Why They Can't Win...

I find my thoughts turning to Boston lately.

So much loss, and sadness, and despair, in one beautiful city.

I don't know how anyone survives losing a child, or a spouse, or a limb. I don't know how anyone can adjust to their "new normal" after something like this. I don't know how those most directly affected can be expected to ever again see the world as a place that is good, and safe, and kind.

It angers me to no end--infuriates me-- that so many are suffering, and that one family alone is dealing with the loss of their young son, and the life changing injuries of their mother and daughter.

I don't know what, if anything, can be comforting to families like theirs right now, and I wouldn't presume to suggest that, for them, anything "good" could possibly come from something so devastating.

So horrendous.

And yet.

And yet, I can't help but notice that, in response to so much darkness, there has come so much light.

An entire nation--and then some-- praying for one beautiful, wounded city.

Strangers helping strangers, without giving it a second thought.

Wounded people searching for--and finding--those who helped them when they needed it most.

Wounded soldiers reaching out to support those who will now travel a path they are all too familiar with.

Irish dance schools from all over the country--and the world--sending t-shirts so that a quilt can be made for the young Irish dancer fighting to keep her leg.

I don't know how anything so sad and heartbreaking can possibly lead to anything good.

But I know that in some small ways, it does.

I know that something intended to cause pain and devastation has unfortunately, absolutely, done that.

Without a doubt.

And yet, I also know that something that was intended to break the human spirit has instead reminded us of
 its beauty, and its resilience, and its strength.

I know that something that was intended to strip people of their faith--in God, in one another, and of all that is good in this world--has, for many, restored it.

I know that something that was intended to create an overwhelming darkness has also led to sparks of kindness, glimmers of hope, and shining examples of human love and kindness.

Life is forever changed for so many, and we can never bring back what they have lost.

But we can decide to focus on the bright sparks amidst the darkness.

We can do our part to make them brighter.

And we can have faith that, somehow, from the ashes of devastation, and despair, and destruction, there can arise something beautiful, and shimmering, and bright.

No Talking in Church!

In church the other day, N and I happened to sit in front of an elderly woman who was hard of hearing.

She was quite friendly, I might add.

I know that she was quite friendly and also hard of hearing because she told one lady that she liked her beautiful sweater.

Then she told another how good it was good to see her, before inviting her to our priest's birthday party, and filling her in on what kind of food they would have.

And she did all of this--quite loudly-- while Mass was going on.

At one point, after she has issued the birthday party invitation, in an otherwise silent church, several heads from the front of the church turned to look at...well, me.

At least, it seemed that way, since the elderly, hard of hearing lady was apparently sitting directly behind me.

I thought of turning around with them, letting them know that it wasn't me who was making all this noise. (And this time, surprisingly, the one making the noise wasn't even with me). But instead, I forced myself to stare straight ahead, thinking that it must be embarrassing enough for this woman to have twenty people staring at her.

She was silent for a moment. Everyone turned back around.

And then the elderly woman again leaned over to the woman next to her and loudly said "And they'll be CAKE!".

Well, of course. I mean, what kind of birthday party would it be without cake?

She was quiet for a while then, until it was time for communion. As the priest prayed, most of the church was silent.

But not her.

This time, she repeated, "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus."

Over, and over, and over again.

I know this might be a common occurrence in some churches. But in our church, it's not. In our church, there are specific times to pray out loud, but the rest of the time we're supposed to be listening.

Prayerful.

Silent.

Reverent. 

At least, I think that's what we're supposed to be doing.

But in listening to the elderly, hard of hearing, quite friendly lady behind me, I realized that maybe, once in a while, some people are supposed to talk in church.

Maybe they're supposed to talk in church to remind the rest of us that, in addition to being prayerful, and silent, and reverent, we should also remember to tell people that it's nice to see them, and that we like their beautiful sweaters, and that they should come to the priest's birthday party, where there will be cake.

Maybe some people are supposed to talk in church, to remind the rest of us to always say Thank You.

So everyone can hear us.

The Never Ending Mess

It's the mess again.

It's driving me crazy.

I am picking up toys, and broken crayons, and scraps of paper, when I realize, Wait, I just cleaned this room. This morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning. Or, well, it could have been last week. But whatever. I just cleaned it. And now I'm cleaning it again.

I want to be the kind of mom who drops everything and runs outside to play hide and seek with her children. I have the second part down. I do play hide and seek with my children. But I'm not good at the dropping everything part. In fact, there are certain things that must get done before I'm playing hide and seek or anything else.

The dishes, for one.

And the laundry. At least some of it.

And the toys must be out of middle of the living room floor.

Yes, sometimes this means moving them to the perimeter of the living room floor.

But the thing is, by the time I do the dishes, and some of the laundry, and move the toys to the perimeter of the living room floor, it's time to feed someone again. So there are more dishes. And someone spills something and needs a new shirt, so there's more laundry. And while I'm doing the dishes and the laundry, they pull out all the toys that I just put away, and move them all back to the middle of the living room floor.

So then I have to decide to just play hide and seek anyway, but there, in the back of my mind, are the dishes, and the laundry, and the toys. Piling up, higher and higher inside my head, until I want to go hide in the kitchen to do the dishes while they are seeking me outside.

Lately, B has been working on cutting and pasting in preschool. These are important skills to have, because you never know when you'll need to cut and/or paste in adulthood. And no, I'm not talking about the little tabs on your computer. This is REAL cutting and pasting. And apparently, if you don't practice cutting and pasting, you'll never be any good at it. So B's teachers suggested that I encourage him to practice cutting and pasting. And I think they may have suggested to him that he practice cutting and pasting, because that's what he's been doing for some part of every day. In spite of the fact that I did not, in fact, encourage cutting and pasting.

Way, way too messy.

So he sits at the kitchen table, and he cuts. And then he colors. And then he pastes. And then he cuts some more. Colors some more. Pastes some more. I think he must be really, really good at it by now. So good, in fact, that maybe we could even stop all this practicing.

But he's not ready to stop. He's into it, this cutting and pasting.

And so each day, he cuts and pastes and cuts and pastes, so that he can become really good at it and not have to practice anymore. And so that, two or three times a day, I can spend three hours picking up pieces of paper off the floor under the kitchen table.

I was recently doing this for 5,427th time when I realized that some of these weren't just scraps of paper, but very small drawings which he had colored and cut out, and for whatever reason decided not to paste. Drawings of people. And boats. And dogs. And trees.

And that's when it hit me.

He's not a cutter and a paster.

He's an artist.

And this, I realized, is just what life is when you live with an artist. Or three.

Those aren't scraps of paper on the floor. They're masterpieces.

Or, you know, at least by-products of masterpieces.

And the other pieces of paper that I find myself picking up frequently throughout the day--the ones with random letters, or words, or occasionally even sentences written on them, well they are masterpieces in their own right.

There are some amazing sentences, too, like I love my sister, and My brother is my bro, and Stop calling me a stupid robot.

And of course, there are the toys. Always so many toys. Is it possible that they, too, could be more than just small, plastic, annoying pieces of crap for me to trip over, step over, and generally lose my mind over?

Maybe our home is more than just the place where we raise our children, and the place that I find myself constantly having to clean.

Maybe it's an artists' colony.

A writer's retreat.

A theater.

An imaginary world of kings, and queens, and dragon slayers. Of explorers, and pirates, and superheros. A world where princesses work as veterinarians, as they wait for a prince to save them. Or maybe Spider man. Or maybe no one, since princess veterinarians can take care of themselves just fine, thank you very much. It's a world where pirates live on mountain tops next to kings of foreign lands, and where their ships are taken over by mermaids.

It's a world where pictures of sea creatures are painted, and pictures of our family are sketched, and pictures of their futures begin to grow somewhere in the back of their minds. It's their canvas, and their blank page, and their stage.

All in one.

So there's a little paint on the walls of their castle, a little paper on the floor of their ship, and a few toys scattered around their secret island.

You can call it a mess if you want.

But me?

I'll be playing hide and seek.

I Don't Pretend to Know Why....

There, I said it.

The first thing that  makes me incredibly sad about tragedies like yesterday's is that there is so much hatred and evil in the world.

And that people were killed.

And hurt.

And traumatized.

And forever changed.

But the next thing that I find hard to stomach is that so many people are so quick to use tragedies like these to support their own political or personal agendas.

See? I told you it's not the guns that kill people. 

See? I told you that America's arrogance is causing the whole world to hate us.

See? I told you that our country was moving in the wrong direction. Just look at this.

I told you we should have closed the borders.

I told you we should have been more tolerant of others.

I told you our President would let us down.

There will, of course, be time for analyzing, and attempting to understand this horrific incident. Once we know who it was, and how it happened, and maybe even why they are so filled with hate.

And then we can--and no doubt, will--find people, and policies, and politics to blame.

Maybe even rightly so.

But that our first instinct is to use a tragedy like this to support our own political ideals makes me more than a little sad.

So yesterday, after watching some of the online coverage and reading people's comments (which I'm now convinced is a surefire way to see the worst humanity has to offer, all in one place) I turned off the computer.

And watched my children playing outside instead.

They were calling me to come to the window, and when I did, they excitedly pointed to show me that there, in our yard, was a boy.

An actual boy.

In our very own yard.

Apparently he just moved into the house behind us.

A real live boy.

We already have boys in our neighborhood. Several of them. (In fact, truth be told, we could use some more girls around here). But most of the boys--though we love them-- are a little older, or a little younger, or a little busier.

This boy was just right.

That he is living there behind us because his grandmother died troubled me.

Because somehow, until yesterday, I never knew that she had died.

The woman who lived in the house right behind us.

I wonder how it is that I didn't know this. I think back to the few times I said hello, years ago, and how she didn't seem interested in responding.

So I kind of gave up.

I make a vow to try a little harder this time.

I wonder if I should go introduce myself to his mom.

Then I wonder how I can find out her name so I can look her up on our state's online criminal record database before I introduce myself.

Look, I'm just being honest here. 

I watch them play, and wonder if this new boy will be a good influence.

Then I wonder if mine will be.

As I watch the boy climb to the top of our swing set, I wonder if his parents are the type to sue us if he falls.

After all, we don't know anything about them.

It strikes me that these kids--the ones happily kicking a ball around in our back yard--know nothing about each other, either.

Just a first name.

They aren't Democrats or Rebublicans. Christians or Jews. Rich or poor.

They just like soccer.

I'm sure my own mind will turn to who we can blame in the days to come.

I hope I will blame only the monster that did this. But maybe not.

Maybe I will find someone--or something-- else to blame, too.

But in the meantime, I will watch my children play with a boy and let their example be a reminder to me.

A reminder, whenever possible, to choose kindness, and acceptance, and love.

And with it, I will choose prayer, and compassion, and healing, and hope.

I will wish that these things are all that we need, but I will know that they are not.

Because we also need vigilance, and awareness, and justice.

And most of all, change.

How very much we need change.

The Voices in My Head...

This morning, the kids and I got up early and went to a race at N's school. Afterwards, we went out for breakfast, and then to the bookstore, before shopping for a birthday gift. Since it was still early in the day and everyone was in a good mood, we decided to go to the park, and then to the grocery store.

I was quite proud of us. Until a few months ago, we wouldn't have been able to stay out that long, going into various public places, without someone having a meltdown (them), or needing a nap (usually them, maybe me), or starting to babble incoherently (usually me).

I was thinking how great it was that we could go almost an entire day without any major issues. I was thinking how much we'd been able to accomplish, and how much fun we were having together. And for once, when the cashier asked "Do you need any help on your way out today?", I didn't think "Yes! Please! Send someone home with us!"

As we left the grocery store, I was even thinking what amazingly well behaved children we have (today), as I buckled them into their car seats and headed for home.

But not before backing over the cart full of groceries I had forgotten to put into the car.

I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I think it had something to do with the voices I'd been hearing in my head all morning.

I hear them a lot. In fact, some days I hear them constantly.

They say seemingly innocuous things,  like "I need your help," and "I need more milk" and "I need you to wipe my bum". They say things like "I need help with my shoes" and "I can't find my socks", and "Can you please check my homework?"

Fortunately, they do usually say please, and increasingly, even thank you.

But the thing about statement like these--simple, harmless, statements that moms hear throughout their day--is that they are said all.the.time.

This particular morning--great as it had been --the kids were saying things like, "I don't know why I took my shoes off for the third time, Mom, but I need you to put them back on". Again. They said things like, "Why can't we have the other kind of pancake--the one with the smiley face on it? I don't want this pancake. I want that pancake". And things like,  "But why can't I get the book that I picked out first, instead of the one you want me to get?" (Because that book has the word tampon in it. And you're seven. The End). This particular morning, the voices weren't particularly irritating or annoying, but they were, as usual, non stop.

In fact, after a few hours, they seemed to be getting louder.

When the voices are non stop and seem to be getting louder, I do things like back over a cart full of groceries. Scrambled eggs and freshly squished squeezed orange juice, anyone?

Fortunately, the voices say other things, too. Adorable, funny things, Like "Does our dog Bella have a brain, Mom?" and "What about me? Do I have a brain?," and "I don't have a brain, Mom. Do you?"

No honey. Mommy lost her brain a long time ago.

There is another voice--one that speaks loudly at times--that wonders why motherhood is so hard sometimes. Why there is always so much to do. Why, no matter how much time I think I have, it is somehow never enough to get done what I wanted to get done.

One that wonders how so many mothers manage to make regular time to go to the gym, or to yoga, or for a massage, and why I can't seem to be one of them. But then that voice reminds me that, even if I did make time to go to the gym, or yoga, or for a massage, I would probably just go to Starbucks, and sit there with a latte and a book.

That voice knows me pretty well.

And then the voices say still other things.

Things that take my breath away.

"You're the only mommy I wanted, Mom", and ""Don't sing that song about me not needing you, because I really, really need you", and "You know, I think maybe God sent me to you so you wouldn't go crazy."

Beautiful things.

True things.

The thing is, no matter what they're saying, it's easy to get caught up in the voices. They can be a little distracting sometimes. A little overwhelming. So if you see me--or maybe someone like me-- running over a shopping cart, or trying to leave the bookstore without paying for our books, or maybe feeding the kids dessert disguised as pancakes at nine AM, remember that it's really not our fault.

It's just all those voices in our heads.

But sometimes, like after we get out of the car and smile sheepishly at the man who stops to help us pick up the shopping cart, and after we've loaded the groceries into the car and get back in, it's quiet for a moment.

Because this latest Mommy achievement has rendered even the children speechless.

And in that silence, there is yet another voice.

A voice that whispers, You are blessed beyond belief.

For you get to hear these voices.

It's No Secret, Victoria

It's no secret that sex sells.

As do all things sexy, of course. Especially in the lingerie business. And what better way to increase sales than to target a new demographic? Since women in their twenties, thirties, and forties already shop at Victoria's Secret, it only makes sense that teens are next.

I have to say, after all the hype, some of the outfits just didn't seem all that appalling to me. Not all that appealing to me, either, when it comes to what I hope my own daughter will be wearing in a few years. But really, no worse than what you see in other stores geared toward teens.

But the thong with "Call Me" on the front, geared toward teens, was a bit much.

More than the sleazy articles of clothing, though, it was the name of the line that caught my attention.

Bright Young Things.

Interestingly, the name itself is exactly what most of us what most of us want our daughters to be.

Bright.

Smart. Studious. Ambitious. Capable.

Bright.

Brilliant. Shining. Radiant. Glorious.

So why is it that, with a name that implies all of the amazing things our young daughters can be, the clothing itself puts the focus on their sexuality?

If you want our daughters to be bright young things, why aren't you selling clothing that encourages young women to be bright, instead of sexually provocative?

If you want to write a message on an article of clothing, why does it need to be on a thong?

Why not write a message on a t-shirt?

You could even include the words "Call Me" on the front.

And add "Once I finish my PhD" on the back.

Oh, that's right. It's that old cliche again.

Sex sells.

There's another old cliche I'm kind of partial to.

Money talks.

You won't be hearing from mine anytime soon.