The Day My 6 Year Old Asked Me About Abortion

I drive by a particular Catholic church in my neighborhood almost every single day for one reason or another (mostly because that route leads to Target and Trader Joe's). Normally I'm a big believer in letting people believe whatever they want. While I am a vehemently opinionated soul, I do not use my breath to spew my ideals to anyone who will listen (As for this blog, you choose to come here, right? No prodding or payment from me. No payment for me either, for that matter.). I don't believe in proselytizing. I don't believe in incendiary messages spouted from soapboxes. I don't believe in subjecting children to hideously complicated adult paradigms.

What I believe is it is my job, my duty, my honor, to protect my children.

Please check out my post on Deep South Moms about what has me up in arms about what this particular church is doing to pollute precious, innocent minds.

Here's a hint:

No mother of a six year old should have to answer the question, "Mommy, what does 'abortion kills babies' mean?"

A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Dear Diary,

Before there were blogs there were diaries. Diaries scribbled in purple glitter pens and #2 pencils. I was a diary kind of girl. I remember having a Holly Hobby diary with a tiny gold key when I was a kid. That key was pretty flimsy so I knew better than to write anything damning in it. By damning I mean anything about boys, my older brother, or my parents' constant fighting. I did write about how that neighbor girl Anne stole my turquoise and silver horseshoe shaped ring. Instead I even left the diary open in front of her in hopes that she'd read it and know that I was on to her. I also wrote about inane things like what I wore to school. I chronicled every outfit I wore for a full year in fifth grade. I know, I know. Boring. Imagine if that were my blog. Even my own family wouldn't read it. But that was only the beginning of my diary keeping.

I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of Europe and India. I kept a travel journal on every trip. On one trip through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy I jotted down every meal I ate. Thankfully I didn't count the calories. On an annual Key West trip I used to capture funny quotes that anyone in our little foursome said. Most of those are not fit for blogosphere consumption. We still read those quotes when we get together and bust a gut, our guts a bit bigger than they used to be.

My mom happened upon a travel journal I started 24 years ago to the day. The first entry is March 8, 1985. I was 16 years old, traveling alone from boarding school to visit my mom in Washington, D.C. Here's a taste of my high school junior self.

"I'm on the train now so this is gonna be pretty messy. There are a ton of CHAUD guys in today. I played my moves cool and ended up sitting beside a good catch. From a distance he looks just like Scoot (minus the braces). Close up he looks like a cross between Scoot and Michael. Not bad! In front of me is a tall, good looking golfer and skier (he had one helluva time getting on the train with golf clubs and skis!). A couple of seats behind me is a real sexy guy who is a chich dresser. He kinda resembles Stephan but this guy is plus chaud. Scttered around up front are various fellas, most of which are rated as at least an 8.5. This is great! Well, I better aller. I wish it wasn't raining. Tres depressing!"

Now for the writer's scalpel.

I told you that tidiness has always been paramount. I even felt the need to justify messy handwriting. Notice my fine use of French. I'm certain Madame Pealer, my high school French teacher, would be proud. I love how I thought I had any moves, much less cool ones. I still don't have any moves, at least any that don't embarrass my kids and Mac Daddy. As for Scoot and Michael, I have no idea who they are. Did I really know a boy called Scoot? Was he named after a verb or a dog? And exactly how much does a 16-year old girl know about sexy? I mean, it was 1985, before girls shopped at Hoochies R Us. And again I ask, who was Stephan? Was there a foreign (s)exchange student I've forgotten? Clearly those hot guys made a lasting impression. I'm also curious what constitued an 8.5, much less a 10. Clearly the hot boys were not enough to perk me up from the rain.

Suffice it to say I simultaneously cringe and crack up reading this. A peek into my 16 year-old self sure makes me damn glad to be 40. We'll wait and see how these blog's words make me feel 24 years from now...when I'm 64. Cue the Beatles.

Wordless Wednesday: What I Miss

9/11: It's a Date

I still cringe a bit inside when I see the time read 9:11 on the digital clock atop my nightstand. Those two simple numbers said together carry a heavy weight.

Will September 11 ever just be a date again?

We lived in Chicago on that fateful date seven years ago. Mac Daddy had just left for work while I was leisurely waking up to the radio left on in our bathroom. I was relishing my loafing time between a graduate school residency and the upcoming last semester of school. I had planned on spending the day strolling along Lake Michigan with a mug of coffee and the Poisonwood Bible tucked in my tote bag.

Then the frantic voices of newscasters interrupted Katrina and the Waves.

World Trade Center. Towers. Plane. Crash. Terrorists. Pentagon. Crash. Pennsylvania. Collapse. The words hammered through the airwaves like cymbals thrashing right in my ear. My brain was incapable of stringing it all together to make any sense.

I bolted out of bed and flipped on the TV. I feverishly tried to reach Mac Daddy. He had taken the subway to work. On Michigan Avenue. In the Wrigley Building. A Chicago landmark. All cell service was dead.

It would be over four hours before I heard his calming voice telling me he was coming home. By cab.

Nine hours later, I was still planted upright with stoic posture in front of the TV. Trying to reach our New York friends was futile. We worried most for our old friend Tony who worked in the American Express building on the World Trade Center campus. Tony's penchant for the last minute might have saved him that day. Turns out he was home downloading music for his stint in cubicle city so he hightailed it to work in a cab instead of taking his usual subway route. The route that dropped him him off at the World Trade Center stop.

I believed in god the moment we heard from a very shaken Tony. And then I prayed. To whom, I do not know. But I felt lost, shaken, frightened, and keenly aware of a new world order. It was then that Mac Daddy and I decided to move somewhere inconsequential. Not out of fear or paranoia; we simply wanted a hassle-free, idyllic life.

Another friend lost colleagues and friends in the Pentagon that day. He was spared, a life saved to live up to his future promise.

We had an impromptu candlelight vigil on our street that night. Children, students, black, white, young, old, liberals, conservatives, Catholics, Unitarians, trash collectors, bankers, urban natives, farmland transplants. We lined the street in silence. Simply being together with the hopeful faces of children was comfort among us. The silence deafening. Children started a chorus of America the Beautiful. All the grade school patriotic standbys followed. Firefighters and EMTs drove by, sirens silenced, flags raised, hats off. We cheered for the brethren of rescuers that night. Turns out super heroes don't wear tights.

I remember landing in New York a couple years later. The emptiness left by the Twin Towers was surreal. It seemed like a limb had been amputated from an otherwise pulsing city. Those towers grace the pages of many family photo albums. Those towers take center stage in many books and puzzles lining our shelves. It's almost a trick to the eye to gaze at the skyline now.

And so today, we've been listening to Woody Guthrie singing This Land is Your Land. Deal doesn't understand its significance, but I do.

What's Buggin'?

In light of the 136 mosquito bites I got just in the time it took to walk six blocks to Rite Aid and back, I am posting about random things that bug me.

1. Mosquitoes, natch. I am allergic so the little bites turn into giant welts. Now I look like someone took a switch to my legs. Poor Deal has inherited this frailty from me.
2. I bet Posh Spice has a kick-ass kitchen. The woman clearly doesn't eat so I imagine she doesn't cook either. In general, one must cook to eat, no? I see a lot of take out cartons in the Beckham household. Somehow I don't think Posh dons an apron and makes homemade cookies, flour flying everywhere, butter dripping on the hardwood floors, mixer thingees being licked. That's what I did with Bird and Deal today. A warming drawer would have helped. So would a Kitchen Aid mixer.
   
3. Kids with bad manners is one thing. I have no tolerance for adults with poor manners (granted, they started as kids with bad manners). Guess what Lady in the Stationery Shop, I am not interested in the hives and red splotches on your nasty-ass scaly feet. Do not take off your sandals so I can get a better look. The absolute last thing I want is a closer look. Your feet make Mac Daddy's feet look freshly pedicured by the adorable Vietnamese ladies down the street.
4. The sound of a cat puking. Must it sound like a waterfall of guts spewing out? I love my Casey, but the nightly throw up is putting unconditional love to the test.
   
5. Nature. Why can't it just be brightly hued blossoms sitting pretty, sedating streams trickling, lazy clouds puttering, dolphin-rich waves billowing? I don't need the itchy grass, relentless weeds, creepy crawly critters, bugs whizzing, snakes slithering, rocks underfoot, or dirt of any kind.
   

So tell me, what's buggin' you?

A Baby Boy's Earth Shattering Beginnings

The earthquake in China got a lot of attention in the first few days, perhaps because a noted NPR journalist just happened to be there and brought some of the devastation to life. The catastrophic scale was clearly evident in the reporter's quaking voice. Professional as she is, even she could not dam up the welling tears during her broadcasts. Faithful NPR listeners felt the palpable pain and listened in horrors, mouths agape.

China to many of us is nothing more than one giant, albeit VERY giant, factory. It's a tag attached to our goods, sewn into our garments, with no faces, people, hearts, souls, and emotions tied to it. To many, China simply represents the new land of opportunity. Monetary, that is. Not the taste of freedom that defines opportunity for Americans. Greed, expansion, corporate bullying, government handshakes, profit margins. That defines opportunity in China. It has become a commodity. And commodities lack emotion or other humanizing traits.

And then the earth shattered.

China, for a brief moment in time, became real to us. We saw the masses as individuals. We were jolted awake to realize that these are people just like us.

I sat in my air conditioned home, seated on a scrumptious leather sofa, snacking on edamame and sipping 2 Buck Chuck while watching the horror unfold. The utter chaos was remarkable, heart wrenching, yet so distant, geographically and conceptually. I couldn't wrap my head around the seismic force of nature that instantly crumbled buildings and crushed lives. And the news went on. For days. Maybe a week. I walked furiously on the treadmill, headphones attached to my little TV monitor, so I could tune in to every speck of news out there. Of course the gym, with Bird and Deal safely playing in the Kids' Club haven, was the only place I could watch the news. Lord knows I didn't need to subject my little guys to that sort of devastation. I'm not ashamed to admit that I sniffled like a hay fever sufferer and wiped away some serious tears while burning rubber on that treadmill.

So what now? What's happened to those people? Where are they living? How are they faring? Will they ever rebuild their lives? And what, dear God, what about the children? What about the children left motherless and the mothers left childless?

My life is cake. And that's just mostly good fortune blowing kisses my way.

Here it is almost 2 months after the earthquake, and we don't hear squat about it. It was easy to watch the newscasts somberly, perhaps even shedding a tear or two, as I did. It was easy to get choked up and hug our kids extra hard for a while there. That wore off after meltdown #76. Then we simply switched the channel to watch HGTV's Design Star or something equally innane. Then media focused its fickle attention on matters like Hollywood's baby boom and the fall of Bear Stearns.

Our lives went on. And go on.

You must take a look at this. You will be moved, I assure you.

Sensitive Boy: My Deal

"Don't pound on that xylophone so hard. You'll hurt it." Mac Daddy

"Oh, does the instrument have feelings, Daddy?" Deal

That right there sums up Deal's personality. He dropped the xylophone mallet immediately and looked so sad. He gently stroked the keys as if to say he were sorry. Then he wanted a hug. Sweet, sweet sensitive little thing.