Nonviolent Punch in the Face

In the car, the day before Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Henry asked me about MLK. "Did he die?" Henry asked. Another moment of having to think about how deep to go, how much to say. He's asking about a man and I'm thinking about civil rights. 

"Yes, he's dead. He was shot."
"Why?"
There have been so many moments in parenting when I have to explain something I don't completely understand. Something he needs to know about, but something I hope he never fully comprehends, because I don't want him to sit in that headspace of the people who are so afraid that they kill. 
"People didn't like what he was saying and they didn't like that he was saying it." 
"So they shot him so he wouldn't say it ever again?" 
"Yes. They were afraid." 
"But all he wanted was peace." (I love his teachers)
We talked about the bus boycott and Henry told me he would have punched the bus driver. I told him MLK believed in nonviolence. How he said you don't have to change your laws about the bus, but I also don't have to ride your bus. And we talked about sit ins and the rules of restaurants. And when we got home, we held our arms next to each other and he told me my skin was pinker than his and why do I have freckles and he doesn't. 
It was a moment I allowed myself to be proud of how I'd talked with my four-year-old about something important. A conversation he came back to over the next week. But inside that pride, there is the looming and landed structural bullshitness of our world. The honor and fear of raising a kind, critical-thinker in a broken, hurtful, but somehow still magical world that has an overwhelming amount to critically think about it. 
In my girls' group, with 7th and 8th graders, they tell me about the hierarchy of their school. There are the scrubs at the bottom and by even associating with them, you run the risk of joining them. And at the top there are the popular people who come from money, followed by the popular people who don't. And in between are the rest of the people who want to be in one group and are terrified of being designated to the other. These girls are mostly in between. They've watched their friends being picked on and felt paralyzed. When they've attempted to intervene, they're told "It's not your business." 
In the world of their junior high, they can't imagine this being any different. They believe, for the most part, it's not their business. I ask them, if we could wrap the moment in a bubble, they could do or say anything they want to that Jabroni (the name they've created for the person doing the picking on) and then snap their fingers and not have to face any consequences, what would they do? And before I can finish the question, three girls out of seven say, "I would punch them." One of them is a quiet, thoughtful, happy girl who has mostly remained unscathed from the ranking system. For the first time in our time together, her eyes go hard and serious. The girls who didn't answer out loud are nodding their heads.
For a quick moment, I want to tell them to do it. To punch those Jabronis in the face. Not with the point of inflicting pain, but to show your friend whatever insult was just thrust at them isn't true and they aren't alone. And to break the paralysis of the team of students in the hall watching that interaction and tucking their chin down, embarrassed, but relieved it's not them. 
I think of how I'm trying to dilute the violence out of Henry, but am weirdly elated to hear it from these girls. I want Henry to feel the urge to punch a driver of racism. And I want the fists of these girls to ball up when someone enforces a malicious pecking order in their school. I don't want them to get in trouble and I don't actually believe in violence, but it reassures me their embers are still hot. Because the only thing scarier than violence, is resignation. 

Nick Jonas: Deal With Your S#!t

I've had a bit of insomnia lately and spent hours not-sleeping in bed thinking about random things. Last night, I spent some time on Nick Jonas. His new song has been bothering me for awhile now. 

I don’t like the way he’s looking at you. I’m starting to think you want him, too. Am I crazy, have I lost ya? Even though I know you love me, can’t help it. I turn my chin music up and I’m puffing my chest. I’m getting red in the face, you can call me obsessed. It’s not your fault that they hover, I mean no disrespect. It’s my right to be hellish, I still get jealous. 'Cause you’re too sexy, beautiful, and everybody wants a taste. That’s why (that’s why) I still get jealous. I wish you didn’t have to post it all, I wish you’d save a little bit just for me. Protective or possessive, yeah, call it passive or aggressive.

This disturbs me on so many levels. I recommend Nick's girlfriend take this quiz. I admit my revulsion of this song strikes a personal chord. Recently, I was looking up signs of an abusive relationship for something work-related. I found a quiz (not that one, but similar): "Are you in an abusive relationship?" and realized I could have answered "yes" to over half the questions if I thought about my first marriage. 

I was never hit or even threatened with physical abuse. He didn't break things or throw things. He never forced me to have sex. I didn't cover up bruises or wonder where I could safely sleep. My ex-husband was smart, funny, talented and extremely jealous. I never did figure out why, but I thought at some point my love and commitment would be proof enough. I mean, we were married - that had to mean something, right? 

Nope. I couldn't talk about any men I worked with - married, gay or otherwise. He made comments on clothes I wore - too low cut, too short, what did I want people to think? He sulked when I spent any time away from him, even the movies with my mom. We didn't discuss any movie stars we thought were attractive - like there was any possibility that Ryan Gosling and I were going to hook up. There were friendships I let fizzle out because "asking" to go out with them didn't seem worth the repercussions. I remember going to a protest march with my father and a co-worker of my dad's. My phone ran out of batteries and I spent the remainder of the day knowing I'd have to deal with a cold-shouldered, brooding husband when I got home. Explaining how it didn't even occur to me to be interested in my dad's co-worker. I was marching with my dad! Choosing my words. Not making too much noise. Being extra nice. 

Looking back, I don't even recognize that person. When I've talked to Jared about it, he says, "I can't picture that. I feel like if I tried to tell you what to wear, not that I would of course (nervous giggle), you'd laugh or give me a death glare." I knew I didn't like the jealousy. I knew it was a shadow over me, but I never considered it abusive. It didn't occur to me the power that was being wielded. In fact, it wasn't until I read that quiz the intensity sunk in. 

Getting back to Nick Jonas, I work with 7th and 8th grade girls in my Girls' Coalition Group at work. I can picture them listening to his song. Bobbing their heads and thinking how it would feel to have a boyfriend getting all worked up over you. How pretty he must think you are to be so jealous. How much other guys would want to be with you, too, if one guy felt that way. And I would try to talk with them about how jealousy can be normal, but chest-puffing, red-in-the-face, obsessed, hellish, possessiveness is not. It is debilitating to the person and the partner. No matter how much laughing and enjoying music together and painting side-by-side and dancing in subways and traveling through Europe happens, it becomes the thing you see. It becomes the eggshells you walk on. 

My answer is, Nick Jonas, you can help it.  Deal with your own shit. Do not subject a person you care about to the full weight and responsibility of your low self-esteem. Don't blame her for your mental imbalance. Don't date someone because of their looks and then say she's "too sexy." Don't act like she's an ice cream flavor "everybody wants a taste" of. That's gross and objectifying. And the answer to your third line is yes, you are crazy and yes, you should lose her. Except she's probably grown up listening to crappy songs like yours so she might think it's okay. 

So Music Industry, quit releasing songs underplaying abusive relationships. Especially not as pop songs that make jealousy sound perky and rhythmic. You let Maroon 5 get away with Animal, an anthem to creepster stalking (there is hanging meat and blood in the video!!) and Chris Brown continue to be a star. What the hell? You say it's because the records sell. Well, if you offered something else - something with standards, something that promoted healthy relationships and positive body image - that would sell, too. Because you are media machine and you're already determining trends. Use your Spider Man values on that great power. 

In closing, Nick Jonas, you sir, are no Marky Mark. 

(I'm sure you're hoping my insomnia goes away soon.)

Living with Strangers

I can't believe I haven't blogged since October! I wrote the one about living with my parents in November, but somehow never hit "publish." Oh well, it's a new year.

So, now I live with mini-strangers. Sometimes my sons look so different to me, it feels like they're weird wax renditions of their former selves. Sullivan has molars, dances like Elaine (Seinfeld), and tells knock knock jokes (no, he isn't talking yet). Henry is outgrowing his pants, can't get enough stories about his (or the storyteller's) babyhood, and has started to read. My first-born son is READING! That's just insane to me.


With my babies no longer babies, the holidays seem more and more significant. The closer the holidays came, the grumpier I got. Work has been challenging, but the grumps felt more connected to these weighted days coming up. It's been awhile since I looked forward to my birthday. After a couple years of wildfires breaking loose on my birthday, I think it soured me. But Christmas, I always looked forward to that. Growing up, I spent Christmas eve eve baking with my gram. I learned Special K, popcorn balls, fudge, pies, and rocky road. On Christmas eve, my mom's side of the family got together - the whole mess of us, the one time a year we were all in the same room. We attempted to catch up, but mostly just passed sarcasm around and told stories of my uncles pushing each other in tires down the steep hill from the back of Gram's house. When my grandfather was alive, he'd pretend to be crotchedy and whenever a grandchild would ask when we got to open presents, he'd shout out "Two more songs." After the turkey and sarcasm, we'd sing. I'd made booklets with red and green construction paper and printed lyrics. There were maybe 25 songs and we'd jump around the book, adding addendums like after the "en excelsis deo" adding a "Day, we say day, we say day, we say da-a-a-oh. Daylight come and me wanna go home." Then there was the frenzy of presents, as fast as they could be handed out, crumpled paper and bows. After presents, we ate the baked goods and Gram made plates for everyone to take home.

Christmas morning was for my mom, dad, brother and me. We exchanged our presents and laughed about the night before. Then we put on some recently opened article of clothing and headed to my dad's sister's to meet his whole side of the family. Everyone brought some piece of the meal and we'd serve up mimosas (when I was older, of course) and snacks. With my dad's side, we started with presents. And we took our time. There were years we just gave to the kids (years I was a kid) and years we did a gift exchange. All of those years, we went one by one, handed out by my grandfather. After, we made a huge meal and all ate too much. Grandma's gooey rolls, scrambled eggs and bacon, a breakfast casserole, We spent hours visiting, usually played a game or two, and sometimes several of us would go to the movies. This was before the grandkids started having kids.

Both sides had a thing going. A fun thing. Tradition. I haven't quite figured out our traditions here, yet. And considering both of my kids have molars (I'm not sure why this seems like a big deal to me, but it does) and one is reading, it's about time I figured those out and stopped being grumpy about the holidays. My in-laws came over for Christmas eve dinner this year and I made Special K (the favorite of the baked goods). For the second year in a row, I've gotten the boys matching pajamas that they get to open on Christmas eve. I'm not a fan of matching stuff usually, but it makes the Christmas morning pictures so darn cute. On New Year's day, we started a measuring wall in Dad's office. Both the boys have since tried to find that Sharpie again and draw on walls. We also took a New Year's day hike through Wolf's Neck State Park, but Sullivan nearly lost his fingers in the cold.

But it feels like we need more. I miss the singing. I miss the gooey rolls. I miss my grandparents. Typing that, I realized my sons don't miss their grandparents at all. They get them all the time. And we do a fair amount of singing on our own everyday. Maybe my little strangers would like some more traditions or maybe they'd just like a less grumpy-around-the-holidays mother.

"I live with my parents."

When I got the job at Hardy Girls, we weren't sure whether I was going to be working more in Portland or Waterville (75 miles away from each other). We had to move out of the dorm and it made sense to move in with my parents until my work plans became clearer. Four adults and two small ones lived in a converted camp for nine months. There were pros and cons.
Beautiful scenery...Sullivan's crib in our room.
15 minute commute for my mom... 45 minute commute for Jared.
Remote and private... no city snow plowing or close grocery store.
Extra help with kids... sharing a wall with my parents.
Lake-side living... tiny camp kitchen and non-insulated camp walls.
Over the summer, the adults sat down and talked about our options. We talked about everyone's responsibilities, the challenges of all being under the same roof with kids and how we could do better at communicating. We decided to continue living together.
People find this weird.
Generally women find this more "acceptable" than men. They laugh and commiserate over needing extra hands with kids. Often, I'll hear, "In other countries, that's really popular. Good for you guys." But they still think it's weird. Jared gets lots of sympathy for being forced to be around his in-laws. People assume he's held captive with no say. He generally shakes it off and sympathizes back with a, "Sorry your in-laws suck, I like mine."
Despite this, we found a house with two master bedrooms and the McCannells have taken over the upstairs. Everyone has carved out their own space. We actually have our things out of storage so it's nice to sit on our couch again and use our silverware. Jared reigns over the kitchen, enjoying cooking for more people and especially my mom who has more adventurous tastes than my dad and me.
Are there issues? Of course. There are always issues when you have roommates, even ones you love. Maybe especially ones you love. I'm sure my parents wish they could sleep in without hearing tiny feet running over their heads or into their room. I'm sure my mom wishes there were more clear countertops and less Legos to step on in the middle of the floor. I'm sure Jared & I wish the TVs didn't have to be so loud. I'm sure my dad wishes he wasn't ganged up on about a pellet stove mishap. I'm sure Jared wishes sometimes he wasn't around his in-laws. These things are bound to happen. And sometimes they feel bigger than others. Sometimes we talk about them and sometimes we shove them down and go to our respective rooms to read by ourselves.
But, as much as I generally like our arrangement, I still feel funny telling people. In my mind, there's a big difference between, "I live with my parents." and "My parents and I live together." I find myself saying "inter-generational household" like a big word people throw into conversations to show you they read. A preemptive argument for its value. And then I think, "It's none of their business." But that's usually something we say when we worry about someone's response or it's something we're a little embarrassed about. Which I'm not. I don't think. Although I am writing a blog post about it so...

Grande Dames

Any of you who are friends with me on Facebook know I recently ran a 5K, in costume, for Hardy Girls Healthy Women. I set a lofty goal and, in an attempt to provide some incentive, offered whoever bid $250 the chance to choose our (Jared, Sullivan and my) costumes. When a donation came through from my sister-in-law with a note saying how interested my brother was in costume selection, I was a little bit nervous (he's clever) and a little bit excited (he's clever). After a text came through with a photo of a costume I won't describe here, he told me I should dress up as Grandma.

I'll be honest, dressing as a golfer wasn't what I was expecting him to choose. I thought of the two big work events I would be at in costume, putting the pressure on myself to be something elaborate and creative. I thought about making other costumes for my family. I thought about asking my brother if I could back out of my promise.

I don't remember what changed my mind or when, but at some point, it (finally) occurred to me what an incredible choice that was. It was my brother (and most likely sister-in-law had a hand in it, too) paying attention to the work I do and making a very thoughtful decision. It didn't matter that a golfer costume wasn't going to take a ton of sewing, makeup, feathers or brightly-colored fabric. Instead, I got to wear the cross my grandmother gave me when I graduated college, the thin, gold T with the tiniest of diamonds my grandfather had given her before he could "afford a real diamond." I got to wear the rosary bracelet with wrapped pewter rosebuds from a childhood of Catholic school. And when my cousin saw my picture on Facebook and said I looked like her, my eyes spilled over.

My grandmother was one of my favorite people ever.  She was funny and smart and fair and colorful. She was exceptional at math. She wore coral-orange nail polish on her toes. No one, not even my culinary-ily talented husband, will ever cook like her - even her toast tasted amazing. At her funeral, when I was in the beginning of my pregnancy with Henry, I spoke about all these little things I loved about Gram. But what I miss the most are her stories. How she grew up on a farm and used to eat tomato sandwiches in a field so often that she hated tomatoes as an adult. How her brothers made her hold targets while they shot BB guns. How she found out french kissing didn't cause pregnancy.

Thinking about the costume the past couple of weeks, I found myself thinking of her stories and telling Henry about her. I underestimated my brother. He didn't just give me a silly costume he could laugh at, he thought of a hardy woman from our life and reminded me to remember her.

Then, two days ago, another hardy woman from my San Diego life passed away. Dru was my board

president in my first executive director position and we'd spent a lot of time together. As I learned about her life, her stories fascinated me as well. 15 or so years younger than Gram, Dru talked about living in Australia, teaching in England and adventures with her husband and sons, the loves of her life.  I met her gianormous dogs. She wore lime green like no other.She shared a pomegranate with me. And she trusted me. While I was younger than her children, she treated me like an adult and listened to me thoughtfully. She respected when I advocated for myself and allowed herself to be influenced, which is a strength many don't have. Dru cared about me, my children and my husband, even adding his name as a character in one of her books. I read four of her books and marveled at her character development and plot abilities.

When I applied for my current job, I listed Dru as a reference. Over Facebook, she sent me a note saying she'd said good things about me. She ended the note with "Let me know when you get it." It was a few months after that I read on Facebook her diagnosis of Stage 4 lung cancer. Through treatment, she continued to write and I craved her blogs. She wrote about being pissed off about dying. The disorientation, the disbelief, the refocusing that happens. Kinship. Towards the end, she was dictating her blogs to her husband, even stories of barely being able to breathe. Never stopping writing. Never losing her voice.

And even though our relationship was through Facebook since I moved, I feel Dru's influence, like Gram's, in my structure. The walls of my veins, the marrow of bones, the cartilage of my ears. These women, the grande dames of my life, are ever-present reminders of my worth. Their stories make my stories important. Through them I see adventures and strength and family. Their passings leave many people behind who will mourn them in millions of tiny, blinking moments of memory as long as we are around writing our own adventures.  And when I talk with girls and women through my job, they will be the stories I share of "I knew a woman who..."

Nurse No More

Several weeks ago, I stopped nursing. No pumping, no special bras, no frozen bags in the freezer. It

feels very strange. Since I started at my job in January, I'd been pumping a couple times a day. In my office, while reading articles online or signing donation Thank You letters. In my car listening to an audio book. In the Trader Joe's parking lot. To the point where a friend suggested I keep track of all my bizarre pumping spots and write and illustrate a book. (This still may happen so no one is allowed to steal this idea! :) ) Point being, breastfeeding is no part-time job.

When Sullivan turned one, I was happy to offer him cow's milk and he was happy to take it. After a couple weeks of sporadic nursing and mutual frustration over having my chest beaten on (me) and my chest not responding fast enough (him), we decided to consciously uncouple. Even though it's been a month or so, I still have "phantom let-downs" when my hand rushes to my chest and I worry I'll soon have two wet spots on my shirt. The nightmare of putting Sullivan to bed with an unsatisfying nursing experience has vanished and he lets me lay him down after a book or two, with his Curious George tucked under his arm and his Rock-a-by Baby: Journey CD tinkling in the corner.

And now he is this walking, grunting toddler with a callus on his thumb from sucking. There are so many moments when he looks completely unlike himself. His face is leaning out from the walking and his eyes, although still bright and blue, are settling into his face with a seriousness I couldn't have predicted. His hair is still sparse, but long and full enough to stand out from the back of his head after a nap (although my mom admits to fluffing it up on purpose) and occasionally a Dennis-the-Menace curl will flair up on top. His elbows are growing pointier and his wrists aren't quite as doughy.

Then there's the personality. More definite than snow in Maine. He watches his brother carefully. When it's just the two of them, they play and laugh and co-exist (or at least that's what it sounds like from outside their bedroom door). When an adult is in the room, the competition begins. Sullivan brings over a book to read and once he's climbed up and settled into the nook of a lap with his warm head resting against a chest and his thumb in his mouth, suddenly all Henry wants in the world is to read that book from the other side of that lap. And Sullivan will have none of it. Regardless of the size of the lap. Or, vice versa, on a rare occasion when Henry is still next to me, Sullivan comes barreling from across a room with jealous arms raging, smacking his brother on the knee or toe or closest appendage. Like these mini-dictators don't live with four adults who adore them and shower them with unhealthy amounts of attention. :)

Notice the hair.

They will eat dinner together, though. Sullivan refuses "baby food," shoving our hands away with more confidence than any adult I've met. He is a big boy and he wants to be treated as such. We set up a Henry & Sullivan table in the dining room and Sullivan alerts us to the grumblings of his belly by pulling out a chair, hoisting himself up and slapping a hand on the wood table. If we aren't picking up what he's putting down, he'll look back and growl. He is not a fan of the speaking. He prefers to point and grunt. Occasionally, when we just aren't getting it, he'll throw out the first sound (Bb-bb = book, Dd dd = dog, etc). If our response is still inadequate, we are beyond frustrating and deserve the obscenely, dramatic meltdown that ensues. Crumbled face. Real tears. Paused breathing leading to the cry that pierces the center of your heart.

Until he sees someone eating a cracker/donut/anythinghedoesn'thaveinhishand and it's grunt and point again.

Here's the pointing - imagine the grunt. 

What happened to discussions? Discuss.

I've started several blogs (some in my head, some a few lines typed) since my last post which seems FOREVER ago. My challenge lately has been not making everything about my job. It's not that I don't do tons of fun things with my family, like this:

and this:

and this:

But, I spend the majority of my time at work. I enjoy my work. While simultaneously wishing Hardy Girls didn't have to exist (meaning there's no systemic ridiculousness to fight against and girls are societal-ly taught to be whole, creative, smart humans who kind, smart, emotionally free men respect and value as equals). The framework I look through at work is hard to remove at home - like contact lenses that have melded into my eyes. I've become obnoxious (/informative, my family doesn't say this, but I'll speak for them on this point. :) ) to watch TV with.

And I read like eating steak with an iron deficiency. I read How to be Black by Baratunde Thurston and I keep talking about it everywhere. The author is hilarious and so is the book, but funny in that way that satire is where you start laughing and end up feeling a little (or a lot) sad that jokes can be made because the things they are joking about are true. I started it before Ferguson and finished it after. Several theories have been rolling around in my head since then. It's like when Jared learned the word "furtive" and he attached it to everything. Furtive eating. Furtive walking. Furtive radio. Or when you purchase new, favorite article of clothing and wear it with everything. I've been trying these theories on and layering them with old thoughts. Experimenting with understanding. Coloring my perspective.

I read the Skimm (one of the best things to happen in my life) and find myself saying, "HOW ARE WE STILL TALKING ABOUT THIS??" For instance, gay marriage. I'd say this should have been legal years ago, but that would validate it ever being not legal. Two adults. Two consenting adults. Or how about women's reproductive health, which should include general, preventive care but now just equals abortion. The Supreme Court decided this BEFORE I WAS BORN. Then again, let's not pretend Hobby Lobby isn't ten steps back. And Ferguson. I just read a statistic that 70%+ of white people surveyed don't believe Ferguson is about race. Um... okay. I mean, really, what do you say to that?

Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a rant. I was talking with my boss this week and she shared a story about her daughter. Her daughter had asked her for something she was inclined to immediately shut down. However, putting aside her own fear and judgement, she let her daughter argue her case. She talked about how important it is to show our children they can influence others and adults can be influenced. Kids can advocate for themselves, thinking through their needs and wants, and share those to varying degrees of achieving desired outcomes. But can realize that we aren't, as parents, tyrannical gate keepers to Yes Land.

Because since when did discussion get to be such a bad thing. An indulgent thing to be avoided and only used by academics. I grew up arguing discussing with my dad. And I hope my boys do the same. Of course, it's completely mandatory to teach them critical thinking skills, it is sometimes near debilitating to raise them once they get those. I just don't know what I'll do if they take up residence in Myopia (which happens to be in black and white and resembles The Handmaid's Tale in case you aren't familiar with it).

When I think of scaffolding, supporting, helping each other out, I remember the summer/fall I spent working in a flower shop in Spokane. The floral designer/arranger, Paul, was a quiet guy with a sly sense of humor and an almost pastoral demeanor. Unruffle-able. My job was to clean the buckets, green up the vases and answer phones. Sensing my appreciation of art and color, Paul would throw tips in my direction the way the best teachers do, without you even knowing. After a month or so, he suggested I try making an arrangement. He told me how much I had to work with and a general color scheme. I, despite having spent a month shoving greenery stems into oasis, went straight for the flowers. Gerber daisies, asltroemeria, and dahlias. I measured them against the vase, clipped their ends and put them in the water. They tipped and dipped, leaning over the sides like scattered pick-up sticks. I tried to prop them up to lean on each other (how I imagine the first teepee assembly might have gone) before looking to Paul. He was casually arranging another bouquet. "They need support," he said, slicing off leaves without looking. "The greens make a lattice." I removed the flowers and wove the fern stems with green-leafed branches and sticks with berries. When I put the flowers back in, on top of this network, they stood like exclamation points.

We can't expect people or things to just stand up on their own. Even flowers, symbols of growth and beauty, need a system of life beneath them. And we're not just talking about "broken, lazy" flowers. Even the tallest, strongest, hardiest stems require support. My own greenery is made up of family and books and education and friendship and art and travel and purpose. For people who don't have access to one or any of these things, that's one less leaf to prop a petal. One more strain on the flower's trunk. Our vases are different, our stems vary, but it isn't a question of if that support is needed, but how and where and what. And how are we to know any of this without discussion? If we don't talk to each other, we can say racism is gone. We can tell women to lean in and request raises. We can say people are taking advantage of the system. But you just try watching a lone flower splayed in a massive vase and tell me you don't want to do something.