Wordless Wednesday: Self Portrait of A Mother and Bird

Wordless Wednesday: Active(ist).

Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time

Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.

No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.

Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.

What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.

Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?

The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."

And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.

Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Until I became a Mother...

Until I was a mother, I had no idea that...

feeling a life dance and hiccup inside of me could be so earth shatteringly amazing.

meeting my baby would be so humbling.

the smells of a freshly bathed or happily sweaty child are equally sweeter than any scent on the planet.

holding my child's tiny, warm hand squeezing mine ever so slightly would make me float across the street.

I would ever give up the last scoop of ice cream.

I would want to devour a naked, wrinkled little bum.

sometimes 60 minutes would feel like 3 days and sometimes it would pass like a blink.

a belly button on a pooching out little belly would warrant so many kisses.

fat thighs were so delectably adorable.

innocence and wonder are indeed magical, lost, yet can be regained.

children were so freaking funny.

the sounds of children's laughter cannot be too loud or too frequent.

my child's cries of pain, shame, hurt, and angst make my tear ducts overflow too.

pride could be so powerful.

love could be totally unconditional.

my husband could be so amazing.

my responsibility was so great.

Cheerios could make glue.

Cream cheese does not wash easily out of hair.

kissing toes was such a feast.

cotton could be such a tactile pleasure.

stroking the hair and feeling the rise and fall of breath of a sleeping child was so hypnotic.

snuggling with a stack of childhood favorite books was so satisfying.

being spit upon and shit upon would be no big deal.

I could feel such intense rage and love within the span of a moment.

I. could. be. so. damn. tired.

wearing a suit of baby food drool to a meeting would be a badge of honor.

I could relive my childhood, only better.

I would wake up three times a night just to ensure my kids are sleeping soundly.

wet sloppy kisses would taste so good.

hearing the word "Mama" uttered for the first time would musically moving.

all art would be frame worthy.

part of the job was to let my children grow and go.

family and tradition are powerful.

regular diapers don't work in a pool.

I would be kicked and bruised and thrashed upon, just before being hugged in sorrow and comfort and forgiveness.

my heart could break into so many shards and melt into so many puddles.

I never knew what fulfillment meant.

my mom and dad worked so hard and sacrificed so much.

I would feel grace.

time would hasten its pace.

I could be so unwaveringly content.

I was maternal and giving and loving afterall.


What about you? How did motherhood or fatherhood change your constitution, the fibers of your being? What were your epiphanies?

Obama Mama Redux

See that gorgeous Indian lady with the sassy hennaed hair and ginormous earrings? That's my mom. Yup, the one who gave birth to me. I'm the apple, and she's the tree.

I can't see her hands but I'm guessing she's wringing out her clammy palms or clasping them in prayer, begging the goddess of political stardom to plant Obama into the Oval Office come November. But chances are, she's digging in her gigundo purse for her camera. I bet it's one of those unstructured hobo bags I hate because it doesn't have any compartments. It's a good thing a photographer from Der Spiegel caught this shot because I don't think she'd know how to work the camera if she unearthed it anyway. The woman knows politics and current events but she don't know squat about technology.

My mom was in India when John, Paul, Ringo, and George visited back in the 60s. Seeing Obama up close and personal trumps that, I'm sure. And would you take a look at Obama. Where's he looking? As I see it, he's making direct eye contact with my mother. My mother. I'm all goose pimply over this. I feel like I am a rockstar by association. Well, maybe a groupie. I see matching Obama Mama T-shirts in our future. And look again at his eyes, he's holding that gaze; this is no fly over glance.

My mom lives in Berlin for part of the year. Being overseas has not squelched one iota of her Obama fever. She's still tirelessly campaigning, working the phones, and hosting staff members to ensure Obama squashes McCain. Her zeal is contagious. And trust me on this one, she was an Obama Mama before the term was coined. Foresight. The woman's got foresight.

Meanwhile I'm working the Obama brigade over in North Carolina. I'm set to take Bird canvassing with me. I took Deal to visit the campaign office today. He digs any place that has stickers, though the Obama logo and his visage planted all over the place made Deal's little head spin with excitement. This is a prime opportunity to introduce our boys to our values, political views, and civic duty. Why not grab this teaching moment by the horns and make some freakin' noise?

Bird just saw the photo of my mom and exclaimed, "I didn't know Nani was friends with Obama!" From the sounds of his squeal and delight, you'd think his Nani was shaking hands with Peter Parker himself.

My Mom the Democrat

Liz, of Mom 101, Cool Mom Picks, and Momcrats fame, wrote this article that I just read in my new issue of Brain, Child. I actually laid in bed with Casey, my shaved Persian cat, purring upon my chest, while I read the whole magazine. Cover to cover. Ads and all. This story, for obvious reasons, was my fave. 

Mom-101: My Daughter the Democrat

I knew I liked Liz even before I found out she's my buddy's buddy. Yeah, that's what you call some bloggy sucking up. Only I mean it. No brownie points to be had here, but brownies would be nice. 

My mom is a die-hard Democrat.  You'd know that about her in the first, um, .002 nanoseconds of meeting her. When she met Bill Clinton at a book signing she called me in a tizzy telling me she'd never wash her right hand again. After his antics during the primaries, she scrubbed her hand with Lysol. My mom can't drive or swim or ride a bike, but she can manage to get herself wherever she needs to go to cast her vote. Nothing lost on her American citizenship. My mom definitely has a dossier on file with the Department of Homeland Security. Her phone must be tapped, unless she's on a party line with a tap dancer or a cow that types clickety clacking all the while we talk. 

My mom is the original Obama Mama. Check her out here. She's the one in the middle with her signature ginormous earrings about to signal lift off and even bigger purse. And note that the woman is always high fashion. She's the one who walked into my house when Bird was 8 days old and proclaimed that I needed to wear mascara every day to make myself feel better. This was, of course, a ruse just so she could stand to look at me. Nevermind that I had a newborn who couldn't breastfeed and a house under construction while she had a mom, sister, and a nanny when I was an infant. Do I sound bitter? Nah. Maybe just a tad. Until I saw this photo of my mom I had never seen her in a T-shirt. Ever.

And damn, I am so proud of her. 

Teaching your kids about political values is no different than teaching them about the values and morals you believe in general. In my case, the blue apple didn't fall far from the tree. If everything goes my way, neither Bird nor Deal will come home from college as Alex P. Keaton.

I'm meeting with the NC head of the Obama campaign tomorrow and taking Bird with me. When I kissed him good night I told him about the meeting and said that he's going to wear his Yes We Can! shirt.  Sleepy eyed and nestled under the covers, he stuck out his little hand and gave me a thumbs up and an incredulous grin. 

That's my boy. 

What Not to Say if You Want to Be My Friend: Deal Breakers

I owe thanks to Poison Pen for slipping me this post idea this morning. She's the one of Ball Pit fame.

Back when I was in the dating game, there were certain deal breakers. Tighty whiteys for starters. Keep in mind I was dating before the days of boxer briefs, but those would be a definite potential deal breaker. Boxers all the way, man. Squeezing toothpaste in the middle: a deal breaker to this neat freak. Granted, things had already gotten pretty far if I was privy to toothpaste habits. A hairy back was a definite deal breaker. An ass smaller than mine: also a deal breaker. There are of course the obvious ones like voting Republican, wearing too much cologne, talking about his ex, bad table manners, being plain stupid, mussed up shoes (Aw, come on! Shoes tell a lot about a man!), or hitting on my friends (with a hotties like Shannon and Cathy as my closest friends, this one cropped up a lot).

Now that I'm learning to feel and find my way in the mom world, I find myself dating again. There are deal breakers in this game too. Here are a few recent ones I've encountered. These are for real, not figments of my imagination. I wish I had mugshots to warn you to stay away, far away, from these women.

"We home school our three children ages 2-6." Luckily my cell phone rang, and I just had to take the call.

"We're thinking about buying a pop-up camper." I wanted to say, "You're not Barbie, Lady."

"What do you think about a mom's weekend away? We could do crafts in our camper!" Again with the camper. Who are these people?! I reckon there would be no margaritas served in that camper.

"So maybe we could get together to do some scrapbooking?" Frankly I'm insulted she took me to be a scrapbooker. Anything I'd create from these hands would be a crapbook. And that sounds more fun because there would be alcohol involved.

"Oh, isn't it sad that Jesse Helms died?" WHAAATTT??!!!?? It was all I could do to not punch her in the gut. The world would have been better without the likes of him. Now sock it to me for saying something so disparaging about a dead man . Being dead doesn't make him sacred.

"I see my role in life to make my husband happy." Um, yeah. I'm all for that if he's making me happy too. Has she not heard the adage, "Ain't nobody happy if momma ain't happy?" That's rule numero uno at my house.

"My son is wearing a shirt from Target, but his shorts are from Talbotts." I'm not kidding you that these were the first words uttered out of this woman's mouth. What on my face made me look like I gave a shit what her kid was wearing? Little did she know that there was no need to be so apologetic about the Target attire; that carried more weight than Talbotts.

"Did you breastfeed? My daughter is five, and I still breastfeed her. She really enjoys it." DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS ONE. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder.

"I just vote the way my husband tells me too." And are you enjoying living in the year 1953?

"I don't like to shop and I don't care what shoes I'm wearing." Seriously? I thought she was joking. Find me a woman who doesn't like shoes for cripes sake! I'd rather hang with the homeschooler than a woman who doesn't drool over shoes.


So tell me, what are your deal breakers? I'd like to be armed with some examples lest I'm accosted at the park by a suspicious looking scrapbooker sporting lace up Keds.

The Irony of Motherhood

Mother's Day is the one holiday that is wrought with irony.

Sidebar: It is in fact a holiday, right? I suppose it would be more so if we all got Monday off. A weekday off is reserved for only dead presidents and MLK, I guess. Even Susan B. Anthony doesn't get a holiday, just a crappy one dollar coin that everyone confused with a quarter and isn't minted anymore anyhow. Anyway, back to my original point about Mother's Day brimming with irony.

Today marks the 100th year of moms receiving greeting cards (Have you noticed the price of these things lately?!), handpicked gerber daisies from the neighbor's garden, a splash of White Diamonds or other such department store scent, and a shawl or something else plush and lovely. The irony is that Anna Jarvis, the mother of Mother's Day, never married or had children. Apparently Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, West Virginia houses the only official shrine to mothers. Its purpose is to serve as a "reminder to the accomplishments of these women and to the issues mothers still deal with today, trying to do the balancing act of being everything to everyone." Hmmmm....a pretty decent sentiment if you ask me.

Now for another dose of irony.

You know what I want to mark my special day? A day spent away from the very things that welcomed me into the legions of tired, spent, tugged at, whined to, frenetic women before me: my kids. There, I said it.

Don't you over-indulging helicopter moms start waxing on about what an ungrateful wretch I am. Oh, don't go shooting me nasty comments because you think I don't love my children. I just don't want to be with them ALL THE TIME. Does that make me a bad mom? Does it make me unfit? Does it mean I don't cherish my children? A resounding NO. Turn your pointed little judgmental fingers away, stop rolling your eyes, tuck your scowls away and hear me out. It goes without saying that I adore my children. I sneak peeks at them while they are sleeping, stroke their hair, and whisper "Mommy loves you" in their ears. I romp with them. I smother them with hugs and kisses. I shower them with praise. But I still need, and enjoy, a stolen break. No matter how rewarding and glorious motherhood is, we all need to take some time away to return to a past likeness of ourselves, to readjust, to rejuvenate. I will be a better mother for it.

Mac Daddy was planning on taking the kids to Marbles and an Imax movie this afternoon. At first I was reluctant to go through with these plans. After all, my children are responsible for granting me this day. Shouldn't we be together? I moped and whined about these plans, Mac Daddy all the while insisting I take an afternoon to myself. Then the WHINING set in. Rounds upon rounds of:

"He's TOUCHING me! Ooh, I said he's TOUCHING me. With his FFFOOOOTT!!!!"

"Deal knocked over my tower!"

"Now he's kicking me!"

"No! I don't want to ride on your rocketship!"

"Mmmmoooommmmmm, he won't get on my rocketship!"

"WWAAAHHH!!!"

"Ewwwwwww!!!"

"Get off of me!"

"He pinched me!"

"He pushed me!"

"No! No! No!"

"DDeeeeallll!!!!"

"BBBiiiirddddd!!!"

There aren't enough exclamation points allotted to me to make this series of whines come to life. And so I acquiesced and let Mac Daddy take the boys. I nary bid them a hearty farewell and enjoyed a shower with no interruptions, no one slathering on my body butter, no one experimenting with trying to put eyeliner on the cat, no one hooking my combs and brushes together to make airplanes, no one jumping on the bed and throwing pillows (the hand embroidered silk ones!), no one opening the shower door just for shits and giggles. An utterly silent shower. Just me, five body sprayers (Thank you, Mac Daddy for granting me this small luxury when we remodeled our house!) and the luscious smell of almond sugar body scrub. I actually had time to shave both legs today. Armpits too.

Now here I sit, rocking out to ABBA, hot coffee in hand, cat at my feet. Don't mock me. I know you know every single word to Take a Chance on Me. Lately it seems that Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! has been my theme song.

Here comes the next great irony.

I haven't a clue what to do with myself. A pedicure? I indulged in a homemade one yesterday during nap time. Read? My much anticipated book, Rockabye, has yet to arrive, and I just finished Dreams From my Father. Magazines? There are nothing but Business Week and Entrepreneur left in the stack. Yawn. All the things on my to-do list involve filing, organizing, cleaning, or similar tasks that don't feel very celebratory at all. And so here I sit, blogging to an unseen audience, basically having a conversation with myself.

I am, however, reminded by myriad photos surrounding me, that there aren't adequate words to describe the utter, selfless love I feel for Bird and Deal. They make me crazy, yes. They also make my insides hurt with unabashed love that would make me hurl boulders at any bully who dares tease my babies on the playground. Bird and Deal have opened my eyes to a world I didn't know existed. Their candid, innocent perspective is just what I need. Like yesterday when Bird declared that when he started growing in my belly he was the size of a sprinkle. I am fortunate, blessed even, to have been sprinkled with the finest taste of motherhood.

I am also left thinking about what I wish for my boys. Above all, I want them to be good stewards of their planet, their communities, their own families and selves. I want them to be to responsible citizens, loving men, generous souls. I want the world to be a friendlier place. More friends, fewer enemies. I want them to put others first and lend a hand before tossing out judgmental words. I want them to have a dose of idealism planted in their psyches. I want them to know the power they wield as citizens, first generation Americans. And I want them to know the responsibility that comes with it.

Back to the irony:

And let's not forget those mothers we hated during our teen years. Oh, the vitriol from back in the day makes me shudder. Now we have mended those wounds, forgiven trespasses, and learned to connect again. We actually never stopped loving our moms all those hormonal, confused days ago. The difference is that now we understand them, their plights, their sorrows, their paradigms, in a way we did not and could not before we became mothers ourselves. A shout out to you, Mom, for loving me despite myself and having the optimism to know that I'd turn out OK. I love you!

Yet the irony remains. What to do with my afternoon? Oh wait, it's after noon. DSW is open!

Read more insights from moms at http://momocrats.typepad.com.

TSPUM: Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Momwear

I do not claim to be a fashionista, fashion slave, or trend setter. OK, admittedly I can be a fashion victim. No one will ever add "Style Icon" to my epitaph. Audrey Hepburn I ain't.

That doesn't stop me from having an opinion on what moms wear.

Here's the Dirt & Noise Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Mom Wear:

Mom jeans. Burn them. Turn them into dog bed covers. Use them as ground cover to keep weeds at bay. Just do not wear them. A high waist, full thigh, and tapered leg is not flattering on anyone. Even my nine foot tall super model friend MH wouldn't look good in them. And trust me, she looks good in everything because clothes are made to fit a nine foot tall size 0 these days.

Keds. Seriously, why are you wearing the same sneaks you wore when you were 7-years old? Mischa Barton pockets the paycheck, but the girl doesn't have one lousy pair of Keds in her closet. Go ahead and sport some cool Pumas instead.

Wind suits. Track suits. Call it what you will. Your clothing should not make more noise than your children. The whoosh whoosh sound of your thighs rubbing together in a pair of nylon sweat pants is warning enough to make others leave the playground premises. How about some capri sweat pants and a cute hoodie instead? Just don't wear "Juicy" across your ass. And by all means, don't match your husband unless you are on the same Olympic team.

Your husband's button down shirt. Only my friend Newman can pull off this look. And that's with her husband's crisp white oxford tied in a knot atop her Lilly capris. Sure, it's kinda sexy to wear your husband's shirt after a quickie, but keep it contained to your own home. Most women don't look so chic in oversized menswear. You'll find some lovely white shirt options at Boden. Or Target. Or Old Navy. Just wear one sized and cut for a woman. Promise you won't go all 80's on me and pair your husband's shirt with black leggings.

Anything with licensed characters. Even Bird and Deal don't wear Pooh or Nemo on their clothing. Certainly grown women should not either. It's bad enough that they make diaper bags emblazoned with that crap. Leave Minnie Mouse on your kid's lunch box where she belongs. I find it ridiculous that the Disney Store even has an adult apparel category.

For the flattering but ridiculous Momwear category:
Rock and Republic jeans, kitten heels, and a Stella McCartney top...at the park. Clearly these women don't get down in the sandbox with their kids. High fashion is not for play dates. Save the Lucky Magazine getup for date night. Your kids deserve machine washable garb if your time with them is indeed quality. And PS, get over your big bad self.

Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive.

What other mom apparel horrifies you? What should we add to the Treaty?

Whispers

Lately there's been a gaggle of folks whispering, "So, have you met the new neighbors?" The seemingly innocent conversation starter has a whole host of dynamics attached. Gossip. Disbelief. Judgement. Novelty. Curiosity. I give my neighbor Chuck and Mac Daddy, a lot of credit for the genuine aplomb with which they responded to that very question yesterday. They were like, "Oh sure we met. They seem so fun and cool. We're really looking forward to seeing them once they're settled in." They were being honest, not making a statement, based on their bona fide candor. It's pretty easy to diffuse the situation when the instigator doesn't get the response he expected.

The hushed tones of such questioning are akin to that mother's whispering of unseemly words in St. Elmo's Fire. I find such behavior so irksome. You see, the new neighbors are two women. Who live together. They're not related. One is not the landlord and the other a paying tenant. No one is the caretaker of the other. They're not even roommates. Give up? They're gay for goodness sake. BFD. Not even newsworthy. Yawn. There's certainly juicier gossip than that in the 'hood. Hell, I'm potentially fodder for better grilling meat considering some of the stuff I write on this here very blog.

Are we so far removed from diversity of the population that a gay couple moving in two doors down is all that interesting? I recall a few years back when similar whispering ensued when Republicans moved onto the street. We were flabbergasted. Republicans?! Moving in here? What ghastly horror to invade our progressive little precinct! They'll ruin our voting records! Tell me it's not so! It turns out that more and more are sending moving announcements (on engraved Crane stationery, no doubt) from our zip code, but that's for another day. I'll have plenty to report on that divide once the election heats up. But I digress, as I so often do...

I find it more difficult to explain to Bird and Deal why someone has guns in his home than why two women live together or why one of Bird's buddies has two mommies. In fact, all the kids in class think it's pretty darn cool that this little boy gets to have TWO mommies. To these children, mommy equals love. I might be the only Indian in the world who's bad at math but even I know that this equation balances, no matter who the mommy is. Love, in all its forms, is infinitely easier to explain than violence or danger, or the potential for it, in all its many, gruesome forms. Love makes sense. It is indeed patient and kind.

The face of the American family isn't necessarily changing, it's just that the myriad forms of families are finally marching out from the under the rock we've collectively buried them under. Back in the 80s there was a whole lot of whispering going on among my friends' parents because my mom and dad were divorced. I was the only one whose parents weren't married, and in retrospect, the whispers and pitying looks I got all spelled: Gossip. Disbelief. Judgement. Novelty. Curiosity. To top it off, my brother and I lived with our dad. Not our mother. That's still practically unheard of, so imagine the judgement passed and speculation going on back in the day.

Times are changing folks, and let's keep up! No use staying shackled to closed minded ways that don't provide opportunities to teach our children (and ourselves, for that matter) about the diversity of the world. It's enriching to have the world open up to us verus closing in on us.