

It’s not like the U.S. has a midsection full of unproductive lumps or poison-spewing organs. It isn’t as if we were ignoring those sections for years whiel they weakened and dragged others down. It’s not a situation where a few cells were actively robbing the entire body of nutrients. We didn’t try to limit the spread through surgery, and it's not like we forgot that the hip bone is connected to the leg bone. No, with our economy, we’re fully aware that all the parts work together, bankers, banks, and bank customers. Plus, I mean, it’s a rule that home prices go up and up forever. It was true for our parents and we deserve it too. And that is not the equivalent of thinking you will live forever. And there’s nothing organic about an economy.

There’s also totally no parallel when patients and families expect big daddy Pharma (or Dr. God) to take care of everything, and damn if they can’t, it was their job to prevent it and they screwed up! (Huge institutions are super-useful when you’re pissed. Ask any ex-Catholic.)

Just forget I said anything, it was a superficial comparison from the get-go. As Miss Litella would say with her small syrupy smile: “Never mind.”

* Of course I’m speaking of experiences like my own, with my husband’s terminal diagnosis -- not situations where there are actual non-miraculous chances at 5-year survival, and excluding the pussycat cancers like the one Lance Armstrong had. Every cancer is different, every patient is different. (Didn’t Tolstoy say, “but every denial is the same?”)

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Grieving: How We Survived the First Year+.

From sex to sadness. Sorry for making readers relive my rollercoaster. Here's how we got through the first year after our loss:

• I stayed at my job, even though I was in a bad situation and bored to tears. (They gave me benefits at 30 hours, I could walk to work.)
• I sent my daughter to day care for the first time, two blocks away, even though there were "issues."
  
• We didn’t see people as much as we should have. Little kids need other little kids (dogs like to be with other dogs), and extroverts need company.
  
• We went to church every single week. All kinds of strangers expressed all kinds of sympathy and empathy and other things I never heard of.
• We participated in almost every structured event we were invited to unless it involved preparation (potlucks) or dressing up (art openings) or being out after 7 p.m. or politesse. I guess this means we stayed in a lot.
• I wanted as much sleep as possible. I tried to get the kid to nap. We spent many, many days lying on the couch watching hand-me-down kids' videos. (I was pretty sure Short Stack would grow up thinking Barney was her Dad.) Nothing makes you feel more used-up than nursing a kid in the late afternoon and then she still doesn't sleep.
  
• Trader Joe’s. Every evening I took something out of the freezer, put it in the ‘wave or the Swiss Diamond, and we ate it between tantrums. My cholesterol went through the roof.
• I ignored finances. I kept it at the back of my mind that I could always sell the house (how “gift of the Magi.”). Gavin had minimal life insurance, but we lived off that, art sales, gifts (MBA classmates) and savings (already depleted during his illness). I knew my job would not support me, but could not imagine having a 40-hr-plus-commute job or taking on any more responsibility.
• I complained a lot, about everything. This predilection took care of reorganizing my rolodex.
• I said that anyone whining about George W. Bush was very lucky to not have any real problems. I canceled the paper.
• I wrote a bunch of thank you notes. I neglected most phone calls. I cursed a lot.
• I wondered why the hell no one was calling. I checked the mailbox like a freshman, but looking out only for condolence notes and gifts, preferably money.
  
• After dark, I worshipped in the church of Buffy (all seven seasons in full).
• I forgot the words “dentist” and “salon.” I got fatter and still lost weight.
• I went for massages at least once a month, more when I was on leave.
• I attended support group as my truest religion. I cried and laughed with new friends.
  
• I made wonderful plans and lists, and lost them.
  
• I was heavily preoccupied with Gavin’s 91-year-old mother, who could no longer conceal her growing dementia.
• I believed Gavin would care what I did about some matters but often ended up cursing him.
  
• I took care of a few important matters and coasted on everything else.
• I cherished my child but did the very least in almost every department.
  
• I started a blog with a strong sense of mission and humor. I abandoned it with many other "projects."
• I took one three-month unpaid leave from work and began a second one.
  
• We started dinner each night with a moment of silence, holding hands. I've always imagined one is "saying a personal prayer" or trying to feel lucky. Mostly I was cursing inside, or thought of something tiny ("Today I am so, so grateful for my dumb job"). How I would have thanked the holy one, blessed be he, for a shred of true silence during one of these moments.
  

You can see why that turning point was such welcome relief. I was ambitious, futile, desperate, unproductive, litigious, angry, and blinded. I was weary, a shell. But somehow I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Even a spent sigh somehow turns into a breath.



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When is an insight “blinding?” One duality illuminated.

I have been told that the job of a creative is to pluck concepts from the “ether” that surrounds us, the inchoate, and build an image or story from those bits. In polite society, this ability has sometimes earned me the label "crazy." You'll be judged, on one axis, by whether your result resonates with anyone, whether you've picked things that speak to others.

Last night Short Stack had a 15-minute pre-bedtime tantrum which was clearly* an incredible simulation (because it was frequently interrupted by giggling). It pissed me off and I couldn't see a way out, so I took a Mommy Time Out and went into my bedroom to read for a few. I’d been saving this piece about “restorative justice” from a recent Washington Post Magazine. (Things do sit around). Some ideas in the article hit me hard if slow; in the 24 hours since, that blunt insight has expanded and brightened:

“Abramson is a big believer in the transformative power of such face-to-face meetings, as are others. While spiritual leaders have long asked folks to accept the benefits of forgiveness on faith, the secular world has lately jumped on the bandwagon -- and proffered scientific evidence to support this view. Everett Worthington, a psychology professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, has been studying forgiveness for more than 20 years. He reports that a survey of the scientific literature in 1997 turned up only 58 studies on the topic, but that has grown to a total of 1,000 documented studies exploring the subject today.

Evidence of the potential benefits is piling up: Recent studies suggest forgiveness can decrease your cardiovascular risk, elevate your immune system and reduce your chances of depression, anxiety, anger disorders and post-traumatic stress disorder. Worthington attributes this to the conflicting messages the body sends. ‘Biologically, we have an immediate vengeful justice motive when we've been wronged, but over time we have a biological urge toward empathy and reconciliation,’ he says. The desire for justice gives us a buzz, he says. ‘Pretty much everybody can get aroused and motivated by anger and the prospect of getting back at this person. It is lighting up... those same dopamine-releasing pathways that are in the reward section of the brain.’

But at some point, an evolutionary response kicks in, he says. A human who is totally cut out of the group doesn't stand much chance of survival. The others in the group ‘want to do something to not cede them to the wild beasts out there,’ he says. ‘That's when we start to feel conflict and pressure.’”

I reread. I tore the page out. I went into the other room once Mr. Fresh had wrapped up "Green Eggs and Ham." I reassured the person who'd been pushing my buttons with pretend emotions that I loved her dearly. Small arms reached up and pulled my neck downward. I delivered a goodnight kiss to a restless, slightly blubbering girl and stayed for three minutes.

Who among us, particularly those who live on with great loss, hasn’t felt that pull, that desire to stay angry, knowing you could not keep it up? Isn’t it fantastic to hear there’s a scientific basis for both sides, the two crazy ends that fight inside each of us? (No, not crazy: it's science.) I feel I’ve been running back and forth between the two walls of anger and moving on for years. It's a relay race where I'm the only runner. There's no medal and no ending. I direct ferocious intentions at these walls and end up with sore knees and ankles, fists clenched, no baton.

In restorative justice, sharing stories is a big part of the answer. Perhaps it’s the same for me. I don’t think I would have heard this lesson if I hadn’t opened this channel to write. So, thanks.

* not the Beatles but...

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I Am Widow, Hear me Roar

It wasn't so hard to kill the first seven mice. Usually I found them splayed with the trap on top of them, gory bits concealed. Once I figured out to put out newspaper under the traps the cleanup got a lot easier. And it was harder to be sympathetic to the poor little animals the morning that I found two in the same nook, a few inches apart. I mean, was it simultaneous or are they not only dumb but lacking in basic instincts? We made "seven in one blow!" jokes all day.

My four-year-old loved hearing that we had mice in the house: “ooh, can we keep him as a pet and catch a mommy and a daddy for him too and have they all for pets?!”

But the eighth mouse was a little scary -- the trap caught his leg and he dragged himself partway behind the dishwasher. I asked Mr. Fresh to handle it. He also confirmed it was indeed dead.

Then the very next morning I checked back there and -- no trap. Great -- somewhere there was an angry, wounded mouse, dragging a piece of wood and wire behind him. He could show up anywhere in the house (though probably on the first floor :-) ) at any time. He could pop out while Short Stack was watching Disney channel. It was almost too much to contemplate. I poked around the most likely refuges and then settled down to coffee and tried to forget about the threat to my child's sanity.

Mr. Fresh came back from his run, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, singing “M – I – C – K – E – Yyyyy…” I broke in. “Speaking of which, one got away, so don’t shoot if you hear something…” Huh? We looked at each other. “Oh, I checked the trap and cleaned it up before I went out.” I told him my fearful fantasy. “No, don’t worry, it was dead and in the right place.” Thank heaven.

Over the course of 2008, I killed a dozen and felt supremely competent. While I was dating, this was evidence that, yes, I could manage everything as a single Mom. And Mr. Fresh was impressed when I told him one of my tricks early in our relationship: One night I bait the trap but don’t set it; then use the same bait and set it the next night. And sprinkle the same bait nearby to whet their appetites. (I use chocolate chips or Stilton). "You are brutal!", he said. I smiled.

To really eliminate the problem, I need to analyze their tail hair to find out if they are house (city) or garden (country) mice. Do I plug holes or seek out and destroy the nest? My old work roomie, Tobias, who has lab background, is working on this. I’m sure his report back will cite Latin names.

This type of acceptable murder is so gratifying for those of us with anger issues, with usually-barely-repressed rage, who are on a slow boil. I’m exploring the combination of aggression and helplessness than marks my worst tendencies. Perhaps I am the mouse that roared, or a Jekyll/Hyde (maybe Gertrude Jekyll?). Another post will delve into my psychoanalysis, but I’ll backdate it so you can skip it.

See, I’m not so cruel after all.

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