"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.

Life & Death

Over the last couple of months, Henry has brought home "death." It started with the use of "killing" as a thing he'd do to something he didn't like or something he'd protect me from.

"I love you so I won't let anyone kill you."

Crossing the street, I say, "Hold my hand, please."
"Because you don't want me to die?" he'll ask.

Or when a train track doesn't do what he wants, "I hate this thing, I'm going to kill it."

I asked him where this was coming from, the nonchalant way I've developed, the way people approach skittish kittens. He's also recently aware of snitching, getting other kids in trouble, and hesitates to reveal sources. I have to greet these developments with curiosity rather than the sometimes panic, sometimes anger, sometimes sadness I actually feel.

"Killing," I started. "Have we talked about that together? Or did you talk at school about it?" I practically shrugged, the universal sign for I couldn't care less.
"...School," he finally said. "Igor (name changed) told me." He waited a beat, then looked at me, "Can we talk about killing?"
"Of course." I hunkered down in my chair, physically prepping myself for tough questions. "What questions do you have?"
"Do you like killing?" he asked, letting me know his brain isn't there yet.
"I don't," I said, not too quickly.
"How come?" he asked with genuine interest, his head tilted to one side, eyes scrunched.
"Killing is very serious," I stalled, trying to figure out where I was going with that. "Killing sounds like an angry word to me. It sounds mean. If you kill something, it means it will never live again. Never get to see its mom or read books or eat goldfishies or play at the park. It would be gone forever."
"But what if someone is mean. Do we kill them?"
"I don't," I answered, leaving room for others. "I walk away. Or I tell them no, thank you. I don't spend time with people who are mean to me, but I also don't kill them. Just because someone is mean, doesn't mean I have to be mean."
He got distracted by the red nose of a leftover Victor the train poking out from under a chair. I know this will come up again in varies forms for years.

In San Diego, he went with my dad to a cemetery. I'd explained to him the headstones are things people buy to remind them of someone who died. It is a place where they can go and remember how funny/smart/silly/kind/brave that person was. We didn't talk about bodies. He didn't ask. But he did learn I'd lost both grandmothers and a grandfather. "Did they die?" he asks when they come up. "Do you miss them?" he asks when I tell him yes.

A 14-year-old boy died recently in Pittsfield. It was sudden and completely unexpected and has rocked the town. He was a kind and involved kid who left many to mourn him. Henry heard about this as he doesn't miss anything being discussed in the same room. When he saw the boy's headshot, he frowned and said to Jared, "Oh, that is so sad. I bet his parents miss him. What kind pants was he wearing?"

I wish I could look inside his head and see what his brain is doing with death. See what images flash when he thinks of sadness and what pants mean to him with a dead child. He is a sensitive boy and I want to both maintain that and protect him. I've said more than once what lucky boys my sons are (for many reasons) to have four amazing grandparents so close and involved in their lives. But I also recall the near devastation I felt when my grandfather, a man I spent every afternoon with, died when I was in 8th grade. I don't want that heartbreak for my children, but I also wouldn't trade the relationship I had with my grandfather.

All this has been swimming around in my mind since Henry brought home those words. Words that, unlike pink and girly, aren't constructs. They are reality. Death happens. Killing happens. I can't critical think them away for him.

And then my dad had chest pains. And then my dad was in the hospital. And then one of his main arteries was 95% blocked. And then I was relaying medical diagnosis to my brother and my mom's voice was cracking on the phone. And with my father on an IV of blood thinners to avoid a heart attack until they could schedule a procedure, I stopped to ask myself how I was feeling. And I was pissed. Driving to the hospital, in my imaginary conversation with my father, I told him how mad at him I'd be if he died. What a jerk he'd be if, after solidifying his spot as the Greatest Bumpie ever, he'd just kick the bucket and leave me with two sons who love him, but would eventually not remember him.

But I couldn't say this to Henry, of course. Death is hard enough to wrap a near four-year-old's head around when it doesn't involve Bumpie. Instead I told him Bumpie was in the hospital for the doctors to work on his heart. We talked about medicine and hospital gowns and the sounds a heart makes while pumping. We talked about how proud we were of Bumpie for listening to his body and going to the doctor. I told him how a tiny balloon would help Bumpie's heart and I waited for death to come into the conversation. Whether my explanations were good enough or he couldn't even fathom Bumpie dying, Henry didn't ask. Together we painted a cardboard heart box "for Bumpie to keep his heart things in" and wrote him a card. He waited for Bumpie to come home, "Why are the doctors taking so long??" he dragged.

And then Bumpie came home. With a barrage of new medicine and some lingering lethargy, but he's there. And, for Henry, it's almost like it never happened. It has made me refocus on life. I can't stop death for Henry, for anyone, but I can show him how to love and be loved. I can show him compassion and kindness. Communication and discussion. Teach him to ask questions and never make him feel like they aren't good ones. And we can enjoy our Bumpie, Nona, Grammie and Grampie as long as we have them. Because they have all shaped my children, long after their lives.

Pink Bikes & KMart Potties

Last week, I took Henry to pick out his first bike. Over summer school, they have "Bike Fridays," hence the shopping trip. 

I picked him after his first full school day (normally, he goes from 8:30-11:30 and that day was 8:30-4), not knowing what to expect. He still naps at home and on the days he misses one, the last couple of hours before bedtime can be especially painful. He was surprisingly upbeat, wearing his new shark swim trunks, hair wet from the sprinklers. 

We headed to KMart. We found the toy aisle and he started doing the potty dance almost immediately. Crossing his legs, bending his knees and holding his crotch while checking out a plastic golf kit. 

"Do you need to use the potty, Henry?" 
"Nope." More dancing. 
"They have potties here. It's not good to make your bladder wait."
"Nope."
...
"Mom, I have to use the potty. I can't hold it." 

I tell him to try and grab his hand, hustling towards my guess of where those potties might be. 

"I'm going to pee right now!"

I scoop him up in my arms, running at this point. "Hold on, baby, we're almost there," I reassure, dodging bins of As Seen on TV products, Bed-In-A-Bag sets and $5 DVDs. We pass the restroom sign and circle back. Henry is clenching my body with his legs wrapped around me. 

"Here we go," I gasp, pushing through the door and cramming into the first stall. He grabs his pants and sits on the toilet and I hear the tinkling before his cheeks even hit the sit. 

"Phew," he says. "That was a close one. When you ran, you pushed my pee back in."

I use the potty after him and he opens the stall door while my skirt is up around my waist. This is already going so well.

At the bikes, Henry immediately sees the Doc McStuffins bike and declares, "That's a girl bike."

I take a deep breath, still recovering from my sprint and now poised to go into battle against misogyny for my son's soul. 

"Why do you say that?" I ask. 
"Because it is."
"Do you like Doc McStuffins?"
He thinks for a second. "I do."
"Well, that bike is for anyone who likes Doc McStuffins."
He thinks again. His logic only goes so far and I've presented a solid case. 
"I don't want that bike," he settles on. 
"You don't have to pick that bike," I agree, "But I want you to know you could if you wanted to."

He is already off looking at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (which I know he's never watched) and Spiderman (which he's semi-obsessed with, but knows so little about). I curse the boys he goes to school with. I curse the media. I curse the marketing departments of every major corporation. What happened to orange bikes? Or bikes with dinosaurs? Why do we have to buy crappy character bikes that limit my son? The answer is, we don't. But we were there, days away from Bike Friday. 

I pointed to a red and black bike with flames. "What do you think of this one?" I try to keep my voice casual. 
"S'okay. I like Spiderman." 
Deep breath. 
"But this one is on fire," he continues. 
"Yeah, that's pretty neat." I add, hopefully. 

Don't get me wrong. I like Spiderman. I love XMen. What I don't love is my three-year-old liking something solely based on what his friends and media has told him is cool. If he liked that a regular kid - a nerdy kid, a kid interested in science and photography and writing - got bit by a spider, got super powers and used those powers to fight crime, then we could talk. But instead he denied a smart girl who has the power to talk to toys and uses that power to cure them, a story that he knows and love, because she was on a pink bike. What his friends and our culture tells him speaks louder in his ears than even his bladder telling him he has to pee.This is where I have a problem. 

We bought the flame bike, one that he will pass on to his brother in a couple years. And at home, while he waited for Bumpie to assemble the bike, he found a large, pink, paper flower in the back of my car. A flower we'd brought home from walking in the Pride Parade. After the brakes were tightened, the training wheels attached and the horn tested, Henry looped the giant, bright pink poof of petals to the handlebars. 

"This is my parade flower," he told me, and pushed off on his bike. 

I spent the rest of my week at a Hardy Girls' conference for adults working with girls. We talked about media literacy, being a muse, and social activism. With each power point slide, video, discussion or activity, I thought of my boys at home and what they are up against. I pictured that pink flower on Henry's bike and how to hold onto the three-year-old who enjoys flowers and parades over misogynistic conventions. How to teach my sons to listen to themselves and decide on their own. Not to look down on a color because it's associated with girls. To look at their mother, who they still love and adore (most of the time) and show them a contradiction to what a lot of culture wants them to believe. Teach them to ask questions and argue with those contradictions. To expose them, over and over and over, to complex people who can like reading and football and purple and green and boys and girls and traveling and camping and watching bad television. 

Knowing they are sponges, I want them to pick up everything, notice and observe, and come to their own conclusions. 

Mr. Sullivan

I realized the other day I'd written an homage to Henry (and regularly include Henry stories), but none to Sullivan. He may be young, but he has all kinds of personality. 

On June 7, Sullivan will be 10 months old. And he's huge. He wears 2T clothes... for non-baby people, that's stuff designed for two-year-olds. Here are things I love about Sullivan: 

• those adorable teeth of his.
  
• his kind, joyful, spreading smile.
  
• his determination. Even though it is usually focused on grabbing electrical chords and eating random sticks tracked into the house from Henry's shoes or the dogs' fur.
• his desire to stand. He's been downward dogging it for awhile now and loves to climb up on things.
  
• the way he looks when he sleeps. Don't all parents love the sight of their children sleeping?? 
  
• his laugh. Omygoodness what an amazing sound that is. I swear if I walked into the middle of a combat zone and pretended to eat Sullivan's neck (lovingly known as his gibblets), the laugh that would erupt from that child would halt a war. Soldiers would take their fingers off the triggers, drones would screech to a stop in the air and small children would emerge from rubble to smile at the sweet cackle of Sullivan.
• how he looks in hats. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• his admiration of his brother. Already it's begun. When Henry walks into a room, Sullivan tracks him. Smiles at him. Reaches for him. Imitates him. 
  
  
  
• his appetite. Yes, he loves food, but he also consumes the world around him. Watching flies. Petting a leaf. Splashing in water. Everything is fascinating and I love seeing him eat it all up. (this is actually a picture of him watching a fly)
  
• the way he looks in a tie. 
  
• how he snuggles. 
• his strong voice. 
  
• how much he loves Darby (and dogs in general). 
  
• what a fantastic traveler he is (at least so far). 
  
• how he sucks his thumb and plays with his feet when he's tired.