Homeless People Don't Have Icy Hot

The other day my daughter was experiencing some growing pains in her knees so I scrounged around in a drawer and found a tube of Icy Hot and gave her a little massage. We both remarked at the immediacy of the mint in the air. (I remarked a little more colorfully as I forgot I still had the ointment on my hands and rubbed my eyes.)

My daughter went to bed, still feeling sore but comforted by the small attention given, and I went back to my laundry folding. The news played numbly on the TV in front of me and I paid little attention until a story about homelessness came on and caught my watering eye.

It struck me that one of the loneliest things in the world must be to be alone, and sore, and have no one there to comfort you or give you a little attention. There's no Icy Hot in a drawer somewhere to provide even a little relief when you are homeless. That's got to feel so overwhelmingly sad, especially as people march along importantly every day, knowing you are there, and doing nothing.

I lingered only a few moments in that melancholy and then I had to cast the thought aside so I could stay focused on what keeps me busy. I'm one of those callous marchers. Then again, this morning, as images of Oklahoma seeped into my consciousness through the jabber of morning radio and the shock of front-pages I had to think about my absurd level of wealth and how I fail to appreciate it and share it.

One of the women in the photos I saw had a french pedicure - white tipped toenails - on the feet of a (newly) homeless person. And I thought how little it must matter to have pedicured feet when you have nowhere to rest your weariness.

I'm pretty sure I have two tubes of Icy Hot in my house - one of which I care so little about I can't remember what drawer or basket or shelf it's in amongst the many I have. What silliness it is to have such luxury, I think. I think that sometimes and then, too often, I forget.

I'm praying today for the people who have lost their homes - not just during a storm last night - but ever - and for whatever reason. I'm praying they find comfort and relief somewhere. And I'm praying I remember - if nothing else - to be thankful for my riches.

The Task of the Mother

The joy of motherhood is without question, the perils well-known, and the humor unending fodder. But what of her duties, her tasks? A mother finds herself with many tasks every day - long lists of tasks that stack and stress and wreak havoc on a calendar. But really, she has only one task: to come back.

A mother must come back to her child after his pout and his tantrum, after she has scolded him and doled out consequence.

A mother must come back to her child after the child's timid - sometimes bolder - venture across the line of permission.

A mother must come back to the table after the child has assured her he has wiped it clean, to remove the errant crumb.

She must walk away from the child who threatens with pudgy fingers not to obey, and come back to the child whose teen rant is a mask for pain.

A mother must turn, many times, from words delivered to her in distaste, dishonor and disrespect and come back with understanding, warmth and acceptance.

A mother must weather the friendships of some, the betrayal of others, the injury of many who will harm her child, and so her, to her core. She must come back strong, willing and open.

Her back will grow weary. Her hands ache with their tire. Her hair grays with the days spent worrying, praying. Her peace is only in her child's comfort, no matter how she strives to be her own self. The mother is only to herself what she sees reflected in her child.

And so she comes back. That is her task. It is a mighty one indeed.

With thanks to my mom for always coming back with love, and appreciation for all the moms in my life and my children's lives, who share some of these gifts with me and my family... Happy Mother's Day.

Let's Get Rid of the Music

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting my children's band practice as they rehearsed with a another school's band for an upcoming joint performance. I stood there with my back to the wall and watched the music fill the room. Like people leaving a concert, groups of three and five notes tiptoed forward, and then more, filling, spreading, seeping through every exit until a throng of musical bodies in every color and pattern forced a broad tide into the open and then disbursed, leaving behind a tingle, a touch, that would not dissipate.

Everyone felt it.

I came home and, later, thought a bit about recent goings, conversations with friends, with my children. It's been difficult for the past few weeks, watching some stumbles and some falls, scraping our knees on the parenting pavement. I suppose they're not called growing 'pains' for nothing.

As I reflected I thought about the struggles of my own youth, about wanting power, not knowing how to channel power, feeling power that scared me, finding the immensity of higher power.

There is certainly power in risk. There is thrill and blur in it, heart race and dry throat. But what comes after the moment of risk is the test of its value.

Risk a drink. What do you get in return? Risk a note. What comes? Multiply the risk - what then?

In my life I was fortunate that my risks were met with grace and I was endowed with chance after chance to right myself. Mostly, I think I have. I believe my education saved me more than once when the good Lord decided to let me figure it out on my own.

When people talk about education - especially public education - and they think about ways to cut budgets, many (myself, sadly, included) will suggest that if children must lose out on something, they cannot risk losing out on math or reading. If something must go, let it be art or language. 'Let's get rid of the music,' we might suggest.

Truly, nothing could be more dangerous. In that room the other day, where all those children sat expressing, reflecting, managing the power of music, invaluable lessons were learned about how you can have and use power, about how others can have and use it to, about how cooperation creates something beautiful and transformative. Peace was received and extended in that room.

What more important lessons could we teach?

I Have Had Dreams

I have had dreams. As everyone does - or those with hope, at least. I've had grand, wild dreams of unattainable opulence and shameful disregard for the prudent. The dreams of my younger self were fantastic and as I grew, exponentially so. I have had dreams so far away from my living days I could giggle to myself that I could even imagine such purple and gold.

And then I had you. And I realized, I never even knew how to dream.

I'm Fat and Ugly and Dove Knows It

The Dove “Real Beauty” campaign is something different in advertising. An April 18th article by Erin Keane in Salon.com asserts otherwise. 

http://www.salon.com/2013/04/18/stop_posting_that_dove_ad_real_beauty_campaign_is_not_feminist/ 

In the article, Ms. Keane offers this observation of a Dove “Real Beauty” ad: “since the target demographic for this ad is clearly women over 35 with access to library cards (which is to say, women who have had some time to figure this reality out), it is baffling that Dove can continue to garner raves...”

Is Ms. Keane really suggesting that library-attending women over 35 don’t have what she calls ‘body image baggage’? I find that comical. In fact, that statement should be placed in a box next to a rational statement and used as one of those ‘list what’s wrong with Box B’ puzzles.

Women over 35 have as many, if not more, body image issues as younger women. We’ve suffered longer! And most women over 35 aren’t going to the library to read up on feminist body image protocol. They’re going to entertain the kid for an hour so they can lean against a bookshelf and sleep.

So why is speaking a truth now considered pandering? The truth, as they say, shall set you free. All of those women standing longingly in the cosmetics aisles at Bloomies are not there because they love their chins.

Our critic friend, Erin, goes on to scold, “The only interesting thing Dove has done since it began this campaign... is overtly shift the emphasis from sexual attraction to peer approval. The real take-away is still that women should care whether a stranger thinks she is beautiful.”

Gasp! Women want to be both sexually attractive and beautiful? Shocking! Tell me why that’s bad, again?

“That’s not radical,” the article continues, “It’s the thesis of every beauty product ad campaign ever.”

Yes. Dove sells soaps, lotions and beauty products so its ads sell - you guessed - soaps, lotions and beauty products. Also, the ship sinks at the end of Titanic.

But there’s more. These Dove people are pretty darn evil, as Ms. Keane establishes, “It’s never OK for a woman to admit that she knows she’s kind of average-looking and she’s OK with that.” 

Yes! So many places we, as a society, extol the virtues of mediocrity: work, school, sports, the bedroom. Embrace the average! It’s patriotic!

“In the radical world of Dove, nothing matters more than being perceived as beautiful — not being a kind and generous friend, not being a smart and talented professional, not even being decent to kids,” Ms. Keane warns.

Right. Wanting to feel pretty and have soft skin means you kick bunnies. That’s what those Dove ads mean. (This gal is good.)

If the Dove ads speak to women who’ve had a hard time finding clothes that fit in the women’s department, or women who’ve grown their bangs so they can hide what they perceive to be a too-long forehead, or women who’ve used their palms to pull back their cheeks to emulate a younger self’s skin -- if Dove wants to acknowledge those women exist and target their product needs I not only have no problem with it, I’m glad for it.

In the end, the gist of Ms. Keane’s critique about the Dove ads is that they don’t really change the conversation around women’s sense of self. We’re still encouraged to care about how we look, but from a different point of view, in these advertisements.

I think it’s about time a health and beauty company asked us to do just that.  If Ms. Keane doesn’t want to buy health and beauty products and would prefer a deeper examination of women’s self-identity issues may I suggest she stop lingering over online advertisements and check out the library?

What Do You Deserve?

Try it. Try saying "I believe the children are our future" in any conversation with anyone familiar with Western pop culture and a good number of them will finish that lyric with fine diva flair.

Those next few words, 'teach them well', popped into my head as I was digesting events over the past week or so, and I couldn't shake them.

First, I had taken one too many blows at work, too close together, and I could not distance my rational self from my maybe-I-should-throw-it-all-to-hell-and-move-to-a-cave self. Also, I was angry. I was so angry I couldn't put it on mute long enough to keep it from bleeding over into my conversations around the kids. Not, what I want to teach them about handling disappointment.

Then the explosions at the Boston Marathon happened. The news was shocking, the images disturbing and the reality a seeping memory come back to life, starved for attention no matter how well fed. Many of the same emotions I'd felt over my petty little business loss were flashing back at me on the news, but this time with justification. I talked to the kids about it, but nothing satisfies the 'why?' of a child in these situations. 'They didn't deserve to die, right?' the kids wondered. Of course they didn't. So how do you explain? What do you teach a child about a horror scene like that?

You don't always get what you deserve.

Sometimes you work very hard, you try your best. And then you lose and it feels terrible. You don't deserve that. Sometimes you go on vacation to share an experience with your friends. And then you die because some sick person planted an explosive near where you were standing. Certainly, that's not what you deserved. Maybe you're born into poverty or hunger or illness. You do not deserve that pain.

If I teach my children well, they will accept that despite their best efforts they may not get what they deserve. And that's no reason not to try their best every time; many times they will succeed. That's no reason not to go cheer for a friend in a race; many more times than not, there will be triumph. There is either sadness or glory in defeat, a stall or a march forward.

I'm going to teach my children to choose glory and hope. Because the fact is we are the now and the children are the future and what we teach them, not just in words but in deeds, will be the next reality. If we don't choose wise words and good deeds we may get precisely what we deserve.

Good Night, Sweet Saffey

Good night, sweet Saffey...

spelled S A F E, if I'm being correct. We could never have known how meant for us you were on that day.

"That one? Are you sure?" we called from across the room.

"Yes, yes!" our Sara jumped up and down.

How many she'd declined before she saw your face and knew, knew certain as certain could be.

She was so right. No greater gift has ever been shared among us.

Good night, sweet Saffey...

With thanks for giving us so much and asking so little. Thank you for keeping my Sara warm and my Sam busy and my Lucy feeling important and needed. Thank you for giving Daddy purpose at 5 AM and reminding me I was never alone, especially during my most sleepless nights.

Thank you for all the sticky petting you suffered, not just from us, but all the family and a host of neighbor's children who now will walk past our doorstep wistfully wishing you were there. Thank you for chasing away the field mice and for leaving some at our back door - I couldn't have known what precious gifts they were, at the time. Thanks for being the most quiet but most constantly good and giving member of our family. You were, indeed, and always will be a magical spirit in our lives.

I'm so glad you passed to the next life on a bright and happy day, outside where you most loved to be when not snuggled with someone inside.  I hope you're resting well and lolling about in a rich field of green, green grass, warming in the sun, knowing that we are missing you so desperately but wanting nothing but joy for you in your next life. I hope we'll have the chance to hold you again some day.

Until then, good night, sweet Saffey...