ENDING THE YEAR BY PICKING A FIGHT - KINDA

Rachel. Rach. I can call you "Rach," right? You don't mind?

Read your blog posts. And many of them are lovely. Except, some of them are a little - how do I put this? Your posts can be kind of... a bummer.

For starters, the "Bill" to whom I'm certain you are referring in this post is also known as Mr. President. He is a man who has achieved quite a lot in his lifetime. From his education to his professional career, to his job as the leader of the free world and the president of your country, it is safe to say that his life is worth more than one shameful and humiliating experience broadcast for the world to see. Some might say he deserves some respect despite his shortcomings.

You yourself have a colorful past, documented on television, no less (and on a channel that I feel confident you don't allow your children to watch). And yet when you became a wife and mother you became something more. Someone who has had many experiences throughout your life and now is grounded in your beliefs and your desire to help your children to become good and whole people.

This is my point: our world is complicated. Parenthood today is not for the meek. What I hope for most in my own family is not that my kids be served up sanitized versions of the world, but that they are helped to know that that they have a unique place in it. That each one of us is an important addition and deserves to be honored.

My children are not here to make me look good, they are not here to fulfill the lost dreams of my youth. They are here to live this life. To experience every emotion and feeling, to walk through easy days and hard ones, and to learn the lessons that are there for them. It is their birthright.

The fact that their very existence has made my life better than I ever thought to hope is my experience. I hope that it informs their understanding that they are valuable beyond measure, but it does not define them. When it comes down to it their life is their own and the choices that they make for themselves will be theirs to live with. Good, bad or otherwise. Figuring out how to do the hard times and the easier ones with a little bit of grace and dignity would be lovely. But I strive for these things every day and I am nowhere near perfecting that technique.

There is no "if" in the equation; my children will have questions on provocative topics, they will attempt to adopt ugly behaviors, they will fail miserably one day and accomplish amazing feats the next.

My job: be as honest as I can in the moment, and get out of their way and to help them to traverse this wild terrain (all be it in a sleepy little community on the top of a tiny mountain). To sing praises and offer counsel. My job is not to ask the world to stop being so "un-pretty" because my kiddos can't handle it. Or I can't. One or the other.

To be in this world with love and respect and humanness, and sometimes with anger and fears. All of these things I wish for my children.

And to be clear, I wish these things for your children as well.

Regards,
Erica

HUGS AND TEARS

NEW JOB

Got one.

Will not be laid off. Will not be on unemployment in the holiday season of the worst economy this country has seen in decades.

Will not work for micromanaging misogynist douche bags anymore.

And so all of my prayers have been answered and all of my Christmas wishes fulfilled.

Many thanks to those who sent well wishes, and to those who thought them. I am grateful for all of your kindness and support.

Thanks to my folks and my ladies who said things like, "You're so smart! You're beautiful! They would be lucky to have you!" which made me want to punch you in the face but was, still, so sweet.

Extra, turbo thanks to Lisa, without whose council I would have been profoundly less confident walking into that interview.

And to my husband. You know what you did. (nudge. wink. fingerguns.)

Blessings to you all. I am forever thankful.

XOXO.

DO NOT MISTAKE PIQUED INTEREST FOR ACTUAL NEED

Things in the "FREE" category of craigslist in my area:


Pack of Silver Metallic Darkroom Paper 8x10 - Interesting!

Coffee and Hot Chocolate - 5 packets. A little odd.

huge piece of water proof material - Huge, huh? Wow.

Folsing tables - Huh?

Crap metale - Ah, yes. Free crap metale. I've been waiting for this day. Who hasn't?


We are ridding ourselves of an old truck in this very forum, so I thought I'd see what we are up against.

Apparently, we are up against freaks. As usual.

ERASE MY NAME, OR WRITE IT, AS YOU PLEASE

My beloved friend Steve posted this on his site and before I stopped crying I knew I would post it here, too:




So I be written in the Book of Love,
I have no care about that book above;
Erase my name, or write it, as you please--
So I be written in the Book of Love.

From Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

SUPRISE!

For the past few weeks my behavior has been a crap shoot. Inappropriate outbursts. Joyful celebrations. I've been an emotional pendulum.

I have recently found myself fuming at a lovely group of friends. For asking questions. And not being mind readers.

Weird, huh?

Turns out maybe it isn't my friends. Turns out, I have some repressed anger issues.

I'm very angry. Furious, actually. And not about anything that has to do with my friends. About how a moment can change your loved ones lives forever. About how my broken heart is never really healed, even after eleven years, one marriage, two kids, various jobs, cars, vacations, "Simple Abundance," therapy, bi-annual retreats, weekly womens' groups, time and space.

Nothing will ever heal it.

And for that fact I am enraged.

And I found out this week that the big company I work for has replaced my group with a "lower cost solution."

And I found out about this in an email from the new group soliciting me to apply for my own job.

LOVELY.

So that not smoking thing - it is off the table for the moment. I'll keep you posted. For now, I have to find a new job. Or bump off the entire replacement team.

I'm seriously torn.

Give me a light, will ya?

STUPID FUCKING HATE - FTW

In the car on the way to school this morning we listened to election results. When the news about Prop 8 (AKA "Ignorant Haters for Nixing Love if it isn't Exactly How They Deem it Acceptable") was announced I was audibly devastated.

Me: Oh my god, NO!

Maddy: What's wrong?

Me: Prop 8 passed. And I'm just really super sad about it.

Levi: What is Prom 8?

Me: Prop 8 is a proposed constitutional amendment for California stating that gay and lesbian couples won't be able to get married if they want to.

Maddy: Why not? Why would anyone care?

Me: I don't know why not. I can't imagine what two people loving each other and wanting to get married has to do with anyone else. I would be so sad if my state or country told your Daddy and I that we couldn't get married because other people thought we were too different.

Levi: Well, they would never do that, would they?

Me: Well, a long time ago it wasn't OK for people to marry if their skin colors didn't match, which would have meant I was only allowed to marry albinos. And there really aren't very many of them, and none of them would have been your father. Which would have sucked.

Kiddos: ???

Me: I know we need laws to protect people and animals but it's not like our gay friends want to get married and kill puppies. They just want to get married. If they feel like it. When the time is right.

Levi: Yeah, killing puppies isn't OK. But getting married is.

Maddy: I'd vote "no" for killing puppies but "yes" for love and marriage.

Me: Me too, pal. Me too.

ONE VOICE. ONE VOTE.

I take my silly little privileged life for granted every day. I bemoan the most trivial and ridiculous of issues while indulging my laziness and apathy. Just yesterday I was standing in my big, beautiful kitchen, bitching about how quickly my organic half and half soured (for my expensive french pressed coffee) and how those jerks at Trader Joe's will get an ear full next time I'm in there. Which will be tomorrow. Because I go there three times a week. Because I enjoy freshness.

I am an American through and through.

And while this may be true, I am also a loudmouthed, obnoxious, entitled, freedom vigilante. I will defend and protect my daughter's right to be in charge of her body. And my friends' rights to love who they want and marry if they so choose. And will proudly vote for a man who is allowing me a new sense of pride for this country that I take for granted and have been disillusioned by for far too long.

This is my birthright.

Happy day.

WORDLE

Here is Crummy Cupcake on Wordle:

A GOOD HARD LOOK

I went on my retreat this weekend. I usually go every April and October, but I missed this most recent April because I'd just started my new job. So it had been a year.

A year is, apparently, too long for me.

I haven't needed a retreat so badly in many years, and I've been going regularly for eleven.

I will not share specifics of this weekend away. As with every precious and special thing in the world the details are for the attendees. I will share, however, the theme: Self acceptance.

What if I accepted myself, totally and completely?

How would I be different in my life? How would my relationships change? How would I face life's challenges? How would I face successes?

So, I am sitting with all of these questions. I am considering myself in a way I have not previously.

And I have quit smoking.

Because no matter what, I cannot reconcile the future I hand myself by continuing to indulge in that behavior. Plus I fucking stink.

Pray for me.

TOO LATE, SON. TOO LATE.

Me, peeling an orange over the kitchen sink this morning. Levi, watching me.

Levi: Watch out, Mom! You're gonna get that orange dust all over you!

Me: Oh, it's not dust, hon. It's the oils from the orange peel. You could call it "zest."

Levi: Well, be careful or you're gonna be zesty!

MIDDLE AGED WHITE EUROPEANS ARE CRAZY!

For my brother. Just because I love you.

SITTING ON MY ASS, A LITTLE BIT HIGH FROM THE MEDS

I had some dental work this week. Not my favorite thing.

My face is swollen to twice its usual size, but only on one side. So that's nice.

Eating yogurt and pudding and mashed potatoes.

And then my hubs brought home these:


Totally not what I should be eating but they are so damn good, they are the only things I want to eat. Spicy but not hot, so flavor-full and delicious. (When I see the list of things I have been eating it makes a little more sense that I have been devouring them, but honest to god - these things are snack-tastic. No joke.)

You should probably head out now and get yourself some. I'll be sitting here on my ass. When you get back and have shoved the entire box into your face, feel free to ping me about it.

SISTERS

me and you be sisters.
we be the same.

me and you
coming from the same place.

me and you
be greasing our legs
touching up our edges.

me and you
be scared of rats
be stepping on roaches.

me and you
come running high down purdy street one time
and mama laugh and shake her head at
me and you.

me and you
got babies
got thirty-five
got black
let our hair go back
be loving ourselves
be loving ourselves
be sisters.

only where you sing,
I poet.

Lucille Clifton

LOST MYSELF IN A SEA OF STUPID CRAP

Work stress. Clients will always want more. Stupid lack of time and energy. Missed girl child's first soccer game.

Fuck that shit.

I spent the weekend in my kitchen. I cooked myself back into myself. And I am feeling more whole right now than I have in quite a long time.

Friday night I baked up a huge pan of lemon bars for the boy child's soccer team snack.

Saturday I slept late and after the boy's soccer game I made a pot of beans (for refried beans), a lovely salmon dinner and a banana bread for Sunday morning breakfast. Today Rube and worked together to make a FANTASTIC smoked pork roast, these potatoes right here, and Madigan and I worked together on an apple crisp.

OK.

I remember this person.

I found her in the kitchen. Fewsh.

SECOND GRADE REMEMBRANCE

Levi just started second grade.

Which caused me to recall Madigan's second grade class's winter performance.

Between the third grade offering of a short (undetermined-holiday-themed) play, and a variety of festive songs (not specific to one holiday or religion) offered up by the first grade, Mrs. William's second graders performed:

A Music and Movement Interpretation of Piet Mondrian's Neoplasticism.

Complete with all-black beat nick outfits and brightly colored pool noodles.

The music was an energetic interpretation on Orff instruments; glockenspiels, xylophones and metallophones. Of course.

Remember those simpler times?

Sigh.

PURPLE HAZE, ALL IN MY BRAIN

My firstborn child just turned eleven.

She is a middle schooler.

She has a brand new patch of bright purple hair. (Subtly hidden below all of her other hair.)

And all of this means that I am feeling super fucking OLD.

She spent the weekend with a friend she has had since preschool. Up Until 3:00 AM. She was exhausted. So we spent the day at home today, until around 4:00 when I decided we should go to Trader Joe's for a few things.

On the drive to the store - both my kids fell asleep in the car.

I'm not feeling as old anymore.

WE SHALL NOT CEASE FROM EXPLORATION (IN CHONIES)

Me: Good morning love bug. How did you sleep?

Levi: (stretching and rubbing) I had a weird dream.

Me: Oh yeah? Can you tell me a little bit about it?

Him: Yeah. We went to the boardwalk and all I was wearing was my chonies.

Me: Oh my goodness! Were you embarrassed?

Levi: No. It was a school day and it was early.

Me: ???

Levi: We went to a store where (uncle) Bumper was working and he was selling these really cool spaceships! They were not too big and you could ride around in them and shoot at moons and planets and there was a special one for wheelchairs so Bumper and I were driving around all over.

Me: So, no clothes, just your chonies?

Levi: I got a tank top. They had lots of other stuff too. It (the store) was kind of like Mervyns.

Me: But with space ships.

Levi: Cool, huh?

BLOGGER'S REMORSE

Why did I post that?

What was I thinking?

Was I trying to get attention? Sway favor, play the "sister of a quad" card? Make sure nobody missed it? Make sure those who do know don't forget?

Why would I subject my brother to that? Why would I click publish? Writing it is one thing, publishing it is a whole 'nother story. And about the "writing" part - it's not even well written! I want to take it all back and reformat and re frame and ramble less and get to a fucking point and ... what was I talking about anyway? Why was it important for me to say those things, in that way, in this forum? Why can't I just shut my trap? GEEZ!

This is where I have been for the past week. Remorse. Regret. Reeling from myriad choices that led to that post. Stinging from the compliments. Why are they saying these nice things? How do I respond? What do I say? I just want to take it back.

So I've been sitting on my hands.

And though I'm still wishing I could have done it a little differently, I will say this: I'm not sorry I did it anymore. And no matter how hard it is to look back on certain parts of my life, it will never be as hard as living through them. (BTW - we all lived through that time. My brother, me, my kid. It's been eleven years and we are all alive and well. Honestly.)

So, why did I do it? Why did I share about that terrible day? I guess I share about myself because mine is the only voice like mine. No one else will share like I will. No one else will know what I have known. But maybe others will share if I do. So I share.

We all have wounds. We've all had tragedy. All of us have pain. It is such a brave act, this living in this world with our joys and our sadness.

Thank you for your kindness. It has touched me beyond words, even if I couldn't express that thanks in a timely manner.

*******************************

Three things happened this past week that deserve acknowledgement and thanks.

First, Annagrace of LoveDrunk awarded me with this blog award. She is a lovely and thoughtful mom of (now two) beautiful peanuts and her kindness took me aback. Thank you so very much. I am honored.

And then, because wonders never cease, my blogher roomie Lara (whom I adore) granted me with the very same award!

WTF? How can that possibly be??? Thank you so much, for this wonderful award and your ongoing support. I'm so lucky to have met you and I think of you and your new adventures every day (and HTG, too).

But wait, there is more! I won a blog contest! My winnings will be coming to me soon and I will be eating those delicious spoils for many minutes after the package arrives. I'll tell you all about it soon. When I am cleared to tell the world. I'll sing it from the rooftops with my mouth stuffed with treats. Seriously, it'll be super sexy.

So I'm living this abundant life over here. And I have to go 'cause I have to run out and buy a lottery ticket.

xoxo -
cc

"I want you to help me kill myself."

Sweaty, itchy, feeling too fat with my two month old daughter strapped to my chest, I had pushed my brother in his new wheelchair to the Starbucks about 10 blocks from my parents home.

"I already asked Mom but she said no. I'm not going to ask Dad. I don't think he would be able to."

"Well, I'm thrilled that I'm your third choice."

"I'm not kidding. I need your help."

And as I sat there with an iced chai and my new fussing baby I considered weather or not I would kill my brother.

All I could think was how the fuck did we get here?

Seven months earlier, at around 6:00 AM on Saturday, April 12, 1997, I was awakened by the phone. It was my Mom.

"Bumper has been in an accident. He's at Valley Med. They won't tell me anything."

I assured her, "They can't tell you anything. He's fine. He always is. I'll meet you there in a half hour."

Just a few months before that she had gotten a similar call that my brother Bumper had been in a snowboarding accident. He had bruised his ribs and spleen and hit his head. He'd temporarily lost his short term memory, his friend later explained to us.

The resulting phone conversations that my Mom and Dad and I had with him proved ridiculously funny. In part, I'm sure, due to our relief that nothing too serious had happened to him. But also because talking to him that day was an exercise in frustration. He could remember who we were, what our voices sounded like, but not what he had just said to us or us to him. He repeated himself again and again and we laughed and asked him questions so he would repeat himself once more. We were ridiculous. But we were laughing and really, you can get through anything if you can laugh, right?

That boarding accident proved to be relatively minor and he had recovered fully. He was a big strong strapping young man. At 21 years old and 6'4", his body was remarkable and resilient.

I felt sure everything was going to be fine this time as well.

We arrived at the hospital and asked at the admissions desk about Bumper. They made us wait. Then a nurse came for us and took us to the "Family Room," closed the door and left us alone. There I stood, four months pregnant with my first child, my mother and father looking confused and worried and overwhelmed. I tried to soothe them and comfort them. I tried to think why the nurses weren't telling us anything. I tried to hope for the best.

Then the doctor came. He spoke to my parents.

"Your son has broken his neck. He is paralyzed."

The doctor said a lot of other things. I heard none of them. I think I shook my head. I think I said "No. No. No. No." But honestly, I may have imagined that.

The following weeks were a blur of concerned friends and family, ICU, surgeries, Bumper's halo, recovery, ICU again, the rotating bed, endless batteries for the Sony disc man, my folks and I taking shifts around the clock to sit by his bed and then - when they would kick us out - to sit vigil in the waiting room with once hourly peeks in on him.

The hospital staff and management told us we should leave. Go home and let him face his recovery on his own. They told us that we weren't helping, being there all the time. That his adjustment would be easier if we didn't hover so much.

Over the weeks and months he had a number of roommates. Many of them had no family with them for days and weeks at a time. Some of them would leave the hospital and go "home" to a nursing care facility. No one who loved them would be caring for them. They were alone.

We did not budge. My folks and I stuck it out. We were there. With him every single day. If we couldn't trade places with him we were certainly going to do our best to know what brand new doorway of hell he was going to be "walking" through every day.

During his stay at that hospital I watched my brother move his arms, more and more with practice. I watched him get into the power wheelchair and roam the halls of the hospital after weeks of laying flat. I watched him do physical and occupational therapy every day and learn to tell the hospital staff about his needs. After a number of months he went home with my folks to their house. Ramps were built. A new bed was brought in. The front bathroom was remodeled to accommodate the shower wheelchair. Attendants were hired to help him with his daily needs.

While I was watching this, my little brother was living this. My parents baby boy was experiencing a life none of us had ever imagined. He was learning how to live a new way. Without the use of his hands and legs. Without the freedoms he had known his entire life. Without the ability to storm out on it all with a grand, "Fuck you!" letting the door swing behind him.

And, of course, I was pregnant. And let's be clear. I did not want to be pregnant anymore. I'm not saying that I wanted my baby to come out of me, here into the world. I did not want to be a mom. I did not want to hold my baby in my arms. This creature inside was, in my opinion, sapping energy and attention from me that I could not spare. I wanted this pregnancy to go away. I wanted it to end. I wanted God or the universe or whoever was in charge to know that I was not capable of giving any more of myself. That I was destroyed. Broken beyond repair and I had no business becoming a parent in the middle of this. But god/the universe/whoever turned a deaf ear to my desperate requests.

Because my daughter was born.

The OB nurse (phenomenal, amazing, wonderful woman) carried my minutes-old daughter over to Bumper and held her to his cheek, resting the weight if this new person on his shoulder. And things shifted.

Suddenly our tears were joy soaked. All of our sarcastic and surreal laughter that had helped us to survive the months of fear and misery gave way to laughter sprung from genuine delight. My new little person brought with her healing and peace and potential that none of us expected. She was an angel. Sent here with the daunting task of healing my whole family of our deep, open, painful recent wounds. And, apparently, she was up to the task. Who knew?

Hope springs eternal, or some shit like that.

So as I sat there at the Starbucks, with milk swollen breasts that I was resistant to whip out in public, I considered my brother's request.

If I really love him do I kill him or do I say no?