It

Me, pontificating

There I am, on long gold and brown shag, all twelve or fifteen or eighteen months of me. One hand, raised - I appear to be saying something and I am certain it was important. I know I had the attention of my father, who took the picture. Who imagined for me, I am sure, an open universe where I could grow and become whatever I wanted.

It wasn't too many years later that a boy pointed at me and called me a dog. A poodle. I'd shed my long blond locks for short hair and my first eighties perm, and the playground resounded with his chants."It looks rabid!" he'd snarl. I hid inside my coat, eyes burning. It.

Later, when I started dating, it wasn't that the boys I met called me "it," but that occasionally they treated me like a thing. Sometimes, paying for dinner was an exchange for a kiss. Their needs or desires were often less about my mind or my humor, but about my waist or breasts or legs. They needed IT, not me. And this behavior continued well into adulthood, where dating became an even larger minefield.

I was lucky to marry a man raised by a strong woman who taught him about agency and equality and respect. Later, at twenty six, a sonographer said to us, "Congratulations, it's a girl" and I cried. I was scared for the culture in which she would be born, because I knew in my heart that she, too, would become "it" at some point. I knew that the outward sexism of the fifties and sixties workroom has given way to locker room talk, to conversations in men's space wherein women become a thing to be bantered about. I knew that there would be a day she'd be in a tight space or dark alley and catch her breath, fumble with her keys and wonder what sort of uninvited talk or touch she'd have to deal with.

We've armed her with agency and jujitsu. She carries herself with confidence, shoulders squared against catcalls. She knows what is okay and what is not okay. She knows how we should talk about each other and others.

And she knows that yesterday's clip of Trump speaking poorly of women in private, then stepping off a bus to charm his arm around a woman in public is only one of many pieces of evidence of how his public persona does not match his private mind. Today we are watching pundit after pundit talk about a person running to be leader of the United States needing to apologize for what he said. 

But he's said it before. He'll say it again. What he said is merely an expression of how he feels. How he feels is how the boy on the playground felt when he said to me "It looks rabid." It's how every public groper feels when they just have to reach out and touch it. It's how the wealthy man who invites a female friend but books a single room thinking it wouldn't be a big deal feels. Women are an it to be used as they will. This isn't the case for all men, but it is certainly the case for this man. How he feels is a deeply internalized part of who he is.

And it is how he feels that we should all find irreconcilable with who we are.

Rey, it isn't so!

So, let me admit it: We are slowly but surely picking up a stockpile of Rey toys. It's not necessarily easy, but it's certainly not as hard as, say, finding Black Widow riding the motorcycle that fell out of the Quinjet (Captain America, Iron Man, and Mark 30 have all replaced her in various sets leading me to say bad language words). But hey, we found Rey. And if we could find Rey, couldn't anyone?

That's right, I'm raising a Honeybadger, a Sith Yoda, and a straight up, badass lady Sith. 

Sure, she's still not included in the cool 6 figure 10" toy set along with all the boys and that's not okay, but this household's collective lady rage had dulled to a quiet simmer. Because it's been easier to pick up Rey toys these days, I didn't want to believe the folks over at Sweatpants and Coffee or Hypable but the 'Star Wars' toymakers story is picking up steam. I tried to double and triple check the reliability of the sources, because there's a peculiar confirmation bias at work in my soul as I hear that toymakers intentionally excluded Rey from manufacturing because boys don't want toys with girl characters in them.

This, of course, flies in the face of the Disney/Lucas claim that they intentionally excluded Rey to avoid spoilers. To be fair, we kind of smelt it when Disney dealt it, but I've got a little message for them:

Spoiler alert: Turns out, fans can smell your bullshit from a mile away. 

Now out of my system that have I gotten childish Yoda image of mine, I'd like to talk a little about why this is important. Captain Yoda above with the devilish grin likes to play The Force Awakens. So do his sisters. They'd like to do so with a full set of action figures. Like, say, that sweet slick 6-figure set from Target, for example. But there's no Rey that size. Get a different one, folks say. Shut up. Stop whining. There are some Rey figures for sale, so you shouldn't complain.

To that I say: Uh, no. That's not how representation works.

The toys we make - and how we package them - tell a story. Narratives aren't just about the words we are saying - and a grand storyteller like Disney/Lucasfilms ought to know that. Right now, with their various individually packaged Rey figures, The Force Awakens is telling a slightly better story than, say, Disney's Avengers set (which I covered already) or Disney's missing Gamora (which I covered here), but it's still a story wherein the girl doesn't get to hang with the boys, can be cast aside, and is, inessential in the The Force Awakens toy lineup.

You can't have the movie The Force Awakens without Rey, but you're suggesting that boys just go ahead and play the movie without her. Because who wants a female action figure mucking up their important playsets?

But it gets worse, because industry insiders claim that you've actually come out and said - behind closed doors of course (heaven help you get off message in front of Joss Whedon or JJ Abrams - who create strong female characters as a matter of course) - that boys don't want to play with toys that are girls. This confirmed our suspicions. Now, not only are you telling female fans that they are inessential, you're sending that message to males as well. These playsets reach our culture's boys during their formative years. The story you are writing in your merchandise tells the future husbands, best friends, uncles, and fathers of the world that what they really need for the games of their youth - which expand to the reality of their adulthood - are playsets without girls. You are telling them that not only can women be cast aside, but that they should.

And hey, no worries, you'll do it for them.

But here's the surprise twist: Women and the men who love them are increasingly aware that such narratives are harmful to ourselves and our children, and we aren't quiet. We speak to our children and friends about the situation and are willing to use our social media and buying power to ensure that everyone can hear the story you create with your toy lines and, now, at least according to an inside source, your words.

Disney/Lucasfilm, you're storytellers. Make your story better.

The Awakening: On Rey, geneology, and why her parents don't matter in Star Wars: The Force Awakens

There be spoilers here.

No, seriously. A multitude of spoilers. Do not read on if you do not wish for spoilers.

Did I mention about the spoilers?  Because I'm not holding back or using spoiler font. Only read this if you've already seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens or don't mind spoilers or don't give a fiddly about the Star Wars universe and are just here for the cursing. Except there's probably not that much cursing.

**** HERE ENDETH THE SPOILER WARNINGS AND BEGINNETH THE COMMENTARY***

As I was born in 1976, Star Wars has been a thing for all of my life - from "I love you"/"I know to Ewoks and midichlorians, the good, bad, and ugly of this space mythology/science fiction saga has enchanted the geeks I grew up with. In my household, we've eagerly awaited J.J. Abrams's addition to the universe and lost our girl-power marbles when we first caught a glimpse of Rey. But now Star Wars: The Force Awakens is also the source of some consternation as my daughters ask #wheresrey and a dude from Facebook mansplains to me that I can get Pop Vinyl Rey toys so I really shouldn't complain about the difficulty in finding the few mass-produced, non-collector's edition action figures for my ladies. Then my youngest girl child came home with a bobble head Rey and I went into a #smashthepatriarchy funk. As I witnessed yet another group of Star Wars fans discuss Rey's potential genealogy, I realized that I have a few things to say.

Of course Rey's genealogy intrigues me. Star Wars mythology called our attention to the Skywalker saga and how people are related is a key theme of this universe. As the parentage of Kylo Ren is known - and an essential plot line - viewers are left wondering about the family backgrounds of both Rey (who waits for her parents) and Finn (who never knew his parents). While a variety of theories about Finn's father abound, the true focus of commentary has been on Rey and there is much speculation regarding whether she is a Solo or a Skywalker.

I'm not here to do that. In fact, I think doing so undermines her agency as a key character in this Star Wars universe. As the audience watches Rey awaken, what is important is not her lineage, but her connection with the Force. In fact, continued discussions about Rey's mother and father tend to downplay Rey's power as something passed down, of which she is a passive recipient. Rather than acknowledging the rather tremendous (and strangely controlled, considering Luke's origin story) moment of Rey's awakening, fans appear to be focused on the occasion of Rey's actual, physical birth. This may be a good moment for us to remember that the movie is not called The Force is Born.

While the stories of the original series and the prequels were tied up in the saga of a single family, the films have always largely been about power and balance. The Force. Mythology envisioned through a family line was important, but now is an excellent time for J.J. Abrams and the Star Wars universe to take a step away from some of the ideas of the past and into a new arena where women are actualized and fully realized participants. To fully balance The Force, one must acknowledge its existence outside of the stories we've already seen. These are but a small sliver of the larger universe, and it's time for the films to acknowledge how the Skywalker/Solo/Organa trio fits into something much larger than themselves.

Incidentally, I think (or hope?) it is -- which is why Rey's genealogy does not matter. My theory?  Rey's genetic line is an intentional distraction from her origin story that we glimpse when she first touches Luke's lightsaber and her mental walls begin to falter. There are three key images in her vision: A world on its side, the Knights of Ren massacre, and Kylo Ren in the forest. My theory? Rey's a survivor of the massacre, a padawan learner hidden from herself and others. This explains the familial-like connections and protective natures of Solo and Organa, while still allowing that Rey is not, in fact, family. If mental walls were used to protect Rey and they began to falter once she touched the lightsaber, Kylo Ren's awkward fumbling brought everything down so that Rey could tap into her own, partially-trained, power.

It also allows for a fairly entrenched story to stretch outside of its previous grounding - and restore balance to a universe in which there are far more stories to tell. Remember, after all, these tales come from  Disney, who intends to spend many, many years telling them. Am I right? I guess we wait and find out. Chances are good Disney will stick with the Skywalker saga. It's like an old, comfortable pair of shoes worth over $4 billion. But if Disney wants to continue creating compelling films, they might consider breaking out of patriarchal story lines and trying something new. I think that General Leia would approve.

7th grade: Missteps, mistakes, and grace

Monkeymoo survived 6th grade.

I'd say "And she has the picture to prove it" but I don't even know what this is.

It wasn't easy. There was a lot going on, which Monkeymoo can one day share, or not. It's hers, not mine to disclose. But I wanted to take a moment to update my Middle School Mania post from a year ago.

I want to start by saying that post might not have been fair. I can't help but feel that I might not have been fair and here's why: In addition to being these amazing, wonderful, surprising, snarky, and occasionally growling people, our tweens are still kids.

And as such, they can and do behave like kids, poking into areas they might not when they grow into better judgment and behaving in ways that aren't necessarily the greatest. As much as we might think our kids couldn't or wouldn't do such things, they can. And will. Because being a complete and fully realized human requires screwing up. It just does.

A friend told me last year that they have to be allowed to make mistakes. She's right. Even big ones. Even mistakes that are ouchy for those around them. Because those mistakes add up in the experience column to create cool people.

I hope that my daughter won't make mistakes that hurt others. But if she does, I wish for two things: That she has the ability to say I'm sorry and that those around her have the grace to embrace her accidents and apologies.

Seventh grade is better, so far. Monkeymoo and the friend she had so many troubles with are back together again, and in the meantime, she expanded her friend circle and became a little more social. Last year was tough - painful even.

But there will be a lot of years like that and each time, as it always does, it will get better.

And so it is #internetbreak(nah) #sunshineandagoodbook

Nine months since my last post. I'd like to say it's been nine months of creative writing and creation and parenting and all the good things in the universe. But if we're being honest here (and we usually are), it's probably been nine months of Candy Crush and Facebook and that should make you as sad as it should make me. I'm thinking on it - and blogging, and professional blogging, and creative writing.

It's NaNoWriMo. Several years ago, I wrote my heart out for NaNoWriMo. This year, I'll be lucky to cough out a few blog posts here and there. But I will try, I promise.

In the meantime, I wanted to share something. It's worth the read - so much so, in fact, that I'm breaking my hiatus to ask you to read it. And I'm not writing anything else at this moment. I'll be back soon.

The Guardian: Neil Gaiman

Now please accept this photo of some people who eat up a whole bunch of my time, but who inspire me to return to the library, to reading, to quiet times with a good book, and to anything, dare I say it, but Youtube clips of people playing games or endless Pinterest scrolling. All of us have to get back to something that doesn't scroll.

The Observer Effect and Parenting

The Observer Effect: (From Wikipedia)

1. In science, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on a phenomenon being observed. This is often the result of instruments that, by necessity, alter the state of what they measure in some manner.

I've always been intrigued by the observer effect - the idea that looking at something, measuring something, somehow changes  what is being measured.

And then I had kids and the observer effect took over all sorts of pieces of our lives. Our newborns didn't sleep. And so we wanted sleep and watched their sleep. And the more closely we watched it, the worse it was. This same phenomenon comes time and time and time again. Food. Attitudes. Television consumption. Cleaning.

We plug in and suddenly everything feels like it's going to hell in a handbasket. But we observe, because there's some deep and abiding belief that observing is what makes us good parents.

But what if, sometimes, just sometimes, the observer effect is making everything worse? What if our oversight - of eating, sleeping, homework, and relationships puts added outside stress on our kids when they can least handle it or when they'd benefit most by being ignored.

To be fair, I'm not talking about radical rejection of my kids' lives. I'm talking about a bit of benign neglect - times when looking the other way allows them the frustrations and opportunities for growth.

At the playground, for example. Maybe reading a book or checking my e-mail on my phone isn't so bad, as my 4 year old struggles to climb the rock wall. Maybe making my pre-teen negotiate her own academic relationships with teachers is what's important, rather than checking the gradebook constantly.

Maybe just maybe one of the hardest aspects of parenting is not watching.

Middle school mania

I remember the day I got braces. I was excited to embrace my new life as a metal-mouth. That night, I lay awake in agony with a pain so deep I was sure I was dying. I took ibuprofin and ate soft foods for days.  Monkeymoo had exactly the same experience with her braces - from the excitement to the shocking pain to the middle-of-the-night weeping.

And it hurt me so much more when she did it. There's no way to explain to someone in the middle of such pain that it is transient. Telling them that they will survive and even be better off in the long run is empty when they are a ball of pain and tears. It's even worse when that pain isn't physical - but deeply emotional. There's no over-the-counter anti-emotional-inflammatory medication.

Which brings us to this: Monkeymoo has entered Middle School.

I've long thought that the middle school years were hard for me because I moved in October of my 6th grade year from a small town and a K-6 school to a big city and a 6-8 middle school. I figured most friendships had been long-established and girls had years to learn the proper clothing choices and I was just having a hard time adjusting. I remember being laughed at for reading the newspaper. I remember long quiet hours in the middle school library. I remember girls being awful. I remember making one friend as we complained over 6th grade math. I remember it being hard and confusing and I remember coming home from school, having navigated these complex mean-girl social relationships, and playing with Barbies behind the closed door of my room because I was lonely and sad and I very much wanted to live in the world I lived in before all of this.

It might be true. Maybe. 

So this summer, while Monkeymoo chattered with her best friend about how very excited they were for middle school, I cringed. I didn't want to project or stifle her excitement, but I didn't imagine there was much at all to be excited for in Middle School.

We are now at the Christmas Break of her 6th grade year and I can honestly say it sucks. 

The academics are great. I have no complaints. Her teachers are awesome and responsive and great. The social stuff is. . . not. 

There must be some weird switch that flips in girls between the ages of 11 and 14 that tells them to learn to navigate complex social relationships, but often goes into hyper-drive Mean Girls bullshit. I'm sure if I reviewed the literature, there would be plenty of meaningful explanations that helped me understand why long-time companions chose to end friendships. I'm absolutely positive if I did so, I would also understand why 11 year-olds, probably even my own, fail to do it with grace and their awkwardness is painful. I might even understand how and why social bullying occurs and how children I love and respect engage in deliberate social rejection. 

Or maybe not, because as I learned long ago - my belief that if I just read more I might uncover the weirdly complex nuances of social relationships is exactly what made me a middle school reject. And, of course, none of that reading can make the pain or confusion caused by those events go away, which is why I haven't suggested it to Monkeymoo. I'm completely at a loss to explain any of her experiences to her. 

Without going into details, my girl's experienced a wide gamut of friendship politics since school started. Alliances made, broken, reforged, whatever.  Monkeymoo remains confused by the whole thing. There have been wild mood swings (ah, the sweet intersection of social bullshit and hormones) and chronic stomach and head aches. There have been tears.  Of course girls get to socialize with whomever they choose and middle school appears to be the time they figure this out, but nobody appears to have much grace while doing it. 

And that hurts not only Monkeymoo. That hurts me. 

In one particularly harrowing moment, Monkeymoo screamed at me that she'd lost all of her friends and now she had nobody. I told her I knew how that felt, but in the end she had her family. She had us. We weren't going anywhere. 

And that's true. 

But in the face of Middle School, it doesn't feel like much.

Note: This post has been edited from its original format. It was not my intent to point the finger at individual girls - this is about all of them, including my own, and, even moreso, about myself and how I can help my daughter navigate these times in the best way possible. 

Addendum:
Turns out a quick review of the lit reveals ONE important tactic for helping girls through these weird years: Mentors.
Because I am the reader I am, here is some other interesting reading, if you're dealing with the wild middle school girl years yourself:
From Sugar and Spice to the Mean and Nasties, Barbara Meltz
When little girls start growing up , Barbara Meltz
Understanding Middle School Friendships, PBS
And this book looks good:  BFFs, Frenemies, and Mean Girls: The Drama Years (Whitney Joiner and Haley Kilpatrick)

I know I've been quiet. . .

I will hopefully be less quiet soon.

See, in August, I started that full-time gig I've wanted for so long. I'm not sorry - it's amazing and difficult and all-encompassing. It is exactly what I wanted and completely overwhelming at the same time.

So I've been doing that. I'm also still doing the educational blogging.

This leaves very little actual and real time for things like creative work, essay writing, blogging, or, dare I say it, parenting.

That said, I'm about to go on break - so look for me because I think I have some things to say.

In the meantime, please enjoy this kitten from www.tehcute.com.

Guardians of the Galaxy +1

Remember when I wrote that post about Black Widow and Disney? What you don't know is that afterward, I was feeling a little silly. Like I may have overreacted. Maybe.

So this week, after picking up a Dr. Who Microfigure from Hot Topic (Yeah, I was in Hot Topic. THAT store knows how to get its geek on without forgetting Harley Quinn or Wonderwoman, y'all), we dropped into the Disney store again.

See, we've all been anxiously awaiting the Guardians of the Galaxy movie and thought the Disney Store might have some nice schwag we could pet and ponder.

It's true there was schwag.

And it's even more true there was pondering.

Let me illustrate by showing you the full listing of Disney Guardians of the Galaxy  products. Setting aside for a moment the idea that these are labelled "boys" products, let's have a look at the only t-shirt that has most of the Guardians on it.

In case you've been under a rock or something, here are the Guardians of the Galaxy (Dude, go see it. You won't be sorry, I just know it!)

I'll make this easy. Just count them. COUNT them. Or, on your behalf, I'll give you a character list from left to right. Gamora, Rocket Racoon, Starlord, Groot, and Drax. 

 And now, for your viewing pleasure, here is Disney's Guardians of the Galaxy BOYS t-shirt:

Now count again. COUNT AGAIN.
Four.
There are four here.

So fine. Maybe Gamora's green was a screen too much for the printing of this shirt. Or maybe there wasn't room (though I do see a handy box filled with the Guardians logo and room both above and below for said logo, but whatever). Or maybe "boys don't want a girl on their character shirt".

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm not overreacting. Maybe it's bullshit, Disney. Maybe treating the lady superheroes who are developed and complex, who pass the Mako Mori test, who help formulate these story lines as a plus one is inappropriate. 

Come on. It's time to recognize that some girls don't want your overpriced princess fluff. Some girls don't want to wait for their Prince or escape their castle or be manic pixie dream girls or freeze the fjord. SOME girls want Black Widow and Gamora. Some girls want Avengers and Guardians. They want lady role models that can kick ass and take names. 

My girl, for example. 

She's ready, Disney. And she's starting with you. 

And when I say she'll kick ass and take names, I mostly mean "It's likely she won't shop at your store again and will grudgingly pay for your films only because she loves Joss Whedon and James Gunn. 

Edited to add:
I want to be clear. My beef isn't with Marvel or the movies themselves. In fact, the female roles in the movie - and their essential connections to the teams built in Avengers and Guardians are one of the reasons their absence in Disney merchandising is so offensive. The clear message to my daughter and little girls like her when they enter the Disney Store is this: If you are a girl, you are a princess or you are not worth our time.

Update: Disney has responded to my complaint with a form letter.

Dear Disney Guest,

Thanks so much for your recent email.

I certainly appreciate you taking the time to inform us of the
difficulties you experienced when ordering through DisneyStore.com.
This is not an example of the quality service we wish to provide and we
hope that you find this to be an isolated incident.  Please accept my
apologies for any inconvenience this may have caused.

We appreciate your business and hope you will visit DisneyStore.com
again in the future.

Sincerely,

Trey

The DisneyStore.com Team

Dear Disney: Avengers unassembled

When we entered the Disney store this week, the man who greeted us asked: What can I do to help give you a magical day?

My pre-teen daughter stood on the path in the Disney store, her back to the walls of sparkles and princess dresses.  She was staring at the Captain America: The Winter Soldier and the Avengers gear, packed over on what I can only imagine is the "boy side" of the store.

Here it comes, you're thinking. Another post about gender bias and toys and blah blah blah. But no. This is more complex and more simple.  This is a post about Marvel and the marketed toys for Avengers and Captain America. And it is a post about my daughter.

Monkeymoo dressed as Black Widow at the Denver Comic Con

Here's the thing about my daughter. In the past few years, she's grown to love and live the geeky goodness that her parents enjoy. We started with comics and moved into superhero movies and have now hit the zenith of Geekdom: The Whedonverse.

So back to the Disney store and her frustration. Fans might know where I'm going with this, I'm guessing, but let me show you the pack of toys that led to Monkeymoo's anger: 

It's called the "Avengers Assemble 5 Piece Set"

She picked it up. 

She put it back down in disgust. That's Avengers *unassembled* mom. I'll be honest. She said a few more things including references to the absence of other women (there was also reference to the absence of African American figures Nick Fury and Falcon in the Marvel lines, but that's for another day, another post, I guess), but I can't quite remember them and I don't want to put words in her mouth. Suffice to say her issue was this: With the exception of a Christmas special set we purchased from Target, it has been extraordinarily difficult to find Black Widow toys. 

We've found Black Widow collectors figures and trust me, we have those. But they aren't toys. They don't allow her to sit down and play action figures with her brother and her father. Trust me : She's standing on the precipice of teendom and our toy days might be short. We want her to play toys with us now, while we still can. We want her little sister, who looks up to her, to have Black Widow toys to play with in the future. 

We also want her to see that the Avengers aren't complete without Black Widow. But the Marvel toy marketing has shown her otherwise. Stand back, it says. The boys will take care of this. Don't worry dear, she hears. Iron Man and Hulk and (old school) Hawkeye and Thor and The Cap are on the case! See, darling, boys don't want a Black Widow toy and only boys buy Marvel Merch. 

Fortunately, the Avengers movie has shown otherwise. Black Widow plays a pivotal role - and when the universe expanded to include Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., our regular Tuesday night viewing, my daughter got to see a strong cast featuring several powerful women. The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. ladies are strong. They are feminine. They fight alongside men and occasionally they swoop in to save men. 

My girls want to play Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. They want action figures. They want Melinda Mae. They want Agent Skye. They want Black Widow. They want *ALL* of the Avengers to assemble. I don't think they're asking too much. 

In 2006, Joss Whedon gave a speech for Equality Now discussing his answer to "Why do you write these strong female characters."  He ended with this: Because equality is not a concept. It's not something we should be striving for. It's a necessity. Equality is like gravity. We need it to stand on this earth as men and women. And the misogyny that is in every culture is not a true part of the human condition. It is life out of balance, and that imbalance is sucking something out of the soul of every man and woman who is confronted with it.

And look, I realize in the larger discussions about misogyny and rape culture and all of that, the availability of female action figures might seem like a minor cause. I'm writing about my kids' toys and their cosplay. I get that. I'm writing about merchandising and stuff I know little about. But I know Joss is right - equality is like gravity. We need it. We need balance. And merchandising a movie by omitting one of its pivotal characters is not balance, it's broken.

Avengers Assemble.

To LF, World Changer:

Note:  LF is working on a project called "About Me".  One part of the assignment was to ask an adult from your life to reflect on how they came to know you, how you are special, and what important things they might have to say.  This is what I wrote for her:

 To LF, World Changer:

The most special thing about you is that you were a glorious surprise.  You came crashing into our lives at a most unexpected time in a most unexpected way and, quite literally, changed our lives.  Not in the “We’ve had a child and now our life is changed forever” way – I mean, in that way too, yes.  But mostly in the “We were living one life and in the course of 9 months it became something completely different from what we ever expected it could be” way. Your dad was recruiting in IT and playing in a band and I was applying for PhD programs in Native American Literature and performing poetry, pretty convinced I’d never have kids. You very much rocked our world, child. You are my biggest and best surprise. And our life, the one that you gave us, the one that is so very different from what we expected,  is so much better than we ever could imagined.

 

You and I met late at night on November 20^th, 2002.  You were 10 days past your due date, my friend – which is probably what should’ve warned us that we’d have a child who ran on Lilly-time.  The room was crowded when you were born, too. We had two grandmas, my doula, the doctor and my nurses, several NICU nurses and maybe even a partridge in a pear tree. Later that night, after everyone cleared the room and your father drifted off to sleep on the too-small and incredibly uncomfortable couch, I draped my hand over the edge of your hospital bassinet and rested my fingers on your chest.  I could feel your breath and you, suddenly, were so very far away from me. I wasn’t ready to share you, you see.  For nine and a half months, you’d been mine and mine alone but now, suddenly, you were in this world and I knew that this moment was the beginning of something momentous: your own unfurling.  A blooming, I guess. And every step of the way, your blooming has been beautiful and bittersweet.  It is a lovely thing, watching you grow. 

Now, you embark on your journey to middle school (How in the world are you in middle school already?). I know you will continue to unfurl – to bloom – and to leave your mark on the world as you’ve marked your father and I.  I am amazed by your potential and excited to get to know the you you will become.  On the next page, I enclosed a poem I wrote while you were waiting to be born, when our heartbeats were occasionally in sync, and when you very much enjoyed kicking Fergus as he snuggled up to my belly.

I love you, sweet* girl.

* Well, usually sweet. Sometimes sarcastic. Occasionally bitter. Let’s keep that bitterness occasional though, okay, and always, always, always recognize the beauty in this world and you are a part of that beauty

PAGE TWO: 

Dancing

My baby girl dances to poetry.
Still in the womb she swings to the sound
of her mama’s voice wrapped round nouns
like so many sweets.
She’s swept off her feet at strangers’ slow
voice swaggers on slam stages.
 She sucks syllables instead of thumbs
and kisses the fist of every poem punched
in her direction.

Daily she lounges lazy afternoons snoozing
but when prosidy breaks through she’s moving
to wrap sounds round her like scarves.
She’ll not be starved in linguistic deserts
but steeped deep in word love for life.

My baby girl dances to poetry.
It’s no surprise she relishes word sounds
resounding in her small world.
Her father fell for me over poetry,
found his heart somewhere inside the lines of my rhymes
and I tripped over his strings, fell in step with his
lyrical concoctions, lost in his notes.

Now, with musician blood – his
and word blood – mine,
who knows how many dances our girl’s
got to go through to find herself,
to find her rhythm living in every breath
of her body and line of her mind.

My baby girl dances to poetry
and after we wear the marks of her birth,
I’ll wash her in tears, tear her fears from her eyes
and give her one gift:

I’ll swaddle her in word love turned
self-love, turned two feet always moving
to the music of her mind
the poetry of her blood,
the pumping and drumming
and drumming and pumping,
drumming,
drumming.

My baby girl dances to poetry.

On pain and pie. . .

I'm sure it's scientific.  The crust is all carbs and fat and the inside is always something amazing and associated with some childhood memory like cinnamon and grandma's house or fresh tart cherries from the neighbor's tree.

I remember when David died and one evening shortly thereafter I cried to my husband Why are there so many pies here. People keep showing up and saying they're sorry and giving us pie.

Last month, when my grandmother was in the hospital, my uncle ran out for a quick lunch and passed over pie for dessert so he could get back and be with the family.  That night he arrived home to find a fresh apple pie on the counter waiting for him (in small towns, breaking and entering and leaving pie happens, you know).  And in his last night in his mother's home, after they'd buried her and gone through her things and packed away what they could, he dug out from the very back of the fridge, a single piece of pie.

I know. Sweets are awesome and can trigger the feel good chemicals in our bodies.  I understand with my brain that this makes sense.  And I understand with my heart that pie won't make things better, but that also, in some small way, it is an act of love.

It's a time waster, pie. It's pesky and temperamental - crust ingredients must be just so cold before and just so hot in the oven to come out right.  The insides are never as good if they come from a can, so they mean peeling and slicing or carefully pitting apples or peaches or cherries and carefully folding them with just the right amount of sugar.  And the baking.  The baking must be just right. There's a fine line between a perfectly golden crust and one that's gone tough and dry. I'm bad at pie most days because I'm bad at patience, I guess.

Yesterday, a friend told me some rough stuff.  I'm the worst and handling bad news. I clam up and say everything will be okay and tell jokes and act sarcastic and then run away. By the time I got home, I was overwhelmed with a nonsensical desire to make him a pie.  Apple. Cherry. Apricot or peach. Who knows.

My heart hurts for my friend - and yet he's amazing and inspiring and all of those hyperbole words that probably aren't all that hyperbolic when aimed toward the right people. And knowing what I know of him, he probably makes a killer pie.

Anyhow, my hope for my friend is that he has more time to spend as he wishes. And more pie and other acts of love.

What an obituary can't say. . .

Four generations. We are lucky, lucky people.

It can't tell the world how much you are loved or how much you will be missed.  Newspaper readers won't know how you taught me to bake cinnamon rolls, waiting for the big tupperware lid to pop, or how you usually served them when we got together.  They won't know that mom kept a few Bud Lights around for when you visited or how vicious a hand of "May I" can get when the family played late into the night.

It can list the names of your children and even your grandchildren, but strangers won't know how fiercely you loved us all.  And how, in the families that your children and grandchildren created or built over the years, you loved all of us all equally and deeply.  And it can't tell anyone how you always had something to serve us when we stopped by, especially sweets for the kids.

It won't whisper the secrets of your love for your husband but we know what we saw: a woman dedicated to her marriage and family through good years and bad. It definitely won't tell anyone that you sewed over your finger when I was 8 and learning to sew in your living room one summer, or how you put your finger in your mouth and said "It happens" and moved on.

And the word limit will keep us from telling the story of your months-long travel to visit everyone after Grandpa died.  How you stayed at his side in his last days and when he was gone, didn't melt into a shell of yourself but went a goodwill tour of the United States to see the people you loved.

Finally, because I'm stopped by the limitations of time, not a lack of things to say: there is no way for us to say in your obituary that you are here.  That your smile is woven into the fabric of each of us and your eyes shine on through your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren.  That we all aspire to your strength and subtlety.  That we will do everything we can to live the lives you helped give us in a way that honors you and inspires others.

I love you, Grandma.

High/Low

Kind of an old Honeybadger picture, but definitely one for the books.

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Tonight, while settling Elsa down to sleep (which involves a lengthy ritual interrupted by room break-outs and waking up siblings and sometimes sleeping in a drawer voluntarily or doing some other such day-extending naughtiness), we were snuggled together.  Nose to nose, her head resting on my hand, she said Let's do High/Low. When asked her high, she said school. This is always her answer.  Her low involved choosing the wrong stick for the stick pony she made today.  I'm guessing in a world where that's your low, you're doing pretty well.

Then she asked me mine.

My high was. . . well, it was the first day of the new semester, so seeing fifty fresh faces in the classroom was great. That was my high.  Then I told her my low was when I lost my temper with everyone in the house this afternoon.

Mama she said.

Don't worry, Mama. She said.

I'll help you find it tomorrow, Mama. And then I snuggled her until she drifted off to sleep.

Oh, here's something I do now. . .

Mr.LMTYS has been jogging for several years now. He's addicted, I think. Won't miss a day, really - sleet or snow or terrible sleep doesn't matter. He's out there running. And my friends are runners - like, marathon runners.  And somehow, beyond all reason, I ended up on the board of a running charity. And one of my internet heroes and fellow Sriracha lovers, Matthew Inman, HE always talks about jogging being awesome.  Because I am easily swayed by peer pressure and internet strangers, I thought what the heck. 

Why not. 

So I started last Wednesday.  On Thursday I ran in the lazy river at the pool during the Honeybadger's swim lessons. Friday I ran in the cold.  It was awesome. Did you hear that? It. was. awesome. 

I like to think I look like this.
If you add like 20 lbs and tie dye pants and a bright green hoodie and a stroller and a 7 year old boy talking about Minecraft. 

My goal is to run several R2DG 5ks this summer - and then, maybe, if I'm feeling really spectacular, a half-marathon by age 40.  That sounds impressive, right?

Spilled steamed milk: no tears

Monday was the last day of Christmas break.

And let me tell you, the LMTYS house was beyond ready to get the kids BACK TO SCHOOL. The squabbling and bickering and sniping and tattle-taling is out of control, folks, and this mama is DONE.  I took the children swimming because - what FUN! Swimming!!

And when we were done I promised them Starbucks. Beloved, blissful, quieting Starbucks.  We went through the drive-thru and everybody got silent and my Venti Cinnamon Dolce latte sat in my cupholder singing the joys of a few minutes of peace and quiet and a bunch of calories.

And we drove home, and it was lovely. And we got home and the Bigs got out of the car and ran to the house and I set my 20oz beautiful latte on top of the van so I could let the Honeybadger out of her carseat.

I think you can guess what happened next.  I looked up to see my coffee falling down. On my head. And the ground. My beautiful high-caloric escape from reality splashed everywhere on the snowy road and van.

And then my car, my lovely new smarter-than-humans car beeped at me.  I like to think it was saying Sorry to see you've dropped your coffee that must be a miserable first world problem. But I'm pretty sure it was saying "Hey dummy: I have FIFTEEN CUPHOLDERS FOR A REASON."

It was exactly like this if by sidewalk you mean my head

 The good news, and there's always good news, is that I smelled delicious for the rest of the night. 

Elsa! No!

I took Honeybadger and the bigs to Barnes & Noble yesterday to spend some Christmas gift certificates.  Much to my surprise each child picked at least one book, rather than blowing all of their money on toys. Barnes & Noble has a disturbingly large toy section these days.

Seriously. Maybe the kids can read. . . the boxes?

Anyhoooooo, not the point. 

The point is that at checkout, the kids went up on their own to handle payment and checking out (a good life experience, if you ask me).  As the bigs were doing that, Honeybadger dove onto the floor and rolled around just under Monkeymoo's feet, at which point Monkeymoo said:

No Elsa! No! 

As if she were addressing a puppy. To be fair, Honeybadger spends 20% of her time acting like a puppy, so it's probably appropriate. The clerk helping us said Did you just say 'Elsa no!'?  When I was a kid we had a ferile cat we called Elsa. We were always telling it no! 

To which Monkeymoo replied: Yeah. That sounds about right. She pretends to be a ferile cat just about always.

Something tells me maybe I shouldn't have let Monkeymoo read all of those Lemony Snickett books in the past.  I'm not sure. 

2014 so far. . . in pictures

Hello, loves. It's been awhile. Sorry to say it will be awhile longer.  Why? you ask?  Well... let me show you...

You take a little this:

No. Seriously, we stayed up playing Space Invaders and Centipede and Millipede until 1 AM.

And add a whole lot of picking up a 35lb this, with extra squirming:

And write a nice long letter to your grandma.  3 pages. Single spaced and hand-written.  And you'll wake up needing this:

I remember when I used to sling gallons of milk at the coffee shop and stay up until dawn playing video games and the worst I had was... nothing.  Hello, getting older.  Nice to meet you.

I'll be back soon, I promise. I just need to be able to type first!!

Do Adjuncts ever get to Grow Up? (An update)

About a year ago I wrote about my working journey and how things were going to change.  A full year later, let me assure you the changes are. . . astounding

ly minimal.

I am caught in the same loop the standard adjunct finds themselves in all across the nation.  Some pitiful figure like one in five of us will ever gain tenure-track positions.  Of those who do get hired, only 10% are hired at the school where they adjunct.  This means it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that the likelihood of my securing full-time employment at the school where I currently teach is shockingly low.

And it makes sense.  I remember Steven Leavitt’s chapter from Freakonomics on incentives.  Currently my employer has less than zero incentive to hire me.  Why?  I am engaged in the equivalent of full-time employment from a teaching perspective. They have from me all of the teaching they would ever want at what I calculate to be about 30% (or less!) of the cost of a full-time professor.  Of course there are a variety of other attributes I could easily bring to my employment – my knowledge of state policy changes, my understanding of some of the drivers of continued student improvement and success, my experience with recruitment and retention of minority students, and obviously my sparkling personality – but those things count for rather little when asking them to pay me 70% more.

As such, I can’t help but feel like I’m either going to have to accept a lifetime of adjuncting, go to school for certification to teach high school, or find another career altogether.  In the meantime, I can’t help but feel like I’m stuck in the unenviable position of supporting a broken system without any voice or power to change it. Of course then I feel as though my continued participation in the system only empowers it to roll on.

Of course I don’t mean this to be a pity party for me. We’re not hurting financially – it’s why I can do what I do. This is not really much more than an acknowledgement of where I am and where I would like to be.  I’m a good teacher who loves what she does and gets measurable growth from her students – exactly the kind of person who should be retained. Unfortunately, my years of adjuncting and applying for full time positions to no avail have driven me to the verge of leaving the profession altogether. I guess the saddest part of all is that I’m not alone. I know plenty of amazing teachers who have left the profession for lack of compensation, support, and most of all, respect. 

The Day the Baby Told Me I Was Her Favorite Pillow

I yuv you mama. You’re so faaaaaaaat. Your tummy is so mushy and soft and your back is so pinchy and chubby.

Are you calling me fat?

Yes! she grinned.  I just yuv you so so much.

I mean, I don’t have much else to say. What is there to say?  It’s nice to be valued for the things you sometimes see as your biggest flaws.