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.)

Your Mom (Not Grandma)

     “Is that your mom’s painting,” my nine-year old asks barely glancing at the watercolor landscape of the Point Reyes lighthouse outside San Francisco, the one my mom, his grandma lovingly painted to commemorate another one of our mother/daughter adventures up the PCH. He doesn’t mean to but his words hurt me – reminding me of loss. Not just mine but his and his brother’s. Because no matter how many times I correct him to say Grandma Cathy showing him pictures of her in her floppy Disney hat with her name embroidered on the brim and her arsenal of cameras, purses, and fanny packs overwhelming her short, round body, she will only ever be my mom.

     Dead before he was twelve weeks along, the secret of his presence in my body frozen on my lips never uttered because I was told not to tell before I was three months pregnant, I didn’t even get to say the word grandma to her.  She never cuddled his sweet milk and Baby Bee smelling body to her expansive chest rocking him in the glider I bought with my inheritance wanting to pretend it came from her.

     I try really hard to show both my boys pictures of her even if they remind me of the pain I’ve buried. I tell anecdotes of her ability to fall asleep anywhere or how she travelled the world visiting the pyramids of Giza and dating a man with six passports before he dumped her for the heiress to the Goodyear fortune. But they half listen and rarely connect this person they’ve never met as someone related to them. They only know their Grandma Josie, their dad’s mom who spoils them with the junk food, video games, and hugs.

     Yet, I see her in my six -year-old’s flair for art. He's the child she longed for just one generation too late. He'd have gladly accepted her gifts of watercolors and sketch books filling them with more than scribbled margin notes about how I had no talent so lay off the art supplies. They would have created wonderfully imaginative, funky junk sculptures together from his hoard of toilet paper rolls and discarded wrappers. She hoarded too.  He even moves like her a deliberate pokiness, going at his own speed.

     But she’s also in my nine-year-old and his love of books. Brat that I was, I'd complain to her face that books were not appropriate birthday gifts, so where was my Barbie. But he snatches them out of the gift-wrap and dives in openly soaking up their worlds and knowledge the way I did in secret when she wasn't looking. He's cuddly like her, but also possesses her hang-dog expressions and ability to make me feel guilty.

     Why is that seeing her personality reflected back in theirs both warms my heart and pricks it at the same time? Probably because the boys and I both got cheated out of these moments.

     And I know how hard it is for them. My own Grandma Marguerite died when my mom was sixteen and was stuck in my memory as her mother no matter how many stories and photos she shared.  My mom probably felt the same way when I said “your mom” before she corrected me to Grandma Marguerite. And I wonder if she cried in private the way I do wishing there was a key or magic spell between the worlds, some Harry Potteresque ring where I could call her up for just a second so they could meet and hug and know the wonder of themselves, the people I love and loved the most.

     But I can’t create connection where there is none. I can just continue to recant my stories of her reminding them of the woman who would have loved and spoiled them with gifts and tight hugs against her ample, squishy, motherly bosom.

     Yet I know part of her still lives in my parenting style, the good: my zany antics of dancing in the kitchen and playing dress up and caring more for having fun than if I look stupid to the other parents at the park. The bad: her paranoia of public toilet seats and dirty cups; her obsessive checking to make sure the door is locked three times before leaving the house. After all, I am the woman she made me to be – her love and compassion and sense of fun and adventure and creativity all live in me.

     But be sensitive when a mom loses her mom, because she’s not just mourning her own loss but her kid’s loss too that she mourns. The loss of Grandma to Your Mom and all the connections in between.  

Day-Trip Dilemmas

     My palms sweat, my heart races, and my mind crashes like an overloaded hard drive over the simple prospect of going on an outing alone with my two sons. I search the internet for ideas to entertain two rambunctious boys begging Google to give me the answer, the perfect daytrip to wear them out but not make me loathe every second. But with each click of the mouse my mind comes up with five reasons why that’s not a good idea.

     Now let me preface this by saying that I love my boys, and we have had some lovely adventures together. But we have also had some miserable, scream crying, tantrum launching misadventures that left us all a little shell-shocked and mom in need of a fifth of Scotch even though the Instagram picture looks like we’re having fun.

     For one their idea of fun and mine don’t always align. I am an impulsive, adventurous spirit who loves bike rides, hikes, museums, and shopping. My kids on the other hand think Chuck E. Cheese or Dave and Busters is the ideal way to spend a day. If there isn’t an electronic device controlling the adventure, then what’s the point. But I persistently soldier on and try to broaden their horizons, but they are young. I mean I remember hating my mom for dragging me out to Pioneer Village while she drew Victorian churches and school houses, and I threw rocks at the dirt and cursed her under my breath when I wasn’t whining.

     Plus maybe it’s just me, but I need another adult to talk or at least field half the questions of “Are we there yet? and “How much longer?”

     When I was pregnant, I dreamed about the fun outings we’d have making memories together filled with adorable conversations where we learned from each other, and made daisy chains and sang songs. In reality, after half an hour of a complete in-detail description of my son’s friend’s new YouTube video about a Minecraft cactus named Pete, my ears start to bleed. And Minecraft or Roblox or Smashy Road are the only topics of conversation my oldest wants to have. While my youngest speaks a language all his own and yells at me when I don’t understand what he’s saying.

     So do I suck it up and head to the arcade all the while hoping for spontaneous blindness and deafness from the bright lights, perpetual pinging sounds, and screams of happy children? Or do I slap on my uber-eager chipper face in an attempt to convince them that they love the Art Museum and cannot wait to see the new abstract art exhibit?

     Or there is always the beach but lugging all the beach chairs, sand toys, towels, sunscreen, snacks, and change of clothes alone over hot sand does not sound tempting. Plus, the added fact that I have one child who likes to be in the water and one who likes to sit on the sand and dig sand castles, but how do I supervise the both of them. Maybe not.

    Theme parks means a lone rider or a battle to the death for who gets to sit with mom. Water parks means grabbing the screaming six-year-old out of the wave pool while chasing the nine-year-old from slide to slide.

     I honestly don’t know how single moms do it. I now realize why my own mom drank lots of wine or sent me to summer camp.

Over-thinking it: This is Your Brain on Motherhood

Husband: I’ll take the kids for a couple hours so you can enjoy and get stuff done.

Me: Should I clean the house? No, I should do some writing? But I really need to clean out my files? I should check Pinterest for ideas. Oh look, I can check Facebook? No, I should read a book? Or maybe watch a movie? But I really should watch one of my shows on DVR? Actually, I should call a friend? Or write the thank you notes I haven’t done from Little Timmy’s birthday? But this is my time. I should lie out by the pool and relax? Or I could buy a new bathing suit? Or go to the gym to fit into my bathing suit? Or maybe go shopping by myself to buy a new bathing suit?

2 hours later.

Husband: So what did you do with your free time?

Me: Spend two hours obsessing over what I could do with my free time.

Dear Lady Road Ragging in the Target Parking: A Life Lesson in What Not to Do

     Dear Lady yelling out the window of your white sedan,
     My six-year old did not need to pick up any of your "motherfucking" f-bombs hurled angrily out the open window of your car when we were just there to pick up my allergy meds. And my nine-year old certainly didn't need to pick up your nasty, entitled, impatient, profanity spewing attitude. Yes, I understand that you were annoyed that the man in the gold sedan wouldn't move over in the narrow parking lane so you could maneuver your car to one of the better spots closer to the front door. I'd be really frustrated too and most likely quietly muttering a few of those choice words under my breath so my kids didn't hear them.
     However, it did not warrant you screaming like a banshee out the window that you were going to "Cut you mother-fucker" if he didn't back up. Nor did it merit a trip out your door to bang on his window and continue to threaten to beat the shit out of him among many other disturbing acts you promised to visit upon the said mother-fer.
     My nine-year-old tried to dive back in the car cowering at your tone and threats. And I had to run for the door with my hands over my younger sons ears as he whimpered. And they are used to seeing me foam at the mouth when I'm angry and not batting an eye.
     Now, I'm not saying they haven't heard language or voices raised in anger before. Again, there mom is a hot-headed Celt and my oldest learned the "f" word on the kindergarten bus.
     But what they didn't need to see but maybe did need to learn was that there are some things worth getting angry about and then there are the miniscule, ridiculous, little nothings that over-privileged people blow up about because in America, most of us have no real problems.
      Yes, we have poverty and racial discrimination and women are still treated less than men. I am not belittling those issues. But the average middle-class American's food worries are whether or not to buy the organic cookies or the gluten free ones, not whether or not they have enough money to feed the whole family. Most of us don't have to worry about war or famine or dying of vaccine and basic healthcare preventable diseases.
     We live in a world of some much "muchness" you would think we'd be deliriously happy with the plenty we've got. But no, we are yelling in the Target parking lot because we can't wait three minutes for the gold sedan to pass into the other road so we can score our prime spot.
     I mean I don't know you and maybe you really do have some worthy problems or something bad happened that left you roiling with anger. But to jump out of your car screaming every expletive ever coined and threaten bodily harm to a perfect stranger seems like the wrong venue for your pent-up rage. And my kids definitely did not need to see you lose your shit over a lousy right of way.
     And gentleman in the gold sedan, I use that term loosely as you should have done the gentlemanly thing and backed up instead of refusing to move to prove whatever machismo fueled ego kept you stock still and in her face. She should not have been raging at you, but you were not being kind either and backing up when you were both at loggerheads.
     I didn't stay to witness the end of your vapid performance play out. I had allergy prescriptions to pick up and children to reassure. But I hope it was worth it and that your parking spot and right of way was everything you hoped for. But actually, I hope you calmed down at some point that day because no one else needed to be on the end of that rage trip, including you.
     As for my sons and I, we spent the ride home talking about how we shouldn't get angry over trivial things as you provided a valuable life lesson on how not to act. Your immature tantrum gave them a prime example of adults acting worse than kids.

You're Not Entitled to Fun

So I just viewed a blog post that not only got under my skin, it set up camp and festered. In the article, a snarky mom (because it's the cool thing to be nowadays) boldly proclaimed not to her kids' teachers privately, but to the Internet that her children would not being doing homework because they needed to have fun.
Excuse me for a minute while I jump on my soapbox and state my own opinion on this subject:
1. Great example for your children - No kids, you don't have to do something if you don't want to or it interferes in your playtime.
2. You are not entitled to fun!

In our pampered overly privileged society, where we no longer have to toil for endless hours working, cleaning the house, making food from scratch, and helping others in society; we now expect all our massive amounts of free time to be fun.
I know my own family suffers from this phenomenon. To their ultimate chagrin, my kids have both on occasion complained "but that's not fun" when asked to do simple chores around the house. To which I respond, (after the urge to throw something passes) that it's not fun for me to clean the toilets, make them food, clean their clothes, drive them to school, and go grocery shopping. So maybe I should stop and see what happens because I want to sit on my butt and play too.

My mom always told me:
1. You make your own fun.
No one owes you a positive attitude. It's what you bring to the table. That's why I blast my Glee Radio on Pandora while mining for cat poo in the litter box and dance while cleaning house. If the new attitude is that's it's "all about me", then it's  "all on me" to make the best of things.
Homework can be a chore, but I also see it as a challenge. Something to be conquered. I always took pride in doing what my teacher asked wanting to do the best I could.

2. Suck it up kid & get it done.
My mom was a secretary most of her life. She was also a brilliant artist. Did she enjoy slogging all those mindless hours filing paperwork and writing reports for bosses who underappreciated her? No. But she did enjoy a paycheck that she used to pay the rent and fill the fridge and put gas in the car for our weekend adventures. And she found time for her art when she could.

Homework is boring to everyone. Even the teacher grading it. I know. I was a high school teacher. I also know I had to pull teeth just to get kids to turn anything in because the attitude was that homework was not fun and therefore, didn't need to be done.  Some of these seniors had spent their whole school career avoiding homework and even hating school except for P.E. because it was not fun. That's why they couldn't write complete sentences in 12th grade. Some didn't even know that Arizona was next to California. But why should they, it's not fun!

Look! I hate homework too. But I hate the attitude even more that we can blatantly be rude to the teacher, and disregard her time and energy for our own selfish agendas. I also fear the lessons being taught at home that you don't have to do anything unless you want to, and it's fun.
We are not entitled to have fun! As a society and decent human beings, we should be respectful, work hard, and entertain ourselves. Fun is a bi-product of our own attitudes and efforts.
After all, we are not separate islands floating on a social media sea. Our actions and the lessons we teach at home ripple out and affect others.

Truthfully kid, I love you but I'm bored to death with your chatter

     Yes, I've read the e-cards informing me that if I don't listen to my kids now and instill the habits of family conversations, they won't talk to me in their teenage years about important issues. And I get it. I want my kids to trust me and talk to me about all their insecurities large and small because I truly care about them and their personalities.
     But does that mean I have to feign interest in all twenty levels of Geometry Dash told to me in mind-numbing detail while walking the dog? And am I expected to memorize each Minecraft YouTubers name and alter-ego? Because I really don't fricking care if The Diamond Minecart is now known as Dan TDM, and he loves waffles and makes fun of pixelated cubic pigs. Or that there are 15 bosses in Terraria.
     Yes, I'm a horrible person and mother, the kind that doesn't believe everything my kids say is pure Facebook posting gold. But I am pretty sure my own mom tuned me out after ten minutes of regaling her with every My Little Pony or Cabbage Patch Kid doll, or the how I finally conquered the spider in Mountain King (I miss my Atari). (Have I given away my age?)
     But sometimes having the deep, soft-lighting conversations I envisioned when I was six months pregnant and talking to my over-stretched, chocolate filled belly evade me. My kids aren't deep, at least not yet. Yes, they are six and nine year old boys who favor fart jokes and Simpsons references and recaps of Gravity Falls.
     Questions about school invariably result in answers of "nothing", "the teacher yelled", or "Aiden chased Kaden around the playground with a dirty sock". When probed, I get long-winded details about the color of the sock, what it smelled like, how many people touched it, and how funny everyone's faces looked. This story is then repeated at least five more times with me trying to paint interest on my face each and every time.
     But their chatter bores me the same way a trip to the grocery story or an account of the minutes of the P.T.O meeting bores them. I can't tell them this though. I don't want to hurt them or have them stop talking to me making me miss out on all those deep conversations waiting patiently to happen.
     So for now, I plaster on the smile, bobbing my head up and down, making the expected conversational responses all the while counting calories or planning tomorrow's dinner as I pretend to learn about the door activating properties of Redstone in Minecraft.
     Just being honest, at least to myself.