girl at large

Snootypants vs Smartypants

Grandma: "Corndog? No, I've never had a corndog. That's "Fair" food, I don't go to the Fair".

Viv: "Do you like hot dogs?"

Grandma: "Yes."

"Do you like bread?"

Yes.

"Do you like corn?"

Yes.

"Hmm. I think you like corn dogs."

 

Posted with Blogsy

America's Seedy Underbelly is Your Neighbor Larry

(bumper sticker says ‘I choose the obnoxious prick over the corrupt bitch’)

Really? Who raised you? If you're daring enough to put this out there (there was also a huge Trump banner inside the garage, right next to a Jesus poster), I give you credit for speaking your mind. Also, you're evil. And not Christian.

I enjoy proof of well-to-do Trumpers; the "poor white men" narrative has always irked me because I KNOW there were just as many silent Republicans in those upper tax brackets who put him in office.

I love America. Trumpers don't own patriotism, or family values, or loving America. We spent the week driving its highways and byways, like any good country song. Everywhere we went there were faces and voices of every stripe and persuasion, for the most part all friendly. Traveling with family may bring out the worst in you inside the minivan, but out at the pumps, we are all alright. And trapped in a snowstorm in the quickimart, we are all one.

Be better to each other. Especially you, "Christian" a-hole.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Girl Out in the World

It's remarkable how a little thing can put someone at ease. Everywhere we travel Viv is assumed to be a boy, except by priests, nurses, and teachers who (almost to a person) default to "they" or some other gender neutral substitute like the ubiquitous "buddy" without missing a beat. (Is it years of practice? Working with the public? Being wrong too many times in the past?) Its a small thing, but what a difference--to engage with kids and be in tune with their kidness, not their this or thatness. When did we get so boxed in?

Viv doesn't care one way or another, but it bothers me that girlness is presumed to come in only one pink-wrapped, long haired package. (Of course, I'm conflicted. Why does it bother me when she's misgendered? I'll have to dive into that sticky emotion at a later date). Viv has opinions, preferences, and even at this young age, a "style". And by style I mean she wears and does and plays what and how she enjoys. Or as she says: "Why do boys get all the comfy pants?"

 

Posted with Blogsy

Don't Get Me Started

I made the mistake of getting engaged with the local Village Board election coming up in April.

Paulie hasn't had the chance to attend a forum or read much, so I keep him informed.

This morning was all about the TIFs, the lack of bidding out professional services, and the issues that never even got on the board agenda. One of the candidates for Village President said "I don't set the agenda, YOU set the agenda" to the forum crowd. Um, yes, actually the bylaws state that the Village President DOES indeed have sole authority to set the agenda as well as to select committee members. So, 1) misleading and pandering B) didn't answer the question which was what is your method for setting the agenda. Paulie wasn't there, so I played it out for him, word for word. Quite a lot of the forum got repeated for his benefit come to think of it.

We covered all three candidates for the two Trustee positions, and the two candidates for Village President. Experience, qualifications, positions, and of course detailed analysis of their replies to my email questions. Then there's understanding the complicated Tax Incremental Funding and the relationship between the Board and the Communitiy Development Authority and that big money transfer made this year instead of closing one of the TIFs early, and did you know they DON'T GET COMPETING BIDS for professional services? And that they don't have CONTRACTS? And there wasn't a look back clause with the developemer that got the $5 million GRANT and then flipped the entire project in 10 months for $20 million profit? And so on...

Paulie, from the shower: "Honey, why don't you just go ahead and run so I can get ready in peace some day."

 

Posted with Blogsy

Living with Pat

"Here, take these underwear, they are too big for me."

"Are you saying I'm fatter than you?"

"No, I just know they are too big for me."

Lifts up enormous granny panties (or as she used to call them, nipple huggers). Paulie could wash the car with them.

"Mom! I don't even wear these kind of underwear! I wear NICE underwear, I wear LACE underwear!" (Thank you France, and thank you Hanky Panky)

"I thought maybe, you know, period underwear!"

"You thought wrong. No."

"But I don't want them to go to waste."

"Ok, let's say I do want these, which pair did you try on?"

Looking at the opened pack of five: "Hmm, I don't remember"

So Mom, suddenly a pillar of thrift, is asking me to play underwear roulette.

Posted with Blogsy

Home Fires

In a stunning reversal, I like my house and hate my husband. Ok, so that's too strong, but I'm cranky this morning. And we're not seeing eye to eye. But, like all our marital storms, this one will pass.

What will stay, I hope, is my new satisfaction with the house. The painting continues, one room at time, through the first floor. We literally have just one painter working in the house each day, the painting company is fitting us in between other jobs. Which wouldn't be that unusual except that typically they run a crew for this amount of work---walls, ceiling, then sanding, priming and two-coating all that trim. The playroom ceiling had to be stripped of falling ancient wallpaper and practically replastered. Davis, whom I have yet to meet in person, arrives after we leave for work and leaves before we return. Our very own magical painter elf. This is very our style of working with the trades---not needing a schedule or having a deadlin has its cost benefits. And makes the drive home from work more exciting; oh the anticipation!

Adding to the feeling of CLEAN the paint has given the house, the three new light fixtures have changed my outlook on everything. Literally. I can now see just exactly how filthy, grungy, and dark the house was. Why did we wait so long? Oh right, because we needed a shower, and garage doors, and our own bedroom.

Paulie did put up all three lights. And installed dimmers. Ok, truce.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Retro Christmas

“I want a pogo stick and a scooter and a black and red watch” -Viv to Santa

Monumental Decisions

I was not made for home ownership. I prefer to move every two years or so, changing my view of the town I live in, if not the town itself, downgrading or upgrading as needed. Despite my love of architecture and design, I have never wanted to OWN architecture. Like my love of hotels, I prefer both a less permanent and more luxurious arrangement.

 

Paulie was born to own. He was literally born two blocks from where he is currently snoring. In our marital compromise, and also in a new-baby, got kicked-out-of-our-rental haze, we bought. We got lucky; in winter and the bottom of the market, we scored a solid structure in the neighborhood we love and now today could no longer afford. (Don't get me started on the unfairness of the real estate market and how young families, seniors and modest income folks are getting priced out of our village because the recent condo developments and duplex conversion programs favor the wealthy).

 

We did not purchase, as I originally suggested, two adjacent one-bedroom his-and-hers modern apartments. We got a classic bungalow instead, complete with crumbling plaster walls, ancient plumbing, and...original woodwork.

 

In the four and half years since, I have tossed and turned and wrung my hands about one particularly thorny issue. An issue many homeowners, HGTV watchers and renovators have passionately debated for decades.There are sides.There are camps. There are blogs and articles and curses if you do, curses if you don't. Only politics is currently more divided.

 

To paint the woodwork or not paint the woodwork?

 

Finally, I decided. I chose a camp. I chose Paint. The picture rail, door frames and baseboards all got painted a smooth, clean and lovely off-white. The wood doors, windows, and dining room arch columns will remain unpainted (and filthy until the budget and time allows for stripping and refinishing).

 

And you know what? No one cared. No woodwork police arrived. Because it's my house, and god damn I can do what I want. Which is exactly what I said to myself when the property tax bill came last week, interestingly just moments before I said screw it and called the painter.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Gratitude

It's time again for the annual "What are you grateful for" proclamation. Like New Years resolutions, I don't get it. I'm grateful every day for friends and family and all the little things, like ziplock baggies, that make my life good. In times like these I'm also, depending on the day (and wifi connection), grateful to not live in Houston or Puerto Rico or to work with a-holes, and to have health insurance and a rewarding, living wage job. All those things and more---it's a given, right?

But, if compelled to select one thing I am grateful for this year, on this day, it is retail and hospitality staff.

As we careened down the hotel hallway this morning, double stoller laden with inflated swim gear, we turned the corner just as the staff meeting was released. Like a flock of nuns, the women who made our beds, and made my holiday, came around the corner in a flurry.

I spent more than twenty years in retail and service. It is flexible and rewarding, and the skills required VASTLY underappreciated (anyone running for public office should be required to have successfully completed a holiday shift). Those who go without holidays, who fit their own family traditions in between shifts and put up with the public's general shit, are my heros. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Also, about the barfy towels. I'm so sorry.

 

Posted with Blogsy

All The Little Things

 

When I wore my favorite dress on my birthday and forgot that the fourth grade teacher did "birthday spankings". He made me crawl through the "spank machine" of my classmates legs as they paddled my bottom, at the end of the tunnel he put me on his lap, lifted my dress and spanked my bottom.

 

When the gym teacher asked if I could "run with those things".

When my freshman (high school) roommate came over to my bed while I was sleeping, woke me up and made me pretend to give her finger a blow job in front of her gaggle of friends to humiliate me.

Every single time someone said "but you have such a pretty face".

When the doctor, during my very first pelvic exam, slapped my thigh and said "What are we going to do about these saddle bags?"

When the school president asked "Which one is the smart one and which one is the pretty one?"

The time the guy started to go anal without asking.

The time the guy creeped his hand over to caress my thigh while his other hand was holding the hand of his girlfriend on my couch.

The time the two male business partners started talking about a female vendor: "How could someone that good looking smell so bad" as we waited for the meeting to begin. When the next party arrived, who was male and not their employee, they stopped talking.

The time a grown man pinned a sixteen year old me against the pole on a crowded train car and rubbed himself against my backside until he was yelled at and ran off at the next stop.

Every single time someone assumed that fat is an insulator from assault and a barrier to love.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Fall Back

Viv was born five years ago, or just yesterday, depending on how much sleep you've gotten. My emotions have been heavy these past weeks, heavier each passing week as the daylight dwindles. Fall does a number on my body clock, disrupting my sleep, which then in turn chips away at my emotional fortitude. In a typical year this is a speed bump, easily countered with walks and a sun lamp. This year, I am crushed.

Viv's birthday party was so important to me; not just because we only do "big celebrations" on the 5's and 0's, but because this has just been such a crap year. A big failure at work kept me away from the kids both physically and emotionally for six months of the past year; the regret is hitting hard now. At the time, I was just heads down to power through it. Now that it's over, I look back and am newly overwhelmed with regret for agreeing to something that in my gut I knew was wrong for me. But the fear of losing my work, losing clients, losing status during such a vulnerable time overpowered me. (Anyone who experienced the financial disaster, got laid off, foreclosed, or has been on maternity leave knows this fear well). We have a long way to go in understanding how to support parents returning to work in our culture, including inside our own heads.

I think maybe, it could be possible, there's a chance...I was trying to make up for a perceived lack of attention with a big to-do for her 5th birthday. I spent a lot of time arranging and fussing and worrying about it being good enough. As luck would have it, she had an amazing time putting on each and every pair of the ten pack of Sesame Street socks that her Aunt Peg gave her. Because she's five. And it's her birthday, and why not?

As I work to build my own family, I am navigating emotions that are really the lingering shadows of emotions I had years ago. When Viv started kindergarten, I was completely blindsided; just being in a school building (and interacting with administrators) brought a wave of unexpected negative feelings. Everyone claims to have had a hard time in school, do we really have to experience it twice?

And that's just my own, small internal world; let's dive into the emotional exhaustion that is the rest of the world and all it's suffering. I am struggling to fully live the lovely moments that are my happy family life, the completely normal, mundane interactions with coworkers and customers and shop keepers and neighbors that keep happening despite the staccato reports of disaster, chaos, injury, violence, terror, and death of innocents.

How can I enjoy the innocence of these soft and curious creatures in my house without the intrusive thoughts of the random misery inflicted on others? Others so like me. And us. And this house of coffee and cartoons on Sunday morning.

Forgive me for crying. Where the fuck is the sun?

 

Posted with Blogsy

Location, Location, Location

Viv: "When I grow up I want to marry Miss Tia"

Mama: "Where will you live when you and Miss Tia are married?"

Viv: "Why not right here, this house is great!"

Mama: "This is mama and papa's house, you can't live here once you're grown up and married."

Viv: "What if you're already dead?"

 

Posted with Blogsy

My Balance Is My Own Damned Business

 
                                                                                                                                                                                 

"By a show of hands, how many here this morning are married?" "Again by a show of hands, how many of you have kids?"

This is not a family event. This is not a parenting class. This is not a working parent support group. These are the OPENING LINES of a PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT event. Professional Development. As in business, the workplace, professions. As in growth, learning, development.

I should have had a clue from the start at my table. The ice breaker activity was answering the question "What is the best thing that happened to you this week?". I was running about five minutes behind the rest of the group (having stood outside the daycare at 6:55 am, dropped Viv off when they opened at 7 am, and then hauled across the county to attend the 7:45 am event), so as I sat down with coffee, I cheerfully shared my big win of the week. Up for a long-shot, very large-dollar project bid, a junior member of my sales team had just got word that we won the deal. When she called to tell me, I had to hold the phone away from my ear because she was yelling so loud with excitement. It was a big moment for the company, a big moment for the team, a huge moment for her. And I was thrilled to be her coach.

"So, that was a pretty rewarding win this week". Smile, head nod, next.

Gal next to me, at this moment a complete stranger: "But Kate, what was your personal win this week?"

"Um, actually, I've spent a lot of time coaching her so for me it was a personal win." Roll eyes, turn to hear the introduction of the keynote speaker. I thought, well, that was awkward, but let's see what the keynote has to offer.

It did not get better.

Line three of her presentation was "You can have it all". Um, we are all working women, and now we know which of us has kids. It's 7:55 am. We are all here. At a work event. Please, tell us something we don't know. It would factually appear that we do know how to "have it all". What even is that? That is not a thing.

When do male-dominated or mixed-gender BUSINESS EVENTS ask such questions? They don't. Don't get me started on the rambling, self-obsessed drivel that was a presentation on how she got to where she is, which is the Bench. Ok, I'll start, here's a sampling:

" A lot of women have to work these days, I mean houses are expensive. Everything is expensive". "My brother's wife raised her kids to be stay at home moms, they got pregnant young, out of wedlock, then got married and then got divorced. One got remarried, and he's very supportive and now shes back in school but shes so far behind. I mean, education is so important". "All my kids are going to college, they are going to college no matter what. Don't get me wrong, for some kids it's trade school. And that's fine. College can mean so many things. But my kids are all going to college. And I can't say enough good things about Google Calendar, it's a must."

PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT.

Things I Learned In Kindergarten. Or, Why Working Parents Lose Their Shit.

 

Registering Viv for kindergarten was frustrating. I first signed her up back in June, at the appointed time, bringing a file with our residency documents her vaccination records, birth certificate and her actual self. Then, in July, there were forms to complete online and a requirement to upload the same documents. Mind you, that same information also had to be submitted (in a different format) to the wrap-around daycare that maintains a completely separate, though just as convoluted, registration system. Actual kindergarten is only three hours, before and after she's in a partner daycare program. In the same building, in the room next door, but everything has to be done over again and maintained in a separate online portal. And don't get me started on the auto pay that took payment for every single no-school day extra charge for the entire year all at once. With no notice.

In August, school fees were announced, but that portal didn't allow payment until after a certain date two weeks later. Then, I got notice that even if paid online, I still had attend something called Forms and Fees Day at the high school. At that appointed date and time, during the working day, I had to bring an additional two documents for proof of residency. It was at Forms and Fees Day, in my car afterwards, that I had a complete and tearful steering wheel break down.

Little did I know that that was not the last hurdle.

I received a message that the wrap-around daycare was having an open house the week before the start of school. Still trying to figure out if lunch was or was not served to the kids from the public school lunch system, I figured that was a good event to attend. I had a lot of questions still unanswered. (The school portal let me make a lunch program payment, but said no where if it applied to morning K4 classes, the daycare site said nothing at all about meals). We scrambled home from work, shoved a bottle in Charlie's face and walked over to the school for the daycare open house. Which turned out to also be a kindergarten open house/parent orientation. I was hoping to pop in and out, but instead got seated and then realized I was in for a lengthy presentation, without my phone to alert Paulie waiting outside with a fussy baby. I had missed one critically informative line in an otherwise obtuse letter in the packet received on Forms and Fees Day.

If you're still following this, no, they do not participate in the school lunch program, we have to pack a lunch. I'm still waiting for my refund.

Taking Viv to her first day of "school" was not tearful; I didn't "have a hard time" (but thanks again for asking everyone, and asking again just to give me another chance to prove I do have a heart). She's been going to daycare, which we call school, since she was six weeks old. She's had to change centers twice, each time was a bumpy few first days learning a new routine, but other than that, zero on the life altering events scale. Like previously, she had a pretty good first day.

The rest of us are hoping the school district administration takes a Lean course.

 

Posted with Blogsy

This Guy

We're having a little family do today. I mentioned in passing that I wished the garbage cans weren't so visible. Five minutes later, he's building a screen.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Just Another Morning

Yesterday I cleaned and organized the playroom so that Viv and Charlie can now share it. I put all of Viv's sealed "specimen" jars in a row on the shelf.

This morning, all those jars are now empty and set on the table as glasses, being used for "school breakfast".

Ok, so where are all the fly heads?

 

Posted with Blogsy

Everything Is Different, Everything is The Same

It's been a difficult time, this new world we live in. Trump has unleashed the worst in people, and yet, no one at work mentions any of it. On social media and the news, the world is on fire. At the office, everything is hunky dorey.

I've had one customer mention it, by round-about comment that the "direction the country is going in" is helping his business grow. I stumbled on that. Was he being facetious? No, he was fishing. Fishing for approval. Conversationally, I made an abrupt left turn to neutral ground. Later, I wondered, am I complicit?

I ixnayed Facebook ad on my feed from Pro Life Wisconsin because A) I won't change my mind about Choice, and 2) It's misleading (erroneous information about birth control). Facebook asked me if I no longer want to see advertisements aimed at people who like the Green Bay Packers.

It appears the algorithms don't even know who is who anymore.

Posted with Blogsy

Summertime

We grabbed one last weekend of summer at Elkhart Lake this weekend, 50 percent of which was spent loading and unloading crap from cars. Like all parenting, half was hell and the other half was amazing. Viv donned water wings and after an hour let me float her about four feet in to the pool. Charlie, dunked in a round floaty for the very first time, took to the water (both in the swimming pool and the huge bathtub) like a duck. Mama might have her new swim partner!

After a season of stress and a newsfeed full of violence, grasping for a little old fashioned summer for my family is a necessity. I'll take my sheetcake with an ice cream cone please.

Or as Viv says, "I love hotels, they bring everything we need!"

Posted with Blogsy

Touché

"I'm disappointed, Charlie's eyes are turning dark.They were so light for so long, I had hopes they would be green like mine. Looks like they are going to be brown instead, I'm so bummed".

"Why so bummed?"

"I don't know, don't you wish a little bit that your kids look like yourself?"

"They do look like me, they have brown eyes."

 

Posted with Blogsy

Nailed It

That time we were standing waiting for the Max train in Portland and it began raining and you asked if I wanted your umbrella and I said no (because I used to live there and I know better) and then you said, with admiration, "You're so durable."

That was the most romantic thing you ever said to me, because it's how I think of myself. You nailed it. And you daily nail this marriage and kids (and mother in law) thing. Thank god, because sometimes, on the tough days, I'd rather be out walking in the rain. Happy Anniversary Paulie!

 

Posted with Blogsy

Truth in Parenting

A friend once shared with me that though she knew she would love her child, she didn't realize how much FUN she would have raising him. When the hair dresser patiently listens to another kid story, or I look blankly at a coworker when they ask if I've been to the newest restaurant "yet", I know I'm being the stereotypical oversharing breeder. And to my Facebook friends, if you turned off my baby-flooded timeline, I understand.

Parenting is intense affection and extreme frustration, aimed at the same small person, almost simultaneously. Those emotions, and others, overwhelm your being within thirty seconds of each other, back to back and on repeat. It's exhausting.

And then there's toast. Toast and coffee in bed on Sunday morning. Thank goodness for small comforts. And a little squeaky voice downstairs: "Mama's having alone time, BE QUIET!!!"

 

Posted with Blogsy

Subtleties

Me, fixing a pink Disney doll toy thingy: "Remember Vivi, 'Princess' is not an occupation".

Paulie: "Uh um, you're watching 'Say Yes to the Dress'".

Me: "Remember Vivi, life is complicated..."

 

Posted with Blogsy

The ACLU People Power (their first grassroots organization) launch yesterday covered a lot of ground. First and most importantly, I became a member. Second, the subject that most resonated with me was the framing of the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare) as an anti-discrimination law. It abolished discrimination in healthcare based on GENDER. It abolished discrimination based on HEALTH STATUS (pre-existing conditions including pregnancy). It mandated birth control coverage, ensuring the medical needs of women are treated the same under the law. Dismantling the ACA is an act of discrimination. Dismantling it defunds Planned Parenthood, a service needed by women. It dramatically reduces and CAPS Medicaid funding, which disproportionally and discriminatorily affects Americans with disabilities. Viewing it this way has me fired up to fight the GOPs discriminatory, regressive agenda with refreshed conviction!

New World on Order

I can order any item I want---from baby formula to a winter coat, and it arrives at my door the next day. I can read hundreds of magazines, newspapers and journals (enjoying Science!); all of them are now literally at my finger tips. The world enters my home, my work, my life. I can listen to any radio program, when I want, where I want. On demand, it's all on demand. We are takers.

A week ago today Mom and I were on the Washington Mall, in a sea of pink pussy hats. It felt wonderful to be relaxed, not on guard, not defensive. Everywhere I looked, every eye I caught, every whoop and wave was affirming. "I'm not crazy, I'm not overreacting, this situation truly isn't normal." And most profoundly: "I am not alone."

We are not alone. The world is in our handbags, but we are not in the world. The world is a big, beautiful, messy, human place. I want to be a part of it. America, be a part of it.

 

Posted with Blogsy

I Recognize You

The roads got more and more narrow as we made our way through the Ohio country side in search of the Interrstate. As we came over a hill, clumps of small children walking along the roadside came in to sight through the fog. Small, umbrella-ed Amish children on their way to school.

On the crowded Metra train into D.C., a cheerful black gal thanked us for "being there for the working ladies" as she went from completing one shift to starting her next shift at a second job.

At the bakery, we sat near a charming family of two white parents and two Asian daughters, the most talkative one gesturing enthusiastically with her disabled arm.

As we walked through the crowd, a group broke into a Hebrew song that spread in pockets up the muddy slope.

The line for the portapotty was chockablock with families of all makes and models, all patiently waiting for only one loo. The faces of the crowd were varied, but all were the same in one way---warm, open, and returning every smile.

This is the America I know. Hi, I've missed you. It's good to be with you again. We got this.

 

Posted with Blogsy

That Would Be A Surprise

I planned a little diversion for Paulie and myself today. I was so pleased with myself for sneaking in some time to look across a table into each others eyes instead of our iPads, when I would hold his hand instead of a baby bottle. And it's Christmas; how nice! He had the day off, I only had to work til noon. The kids were at daycare til 5. I picked him up at 12:30, and started to drive to the east side.

He was fidgety, nervous and kept asking what I was doing, where we were going. He got more nervous as we headed down Downer Avenue in the direction of Columbia St Mary's hospital. But a block before, I pulled up to my surprise destination---a cheerful corner coffee shop and bookstore. Paulie was visibly relieved, but why?

He explained:

"I couldn't figure out what you were up to. You were so specific about meeting at exactly 12:30 I thought, it must be an appointment. What has she asked me to do that I haven't done? Why keep me in the dark? And then I thought...

...Oh no, she's taking me to get a vasectomy."

 

Posted with Blogsy

Don't Get Ahead of Yourself

Viv: "Look, Charlie is looking at me Mama!"

Me: "Look at that! Oh Vivi, he loves to watch you. He is going to watch you his whole life. You're always going to be his big sister, his teacher. You'll have to teach him all sorts of things"

Viv: "Will you help me?"

Me: "Oh yes of course, we will all teach Charlie together. He will have you his big sister, and me and Papa, and family and neighbors..." and on and on I went in a It Takes A Village eye-dampening soliloquy...

Viv: "That's good Mama, but can you help me with my pants?"

 

Posted with Blogsy

This has always hurt. Just not so noticeably.

4th of July 1982, Pioneer Village, Nebraska

I have had my feet in two worlds for large parts of my life. Growing up in a smallish town on the edge of an industrially polluted lake where my classmates were not expected nor encouraged to go to college, I was the (obnoxious) Doctors Kid. My big-city mother struggled in the suffocating small town, my father thrived in what to him was a sprawling village of opportunity. In private boarding school I was disgusted by the classmates who used their parents high-end drugs and their own teenage cruelty to ostracize me. I found friendship among the townies. But not all the townies, just the arties and gays and other misfits would have me. I found people I liked, and who liked me, and I found my own way. Along the way, I took snippets of interesting things from my urban, artistic, democratic family on the one hand, and my rural, veteran, republican family on the other. I am intensely proud of the diversity of my own background and the interesting, varied and often hilarious people who created it. 

I have said often that having that dichotomy kept things balanced and gave me a buffet of characteristics to choose from to form my own identity. Work ethic + art + bookishness + community + creativity + travel + solitude + Patsy Cline= my own perfect mix. 

When I left the Midwest, I promised myself that I would live in the South, Europe and the East and West Coasts. (I didn't make it to NYC, but there's still time). Every four or five years I would pick up and start over in a new place, with new social norms and new people. It enriched me. I fueled me. Each place I've lived gave me a new view of America, and I found something to love in each one. 

The pain in my heart on Wednesday was fueled by the knowledge that people I know and love, people I admire and adore, voted for Trump. I know they are not all racist. They are not all cruel. They are my people too. They deserved so much better. They have been used. They can't possibly think this is ok, can they? Did I every really know them? Does their hate extend to me? And yes, a vote for Trump is a vote for hate. At best it is a vote for an erratic, foul mouthed buffoon you wouldn't invite to the American Legion fish fry, at worst it is a vote for a fear-mongering, race-baiting fascist.(I could go on about my pain as a woman, but it's all been said).

Those people are not all rural either, it's not that simple. They are not all "out there in the sticks". Just last week, on trick-or-treat night, I ran to my corner Walgreens (I live on the corner of White + Liberal) for more candy. In the recently-raided aisle, I was scrounging for the last bags of chocolate when the woman next to me said "Ran out?" I said "Yes, they came in droves!". To which she replied: "Don't get more for those Over-The-Rivers!".

Black children. That's what she meant. N word is what she meant. I scooped up every bag on the shelf and walked away. I was speechless, and in that moment felt stunned. Every kid who came up my step that night got handfuls and handfuls of candy. All night I fumed at that ignorant, mean-hearted woman. But I thought she was a one-off, an outlier. An anomaly.

The problem with Wednesday was just that -- it was day. And all the secret hate, the quiet bigotry, was out in the light.. And it was all around us. It WAS us. 

I can't cover it all here, I hardly know what I'm talking about, there are more knowledgeable voices than mine already saying everything. I have always written. Of the moments in my life both mundane and profound, I have written. My diaries date back to Reagan, I have every letter Grandma ever sent me. I write because I have to, like a habit. I write about this because, because...oh, I don't even know. All I know is that, like America, I am full of contradictions. I am striving to be better, I fail often, and I want a gooder world for my loved ones.

I know one thing---we are worthy of better.

Darkest Before the Dawn

Parenting is a nocturnal experience. We four are still in one bedroom, in our separate sections, but still all in together. Each night is a campsite of mysterious thumps and hums; something is always vibrating. Previous silence is filled with sniffles, snores and baby wheezes. We are awakened by coughs, hunger cries, dead batteries. I am awakened by my own worry, restless until I check the crib. In turns, and as often both at once, we tend to the little ones through dusk and midnight and early dawn.

When the adult bedroom is at last habitable, it may take me many nights to get used to the quiet. Or not.

 

Posted with Blogsy

47, 4, 4 months

Yes, those are birthday candles in corn muffins. October is a month of milestones. Paulie turned 47, Vivi turned 4, and Charlie grew into his 4th month. Celebrations would be nice, but an organized gathering, an organized anything (!), seems out of our reach these days.

Who can bake a cake and make dinner and wrap presents and what presents? who picks up the kids and we're out of diapers and Viv needs a haircut and am I still nursing and I have to work in Chicago tomorrow and go get milk again at Walgreens.....Mostly, we are keeping our heads above water.

But in a quiet Sunday morning, at last, I can reflect. And all three of my people are asleep. Thank god.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Papa Said It

"Parenting is one small indignity after another; from my robe falling open at inopportune times, to the goldfish I just snacked on that I'm pretty sure had been on the floor". -Paulie

Add to that:

-Changing a diaper on a public restroom floor.

-An Uncle asking "Is the baby under here?" as he lifts the nursing scarf away.

-Wishing I had more of those mesh underwear from the hospital.

-Closing the bathroom door for those five sweet minutes alone.

-Shaving the left leg on Tuesday, the right leg on Wednesday.

-Seriously discussing the merits of Nurse Holly's (of Doc McStuffins cartoon fame) record keeping (the Big Book of Boo Boos) with the three year old.

-Assembling any stroller, swing, bouncy chair, or car seat together without divorcing.

-Milk in the cabinet, coffee beans in the fridge, toothpaste in the kitchen, crackers in the bathroom.

-Asking "Is this poop?" more than once a day.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Babies Are Awesome and Not At All Gross

Today during lunch out at a restaurant (out of the house!) Charlie simultaneously loaded his diaper and blew milk out of his nostril.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Five Weeks

Charlie is five weeks old tomorrow. I have aged five years. Some highlights:

-"Am I wearing pants? Not 'should I wear pants', but can you tell me at this moment do I have my pants on?"

-"They are so cute so that you won't kill them" (thanks Grandma)

-"The sheets were always so scratchy" (birth story from another era)

-"Your boob looks like a weapon"

-"Uh oh mama, he fell off your boob!"

-The third sling is the charm. Or the fourth...

-"What are you going to do for three whole months?" (Apparently maternity leave is a vacation)

-We have enough baby blankets. What we need is a Walgreens platinum card. That's a thing, right?

-"It goes up his butt til the stopper then you listen for the whistle"

 

Posted with Blogsy

One Row At A Time

 

The bathroom is finished! It took a year, but at last we have a working sink, toilet AND shower on the second floor. Our tile guy, dear and beloved Scott, did our job moonlighting between a day time tile gig and a night shift driving gig. So, one row at a time, over the past four weeks, our complicated patterned shower tile was installed (and Scott was made dizzy).

And of course, a shout out to this guy, for doing everything else that makes a bathroom a bathroom (and a house a home):

 

Posted with Blogsy

Toddler + Newborn + Fixer-upper = Surrender.

Viv dropped her doll's blankie in the sprinkler puddle. Clever girl, she used the dryer vent to take care of it. Of course, the dryer vent is missing its cover, because that's just how we roll these days. Surrender.

 

Posted with Blogsy