Happily Ever After

The best we can give our children is a happy marriage. Mac Daddy and I, together, are the blocks that built this family. We are its foundation, which is apt since we can both be stubborn as bricks. I think we would both say that the family we are nurturing is far different from the families we grew up in.

I grew up wanting for nothing. Well, nothing but an emotional connection, some affection, a belly laughing good time, and a little less tension swirling around the atmosphere. All of my physical needs were met but few of my emotional ones. My family's "emotional intelligence" would have been off the charts, as in below the starting point. My home was not filled with laughter and silliness. Whimsy was not a word I understood until I had children of my own. We were simply four silos sharing a last name living amongst each other in the same field. And then we were three, one silo having moved away, changing its name.

Perhaps I am overcompensating now that I have a family of my own. But is there such a thing as over doing it when we're talking about building a strong, healthy, happy family? Can a mother overdo her love (well, aside from the helicopter mom syndrome)?

Mac Daddy and I spend loads of time with Bird and Deal. We rarely miss dinner together at the table (TV off, natch). We all truly enjoy each other's company. Whether it's on the tennis court or traipsing the aisles of the grocery store, we spend our time together. We are a very affectionate family, giving each other drive by kisses for no reason. Bird used to do this as a toddler, and I can still picture him tossing his arms around my neck and then scampering off in a blink. The thing is, all the time we have amounts to a cosmic blink.

And so in that time, I want my sons to grow up and remember their childhood fondly. I want their memories to be filled with kitchen delights, stolen kisses between Mommy and Daddy, tickle fests, games of baseball in the backyard, family slumber parties, Dance Party USA. I want them to want to emulate the foundation Mac Daddy and I have built. I want to give them a sense of HOME - belonging, security, unconditional love, trust, warmth, fun, connection.

I have no connection to my family's roots and heritage, giving me no sense of belonging. Despite my many years of prodding (13 to be exact), I have little to no information about my family to share with Bird and Deal. I don't even know my grandparents' names. I have no family lore to share. No tales to weave about their Indian heritage. No tools to celebrate 50% of their ethnicity. Luckily Mac Daddy has a wonderfully detailed tome about his family roots so we can share that with the boys to enrich their sense of family ties. It goes back several generations to the first settlers in America. It does make for a great read, especially because the old fashioned names like Muttes crack us up.

We will no doubt embarrass our boys, tormenting them throughout their adolescence. You should hear the whooping and groaning when I kiss Mac Daddy goodbye every morning. The decibel is exponentially louder when we kiss for no reason at all. You would be hard pressed on at any given time of day to find someone in the family not touching someone else - bestowing a hug, grasping a finger, climbing atop a shoulder, perching on a lap. I know that deep down inside, we are showing our boys what it is to be loved. Mac Daddy and I have a great marriage, not without its pockmarks as every relationship bears. But we are best friends, cheesy as it sounds. He lifts me up, bails me out, cracks me up. There is, however, an ongoing argument about who's funnier. I have contended it's me since the day we met. He says that being my own best audience doesn't count. The boys say it's Ms. Kris, Deal's teacher whom Bird also had.

Mac Daddy and I are among the fortunate few who don't have to pretend the happily ever after. We live it. And love it.

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.

Fugitive Fear

We were awakened by shushing voices murmuring in hasty clips last night. There were distinct voices coming from the garage. Though we were, ahem, otherwise occupied, we were distracted by the voices that were right outside our bedroom window. Then the sirens started. Then the lights flashing. More sirens. More lights. Neighbors' dog barking. "We should get dressed," Mac Daddy and I said in a rather delayed, startled manner.

We checked the boys and worked our way downstairs to ensure everything was securely locked, silently acknowledging the recently added chain locks and motion detectors. The police cars kept coming. Sirens still blaring. Dogs still howling. Then out of the pitch black a spotlight shines up our front walk. Mac Daddy and I froze, he more brave than I, since I was literally hiding behind him, thankful for his 6'2 frame. Ding Dong. Ding Dong. We stood there, unsure what to do. Movie montages flickered through my mind. WWJLCD? That's "What would Jamie Lee Curtis do?" for you Halloween neophytes. Then the spotlight pointed straight through the (glass!) front door. I saw a face peering in, hands framing the eyes so he could see in. Eyes frantically flickering about. Right. Left. Right. Left. I didn't move a muscle, and had I not just peed, there would have been a puddle at my feet. Mac Daddy approached the door gingerly. As he got closer, the face was peering at us more and more intently. Not moving. Not talking. Just staring. Glaring. At us. Our little boys, asleep upstairs. Our sweet, innocent children curled up in their new Superman jammies, each clutching his teddy.

More montages played out in my mind. Damn, I wish I didn't have a slasher movie phase back in high school.

Mac Daddy flicked on the porch light in a hurry, and we jumped back a step, or four, or five. It was our neighbor, John, neighborhood watch dude extraordinaire, at the door. He had come to explain the sirens and ensure we were OK. That's the kind of guy John is. He's uber equipped for any emergency and would drain his own blood into a flask if it would save you from distress. John certainly had cause for alarm last night.

Fugitive on the loose! IN OUR PRISTINE NORMAN ROCKWELL NEIGHBORHOOD! I can honestly say that the word "fugitive" has never entered my vernacular, unless you count 1993 when my friend Pat made me see the movie.

Aw CRAP. This stuff doesn't happen in our parts. We chose a sleepy neighborhood in an inconsequential city for a reason. It was a nice change of pace from the paranoia of Chicago post-9/11. And while we are neither scared nor paranoid, we like it here, sleepy and inconsequential as it is.

Mac Daddy and I hunkered down and went upstairs to be with the boys, who were thankfully obliviously dreaming in a blissful slumber. They sure would have dug the police action though. When we heard a police officer shout, "Hands behind your head!" and "Cuff 'em!" we knew it was safe to peer out. That's the crap I expect to hear in a movie theater action thriller that my stepdad watches, not in my own backyard. Clint Eastwood and Denzel (who needs no last name) say stuff like "Cuff 'em!" A cuff to me is lovely arm candy, the perfect minimalist accessory to a simple tank dress in summer. I suppose that tells you that kinkiness is not my thing. Nonetheless, I don't think anyone has been handcuffed in my hood before, except for those who are into that sort of thing by choice. Oh, and I have my suspicions who those folks are!

It turns out there was a mega drunk driver pulled over up the road. He blew a .23, thrice the legal limit. Said drunk and menace on the road also had a revoked license. Imagine that. The idiot thought it would be better to slip away and run for it than face the music. Granted, he was not thinking rationally. He was apparently a fast bugger, running on adrenaline alone. Or maybe he had a case of Red Bull and vodka (GAG). After a 15 minute chase, weaving in and out of our yards, a cop tackled the guy. And off he went. Handcuffed. Sobering up pretty quickly.

Our neighbors don't need a reason to converge outside on a warm night, and we certainly don't need more conversational fodder. However, the fugitive of 5/31 still had us whopping it up today. That kind of excitement generally passes us by. And we like it just fine that way.

But you know what kept me up all night? The moms and dads who live in constant fear everyday. The nameless souls paying the price for irrational wars waged or policies and a social caste system stacked against them. The ones who can't afford to sleep with even one eye shut. What about the working folks in the rough neighborhoods of Detroit, St. Louis, and Flint, the cities bearing the title of most dangerous cities in the United States? What about war ravaged regions in Iraq, Israel, Palestine, Kashmir, and Afghanistan? Those children, who learn fear from a tender young age, go to sleep in a state of fright every single night. Safety is a luxury. I felt a heavy, heavy heart last night thinking what it must be to fall asleep worried for your children's well-being every night. During the most vulnerable hours of the day. Night time. When the world should be at rest. At peace. When dreams should wrest power from nightmares.

Last night I said a prayer for all the moms, dads, and children asleep in homes less comfortable, less secure, less stable than mine. I will continue to add those nameless families to my prayers. I experienced but a moment of fright last night. A life lesson no less.