Cabin Fever - Desert Style

     I have almost always lived in desert cities. For some reason fate thinks its funny to stick my fair Celtic skin designed for constant rain in places it will fry or turn me into an epic dot to dot page. And right about the 100 degree mark, my mood starts to turn like meat left out on the counter, I reek of pent up energy and anger at the sun. I curse it's constant, cloudless beat down upon the sidewalk burning my toes when I risk a barefoot walk to take the garbage out. I start climbing the walls, a snarling, raving beast of resentment at being caged between four air-conditioned walls with two crazy little boys.

     In summer, the desert turns into a literal ghost town. Snow birds fly back to their 80 degree homes in Vancouver, Oregon, Idaho smartly migrating from one cool dwelling to another. Restaurants and shops reduce their hours closing down early from a lack of clientele. Mom's Night Out's are limited to the few bars and bands left playing on select nights only. That's if you can scrounge up enough moms to even go out, most people fleeing the desert for vacations in cooler climates.

     Sometimes I feel like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes waking to a strange world, monuments covered in sand, and not another living being in site. (Obviously, the part before he meets the apes.) Or a lone straggler who's car broke down on the highway finally falling upon an old abandoned western town tumbleweeds drifting past, wind whistling lonely through vacant buildings, no one to talk to except a cactus you ironically name Teddy. 

     If I don't see their car pull into the drive, the quick bustle of bodies in another air-conditioned space, I don't know if my neighbors are home. The streets are bare, no one exchanges greetings, no  one plays at the park, the baked plastic would scorch anyone who dared. I almost fainted yesterday seeing a kid walking around in the midday sun, until I saw the cellphone and realized the lengths people will go to play Pokemon Go, even risk sun stroke.

     Whenever I visit San Diego or my aunt's in Oregon, I am stunned to see neighbors outside talking to each other, sitting on porch's waving, kids running in and out of other people's houses, or playing basketball outside. It's like looking at a Richard Scary book there should be labels over their heads so I can identify who they are: Basketball playing kid, swinging kid, elderly neighbor, man walking dog, etc. 

     I met a friend on accident at the ice skating rink, and she commented on how the desert has changed her nature. Almost conditioned her to not know what to do if she even sees someone outside, all social etiquette gone, just an instinct to get inside. 

     Now I know I am blessed with lower house prices, less traffic, and better parking than those cooler urban spaces to the west of me. And I realize from mid-November to March, our weather brings flocks of people envious for our mild winters. 

     But I hate having to patrol Facebook to see if my friends are in town or text my son's friend's mothers over and over till I feel like I am begging for them to drop their kid off for a playdate. I don't know what the answer is. It's the literal climate and the social media climate that we live in. For now, I swim alone. 

I Understand You're Hurting, I Acknowledge Your Pain. What Can I Do to Help?

     These are the words I wanted to hear when my dad died of complications from esophageal cancer when I was 27. And later, when my mom died suddenly when I was 32. I wanted someone to acknowledge my grief and not negate it with easy words. Those trite phrases we roll out because grief is awkward and uncomfortable for those viewing it as well as those experiencing it. Because if you haven't experienced it, you don't fully get it.

     This is sort of how I feel as I watch the news and view the grief of African American mothers and fathers and children and loved ones. I don't know what to say to those families of the police officers gunned down in Dallas. It is not my own personal grief. But at the same time I can empathize as much as my reality allows me to with their loss because I know loss. 

     Moreover, I know that pain and grief demand to be felt. Because its excruciating to experience the death of a loved one, no matter the reason. That's why the Internet is full up of people voicing their grief. Black mothers write about their fears for their black sons. Children of police officers write about their fears for their parents. We live in an age of pain, a country of hurt. Dallas Police Chief, David Brown says "Our hearts are broken," as he mourns the loss of five fellow officers and the pain and chaos his city faces. 

     Right now, our whole nation hurts, a citizenship of broken hearts because no matter what side of these polarizing events or political associations we fall on, we all know something is wrong with the world we live in. There is too much hate and vitriol so easily slung on social media behind the safety of our computers. 

     That's where it starts - in words. Words that stir the pot and bring to the surface all our worst traits: our jealousies and petty hatreds, our fears, our scapegoating, our need to blame. But words is where it needs to end. Words, conversations need to be had face to face and in the social media space too about what we need to do next. Words of acknowledgement of grief, words of compassion need to be spoken to those on both sides for their loss. 

     But then we need to take it one step further and ask "What can I do to help? To bring change." Dallas pastor, T.D. Jakes expressed his hope that these events will force us to talk to each other saying that "change happens in the hearts of people". He acknowledges that we don't need to agree with each other, but we need to be talking and working together to find a solution.

     What that solution is I don't know? But I would hope that we use these events to open up a dialogue, one with fair, open-minded words, not mud-slinging and blame, to listen and understand. Understand does not mean agree, it means to appreciate and comprehend what the other side is saying. 

     I'd hope that this great first world nation, purported leader of the free world, a nation of intelligent human beings could listen and really hear both sides. Naively, I'd like to see groups of different races pulled together in communities all over the country to have civil town hall type conversations. Or meet in churches to pray together and grieve together. 

     But I'm not completely naive and know there will still be people stirred by hate and other psychological baggage or learned prejudices who will still spew their venom all over the Internet. I know there may be more violence to come. We live in a culture of hate. It's become cool to judge people, even celebrated to be snarky and mean and say things over social media we wouldn't say to someone else's face.

     But I also believe there are good people out there like me who don't know what the right answer is. We have not personally experience the pain and prejudices of those suffering but we want to help. We just want to know how. 

     I am an upper-middle class white woman. So I don't know the fears and experiences of those mothers of other races. I also don't have any police officers in my family. I can not feel their feelings or know their truths. I do not want to sound trite from my place of privilege. 

     But I can feel the hurt too in our nation and cry with those mourning loved ones. I can feel the punch to the gut hatred roiling in our nation and fear the future. I can look at my two sons and wonder with trepidation about the world they will inherit. 

     But I can acknowledge the pain I see and ask what can I do to help and follow through.

(I always welcome friendly, intelligent comments and don't ask that you agree with me. But I will not tolerate or acknowledge trolls spewing hateful comments for their own amusement. What you say says a lot more about you than me.)

Why I Had 2 Kids?

   Disclaimer: Before I shoot my mouth off, this is nothing against having an only child. I know some very happy only children. This is just my personal experience and should be viewed as such.

     Yesterday, my two darling sons fought for verbal dominance as they eagerly harassed a fellow mom who had mistakenly shown interest in Minecraft. Their words tackled each other tumbling and sparring louder and louder to be heard till finally my youngest made a fist and hit his brother with his hand instead. They drive each other nuts. 

     Maybe its the three year age gap. I did try to make it smaller, I really did but fertility makes its own rules and time schedule. My oldest would happily sell his younger brother for a pack of Sour Patch Kids and laments loudly and often "Why did you have to have another kid?" The answer - because I grew up alone and lonely.
     I was the sun to my parent's planets. Everyone emotionally revolved around me. I was the thing they fought over, the frayed rope in a knock out game of tug of war. I was it. The pressure to be everything, the golden child, the panacea to a broken marriage, the "Best thing they ever did" was suffocating. There was no one to share the avalanche of emotions they threw at me. And when they both died, there was no one to share my grief and the burden of death with.
     I had everything and nothing. They spoiled me with Barbies and My Little Ponies. I was the only kid in my poor apartment complex with pocket money treating the rest of my friends to Funyuns and Dr. Pepper. Mixed motives paid the price of a movie ticket so I could bring a friend along to the movies. I honestly liked treating my friends, it made me happy, but I also selfishly enjoyed the movie more with someone by my side.
     More often than not, the person by my side had to be my mom. Many of my friends had grandparents to visit during the summer with their sibling by their side or family vacations to go on or cousins to visit. I am nine years younger than my youngest cousin. So when I wasn't being babysat or sent to a camp I hated, I went to the movies with my mom or the museum with my mom or the mall with my mom.

     Occasionally, I went to my grandparent's house in Sun City West where I got dragged along to art shows and craft fairs and the swimming pool where I had to suppress all child-like behavior so as to not upset the senior citizens. I grew up old. I knew more classic Hollywood films than anyone my age and had an affinity for Mozart and watching the Golden Girls wedged between my mom and my Grandma Stina. I'm not complaining, entirely, I really enjoyed those things but it sets you apart from your peers who look at you weirdly when you don't know Duran Duran from Wham. And I missed being around someone my own age.
     Even more so, I feel like my only child status now affects my sons' summer vacations and family gatherings. They have no young cousins to play with or pal around with since my husband is the virtual only child of his family being six years younger and getting married later in life than his brothers.
     Now I am blessed that my beautiful half-sister, Lynn discovered me ten years ago but with half a globe between us I can't see her that often which kills me as we get on like a house on fire. Then there's an 11 year age gap in cousins there too. 
     So as much as my kids argue and battle to be player one on the Xbox, I figure at least they have someone to spar with. I figure its better than playing Atari by yourself. They can even complain together about how weird mom is. And maybe someday they will get along better. Maybe someday they'll have kids the same age who can pal around on family vacations to the beach and Disney cruises. I know the grass is always greener, and they envy my only child status. And most days, I'm the referee splitting cookies and attention between them. But I had to have two to see what life was like on the other side of the fence.