Yesterday morning started off bright, beautiful and relatively warm. I was so grateful to be able to get outside and go for a run on my favorite course. As I started my ipod, I turned to the playlist I had made my daughter instead of my usual running mix. There were so many good, clean, uplifting songs on there and my mood improved as I pounded the pavement, the sun hitting me directly in the face. With each additional step, I felt lighter, my feet stopped hurting and I could see so many possibilities in my future. I dreamed as I ran, listening to Whitney Houston, Rascall Flatts and Louis Armstrong.
I had forgotten the power of music to take us away, to heal, to excite and to empower, even if only for the length of a track. The lyrics sang out to me and for a few seconds I wanted to belt them out too, alone on my quiet country road with no cars or people in sight. I wanted to be part of the music; the one that inspired and healed. I pictured myself up on stage, sitting on a stool with my guitar and an audience in front of me. And then it hit me, the fact that despite my hours of practice in the shower and the car, I am no singer. As anyone who came to my third grade violin or piano concerts can tell you, I am no musician. Instead, in this realm of life, I am a spectator, a recipient of the gift instead of the giver.
I have always been able to accept that visitor status on a hike through the Berkshire Hills, in the beautiful desert of Moab, by the ocean. I am not a part of the landscape, just someone who is walking through it, enjoying its beauty. So, too, with music. I will never be the one on stage, but I am so grateful to be a momentary audience. Because, as Louis Armstrong so beautifully summed up, as I listen to music, "I think to myself, what a wonderful world." And so it is.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Laughter is truly the best medicine
28 hours ago, I was saved by laughter. I was holding my dog on a leash outside in the freezing cold snow, spraying hydrogen peroxide down her throat. Before you call the ASPCA, please let me explain... 28 amd a half hours ago, my dog consumed half of a Mississippi mud cake, made with pure cocoa. From the recipe I elicited from my mom on the phone, we figured out she had consumed 1/3 of a cup of pure cocoa, along with walnuts, marshmallows and my much looked forward to dessert for last night. As soon as I found the evidence (or lack thereof) I called my little brother, who is a vet in California, for advice. He said, and I quote, "yeah, you need to make her vomit. A lot." He told me how to do it and as soon as my husband got home from work, I proceeded outside with my supplies and my oldest son, hoping to prevent a visit to the local emergency vet. And right there, in the middle of the yard, while watching my poor dog and hoping her burps were going to turn into a chocolate gold mine soon, I lost it. I went completely hysterical. My poor, sick, bewildered dog looked at me as if I was nuts, as did my son who was wondering what, exactly, was so funny.
To say that yesterday was a hard day would be an understatement. After having been up most of the night with my very ill one year old, I had gotten an appointment for her at her pediatrician first thing in the morning. This being vacation week and my husband having to work, I needed to drag all five children with me, swath them in antibacterial gel and hope for the best. When we got there, I left my three oldest in the waiting room with the toys and our favorite receptionist keeping half an eye on them. I took my two youngest daughters into the room with me and waited for the doctor. My very sick daugher was lethargic, a puddle in my arms whilte being undressed, poked and prodded. When they first took her temperature, there was no fever. After listening to her lungs for a long time and me holding my finger to my lips with a death stare at my two year old daughter, my pediatrician said he believed it was just a virus. He swabbed her for flu, then RSV ( a virus common in young infants) and left the room to wait for results. When he came back in, she was flu negative, RSV positive and getting sicker by the minute. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse was rapid and I knew there was something more wrong with her than a glorified cold. My good, patient pediatrician listened again for a long time, took her temp again (which had gone up to 102) and watched her breathing and timed her pulse. Then, he left while the nurse administered albuterol through a nebulizer.
Meanwhile, things were not going well in the waiting room. I heard my older children from down the hall and, swaddling my sick girl in my jacket, went to warn them that they needed to be quiet, now. At that point, they started filing in and of the room as they watched our pediatrician check their sister. Finally, at the end of my rope with trying to comfort my baby and make sure my older children were not running amok, I had them sit against the wall without talking so the doctor and I could focus on what was wrong. Finally, he recommended a chest xray, just in case. As I started to get her dressed (after one hour and forty-five minutes) she started breaking out in a rash all over her body. I had my oldest son call the doctor back and he said it was a viral rash, which was pretty common.
At that point, I knew I was grasping at straws but remembered that when I was little, I had strep throat which turned into scarletina. I asked my doubtful pediatrician to swab her for strep and bundled up the kiddos, anxious to get them in their car seats, still and quiet. When I asked at the desk if the culture was positive, they said they would call with a result. As we pulled away, I was inundated with questions which I didn't have the brainpower to answer. I finallly asked, again, for silence and got it, in some form, for a few quiet minutes. The chest xray was uneventful and we proceeded home.
After making lunch with one arm for the older kids, I sent the nappers off to nap and sat down to hold my poor sick daughter. She dozed fitfully in my arms while I waited for a phone call from the pediatrician. When it finally came, it brought relief. She not only had RSV, but also pneumonia and strep throat as well. The anitibiotic was called in and relief was on its way, to some degree. I was grateful but still unsure how I could make dinner with one hand, change my two year old's diaper with one hand and keep my sick daughter asleep through it all. At that moment, I heard a loud crash in the kitchen, which I knew wasn't good. It was the Mississippi mud cake, and it was gone by the time I got there. After the phone call to my brother, whose chosen profession has saved us a lot of money on sick dogs, rabbits and chickens, I cried on the couch, giving in to the stress of the day.
After what seemed like a long time, I heard my husband's car pull in with the antibiotics in hand. I passed my sleeping daughter off to him to take care of the dog. And, relief on its way for my dog as well as my daughter, I started to laugh and felt all the tension of the day leaving my body and my mind. For the first time, I was grateful for my weird habit of laughing at inappropriate times (funerals, when I see people fall, when I accidentally ripped my then-fiance, now husband's jeep wrangler door off at 5 in the morning on the way to JFK airport.) This time, my laugher was my savior. Letting it all out in the backyard (my dog was in good company) did me so much good that I was able to see that tomorrow would inevitably be better, because there was no flipping way it could be worse.
As my wise mom said to me on the phone yesterday, "this too shall pass." And, it did. My daughter is so much better today, on her way to being her normal happy self again, and my dog is chocolate free and just as irritatingly lovable as ever. I am pretty sure I'm still going to laugh at inappropriate times, and maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. Maybe all that laughter has kept my blood pressure low and allowed me to let go of my usual very tight grip on life. Either way, I am grateful for it. And, if I ever see you trip and I start to giggle, just remember that I'm laughing at you, not with you. But, it is good for me.
To say that yesterday was a hard day would be an understatement. After having been up most of the night with my very ill one year old, I had gotten an appointment for her at her pediatrician first thing in the morning. This being vacation week and my husband having to work, I needed to drag all five children with me, swath them in antibacterial gel and hope for the best. When we got there, I left my three oldest in the waiting room with the toys and our favorite receptionist keeping half an eye on them. I took my two youngest daughters into the room with me and waited for the doctor. My very sick daugher was lethargic, a puddle in my arms whilte being undressed, poked and prodded. When they first took her temperature, there was no fever. After listening to her lungs for a long time and me holding my finger to my lips with a death stare at my two year old daughter, my pediatrician said he believed it was just a virus. He swabbed her for flu, then RSV ( a virus common in young infants) and left the room to wait for results. When he came back in, she was flu negative, RSV positive and getting sicker by the minute. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse was rapid and I knew there was something more wrong with her than a glorified cold. My good, patient pediatrician listened again for a long time, took her temp again (which had gone up to 102) and watched her breathing and timed her pulse. Then, he left while the nurse administered albuterol through a nebulizer.
Meanwhile, things were not going well in the waiting room. I heard my older children from down the hall and, swaddling my sick girl in my jacket, went to warn them that they needed to be quiet, now. At that point, they started filing in and of the room as they watched our pediatrician check their sister. Finally, at the end of my rope with trying to comfort my baby and make sure my older children were not running amok, I had them sit against the wall without talking so the doctor and I could focus on what was wrong. Finally, he recommended a chest xray, just in case. As I started to get her dressed (after one hour and forty-five minutes) she started breaking out in a rash all over her body. I had my oldest son call the doctor back and he said it was a viral rash, which was pretty common.
At that point, I knew I was grasping at straws but remembered that when I was little, I had strep throat which turned into scarletina. I asked my doubtful pediatrician to swab her for strep and bundled up the kiddos, anxious to get them in their car seats, still and quiet. When I asked at the desk if the culture was positive, they said they would call with a result. As we pulled away, I was inundated with questions which I didn't have the brainpower to answer. I finallly asked, again, for silence and got it, in some form, for a few quiet minutes. The chest xray was uneventful and we proceeded home.
After making lunch with one arm for the older kids, I sent the nappers off to nap and sat down to hold my poor sick daughter. She dozed fitfully in my arms while I waited for a phone call from the pediatrician. When it finally came, it brought relief. She not only had RSV, but also pneumonia and strep throat as well. The anitibiotic was called in and relief was on its way, to some degree. I was grateful but still unsure how I could make dinner with one hand, change my two year old's diaper with one hand and keep my sick daughter asleep through it all. At that moment, I heard a loud crash in the kitchen, which I knew wasn't good. It was the Mississippi mud cake, and it was gone by the time I got there. After the phone call to my brother, whose chosen profession has saved us a lot of money on sick dogs, rabbits and chickens, I cried on the couch, giving in to the stress of the day.
After what seemed like a long time, I heard my husband's car pull in with the antibiotics in hand. I passed my sleeping daughter off to him to take care of the dog. And, relief on its way for my dog as well as my daughter, I started to laugh and felt all the tension of the day leaving my body and my mind. For the first time, I was grateful for my weird habit of laughing at inappropriate times (funerals, when I see people fall, when I accidentally ripped my then-fiance, now husband's jeep wrangler door off at 5 in the morning on the way to JFK airport.) This time, my laugher was my savior. Letting it all out in the backyard (my dog was in good company) did me so much good that I was able to see that tomorrow would inevitably be better, because there was no flipping way it could be worse.
As my wise mom said to me on the phone yesterday, "this too shall pass." And, it did. My daughter is so much better today, on her way to being her normal happy self again, and my dog is chocolate free and just as irritatingly lovable as ever. I am pretty sure I'm still going to laugh at inappropriate times, and maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. Maybe all that laughter has kept my blood pressure low and allowed me to let go of my usual very tight grip on life. Either way, I am grateful for it. And, if I ever see you trip and I start to giggle, just remember that I'm laughing at you, not with you. But, it is good for me.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Two hours in the life of me: this is how we roll Murray style
For the many, many people who have asked me, "how do you do it?" this is for you.
550am: Wake up to the sound of youngest son sucking thumb next to my face and dog whining to go out.
550am-553am: Stumble around to find pants, glasses and slippers.
554-6am: Let dog out, make tea for me, coffee for husband and hot chocolate for thumb sucker
601am: Am told thumb sucker only likes marshmallows if we are camping or at a bonfire
602-612am: Make lunches for school goers and work goers, snack for preschooler
613am: Hug the first sleepyhead that shows up in kitchen; she commences sucking thumb and looking like she is asleep while standing up
614am: Begin to make pumpkin pancakes and wrestle with the mess/letting kids learn issue when youngest son asks to pour batter into pan
615am: Clean up spilled batter all over stove
617am: Might hear first rumblings in little girls' room; decide they need to wake up for a few minutes.
618am: Oldest son wakes up and informs me while snuggling against my hip that the most poisonous snake in Australia is not the taipan, as I told him, but the tiger snake.
619am: Wonder if the taipan really is a snake or possibly something else
620am: Begin serving first round of pancakes while listening to many, many snake facts. For instance, a forest cobra can kill an elephant with one bite. Joke that I'm glad I'm not an elephant. Crickets.
620am: cut up three sets of pancakes, pour more maple syrup, get cereal for original pancake requester who has decided he doesn't want pancakes
622am: Get little girls up and strap them immediately in their high chairs.
622-624 am: Listen to one year old loudly request pancakes
625am: microwave tea for the first time and then continue to not drink it
625-630: still making pancakes, wondering if insatiable eight year old has a tapeworm
630-639: change two diapers, scrape them and put them in appropriate pails
640am: decide disposable diaper users care just as much about the earth but are averse to their homes smelling like poop. Also decide they are much wiser than I.
641am: microwave tea for second time with the really strong intention to actually drink it this time
642am: Encourage those who are done with breakfast to get dressed and brush teeth
643-650am: Practice multiplication flash cards with oldest son
651am: Husband appears and looks so grateful for having slept in. Put his coffee and pancakes on the table
652am: Husband asks where coffee is; I can only point in annoyance
653am: Strongly encourage those done with breakfast to get dressed and brush teeth
654-710am: Bundle up youngest son and self and head outside: collect eggs from chickens, refill their water, throw ball for the dog repeatedly
711am: Inform those done with breakfast that getting dressed and brushing teeth is not an option, but a necessity
712am: Microwave tea for third time and take first sip. Remember how much I love tea
713-715am: sit to eat cereal and blueberries
716am: listen to two oldest children pick their animals (much like fantasy football with teeth and claws)
717am: Drink tea while thinking about own fantasy animal team. I would win if I entered the contest, especially if the taipan is actually a snake
718am: Look up taipan in snakes book and find it. Feel vindicated.
719-730am: Get two little girls dressed
730am: Ask oldest children if they left their pajamas on the floor; they answer in the negative
731am: Based on history, check rooms and find out children might have something wrong with their vision
732am: alert children to clothes on floor situation, hustle them back to their rooms to pick up clothes
739am: Wonder how it's possible that picking up pajamas could take 7 minutes. Decide to investigate.
740am: Remind children of why they came to their rooms when I find them playing with pajamas still on floor.
742-750am: Tell oldest children to pack their backpacks and bundle up for school.
751am: Surprised, again, at the fact that I miss them as soon as they walk out the door
752am: Happy to find half consumed tea on counter. Microwave it again. Ready to start the next segment of my day...
550am: Wake up to the sound of youngest son sucking thumb next to my face and dog whining to go out.
550am-553am: Stumble around to find pants, glasses and slippers.
554-6am: Let dog out, make tea for me, coffee for husband and hot chocolate for thumb sucker
601am: Am told thumb sucker only likes marshmallows if we are camping or at a bonfire
602-612am: Make lunches for school goers and work goers, snack for preschooler
613am: Hug the first sleepyhead that shows up in kitchen; she commences sucking thumb and looking like she is asleep while standing up
614am: Begin to make pumpkin pancakes and wrestle with the mess/letting kids learn issue when youngest son asks to pour batter into pan
615am: Clean up spilled batter all over stove
617am: Might hear first rumblings in little girls' room; decide they need to wake up for a few minutes.
618am: Oldest son wakes up and informs me while snuggling against my hip that the most poisonous snake in Australia is not the taipan, as I told him, but the tiger snake.
619am: Wonder if the taipan really is a snake or possibly something else
620am: Begin serving first round of pancakes while listening to many, many snake facts. For instance, a forest cobra can kill an elephant with one bite. Joke that I'm glad I'm not an elephant. Crickets.
620am: cut up three sets of pancakes, pour more maple syrup, get cereal for original pancake requester who has decided he doesn't want pancakes
622am: Get little girls up and strap them immediately in their high chairs.
622-624 am: Listen to one year old loudly request pancakes
625am: microwave tea for the first time and then continue to not drink it
625-630: still making pancakes, wondering if insatiable eight year old has a tapeworm
630-639: change two diapers, scrape them and put them in appropriate pails
640am: decide disposable diaper users care just as much about the earth but are averse to their homes smelling like poop. Also decide they are much wiser than I.
641am: microwave tea for second time with the really strong intention to actually drink it this time
642am: Encourage those who are done with breakfast to get dressed and brush teeth
643-650am: Practice multiplication flash cards with oldest son
651am: Husband appears and looks so grateful for having slept in. Put his coffee and pancakes on the table
652am: Husband asks where coffee is; I can only point in annoyance
653am: Strongly encourage those done with breakfast to get dressed and brush teeth
654-710am: Bundle up youngest son and self and head outside: collect eggs from chickens, refill their water, throw ball for the dog repeatedly
711am: Inform those done with breakfast that getting dressed and brushing teeth is not an option, but a necessity
712am: Microwave tea for third time and take first sip. Remember how much I love tea
713-715am: sit to eat cereal and blueberries
716am: listen to two oldest children pick their animals (much like fantasy football with teeth and claws)
717am: Drink tea while thinking about own fantasy animal team. I would win if I entered the contest, especially if the taipan is actually a snake
718am: Look up taipan in snakes book and find it. Feel vindicated.
719-730am: Get two little girls dressed
730am: Ask oldest children if they left their pajamas on the floor; they answer in the negative
731am: Based on history, check rooms and find out children might have something wrong with their vision
732am: alert children to clothes on floor situation, hustle them back to their rooms to pick up clothes
739am: Wonder how it's possible that picking up pajamas could take 7 minutes. Decide to investigate.
740am: Remind children of why they came to their rooms when I find them playing with pajamas still on floor.
742-750am: Tell oldest children to pack their backpacks and bundle up for school.
751am: Surprised, again, at the fact that I miss them as soon as they walk out the door
752am: Happy to find half consumed tea on counter. Microwave it again. Ready to start the next segment of my day...
Monday, January 28, 2013
Yoga pants and double chins; the art of my Mommy style
I have spent the better part of the last few months trying to recover the person that existed before and in between each of my five pregnancies. I have fond memories of someone that fit in all her jeans, did not cringe when she looked at pictures of herself and even had hair that was all one color. I tried to explain this attempted transformation to my muddled husband.
"I just don't want to look like a mom. You know what I mean?"
He had no idea what I meant but continued to support me on my quest, nonetheless. He never asked why getting my hair done takes three hours (although, in truth, I don't know the answer either) and didn't flinch when I said, "you're on breakfast duty; I'm going to work out." He just kept telling me how much he loves the way I look and who I am. "Hogwash," I told him and left for the gym.
Then, as I was literally running home after getting my hair cut and colored, new locks flying behind me in the wind, I had a realization. I am a mom. Why was I trying so hard to look like someone else? I have earned the right to wear yoga pants all day, the right to be just a little bit chubby, if I so desire. I am Mom. I am the one who gets called first for every scrape, the one who gets all the exciting information right off the bus, the one who holds hair while kids get sick, the one who gets the joy of having these five little beings depend mostly on me.
So, who, exactly was I running from and who, exactly was I running towards? Chasing someone I used to be seemed pointless, when I really thought about it. Sure, that mom of two I was who had the time to work out for two hours each day and still give enough love to everyone was great. Shopping for clothes was easy and I didn't have to hold a child just so in pictures to camouflage that extra chin that appeared sometime between #4 and #5. However, that person, or at least parts of her are gone, just like that time is.
There might come a day, a while from now, when all of my children are older and slightly less needy on an hourly basis and I can take that long Sunday marathon run that I love. But for now, I am more than content to run my four mile route, speeding up the last half mile because I know people will be looking out the window waiting for me: to make lunch, to tell me a joke that's not funny, to be there with them. And, when I think about it, there is exactly where I want to be too, looking like who I am: Mom.
"I just don't want to look like a mom. You know what I mean?"
He had no idea what I meant but continued to support me on my quest, nonetheless. He never asked why getting my hair done takes three hours (although, in truth, I don't know the answer either) and didn't flinch when I said, "you're on breakfast duty; I'm going to work out." He just kept telling me how much he loves the way I look and who I am. "Hogwash," I told him and left for the gym.
Then, as I was literally running home after getting my hair cut and colored, new locks flying behind me in the wind, I had a realization. I am a mom. Why was I trying so hard to look like someone else? I have earned the right to wear yoga pants all day, the right to be just a little bit chubby, if I so desire. I am Mom. I am the one who gets called first for every scrape, the one who gets all the exciting information right off the bus, the one who holds hair while kids get sick, the one who gets the joy of having these five little beings depend mostly on me.
So, who, exactly was I running from and who, exactly was I running towards? Chasing someone I used to be seemed pointless, when I really thought about it. Sure, that mom of two I was who had the time to work out for two hours each day and still give enough love to everyone was great. Shopping for clothes was easy and I didn't have to hold a child just so in pictures to camouflage that extra chin that appeared sometime between #4 and #5. However, that person, or at least parts of her are gone, just like that time is.
There might come a day, a while from now, when all of my children are older and slightly less needy on an hourly basis and I can take that long Sunday marathon run that I love. But for now, I am more than content to run my four mile route, speeding up the last half mile because I know people will be looking out the window waiting for me: to make lunch, to tell me a joke that's not funny, to be there with them. And, when I think about it, there is exactly where I want to be too, looking like who I am: Mom.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Apolitical no more: ramblings on the gun control conversation
For as long as I can remember, I have tried to remain apolitical. I've come up with every excuse in the book to try and justify this attitude: no one tells the truth anyway, there are always two sides to a story and it's just too overwhelming to begin. The truth is, I am too afraid of polarizing my family, friends and acquaintances by picking a side or a battle. I haven't had enough faith that the people who love will me will do so no matter how I feel about women's rights, the debt ceiling or gun control. But, after reading so many posts on facebook and hearing so many things from so many different groups and individuals, I feel like it's time to let my own voice be heard, scary as that may be.
What I have to say is that I'm tired of people presenting only two sides to the issue of gun control, only two possible solutions. I'm tired of both sides' stances that if you are not for us, you're against us. According to everything I've heard, if you support any kind of a weapons ban, you are trying to take away every single gun in the United States. Conversely, If you believe hunters should be allowed to have weapons, kept unloaded and locked in a safe, you are anti-gun control. These only two sided arguments are ridiculous and one of the many reasons our political system and country has become so divided. What happened to the voices of the majority of us who are somewhere in between?
As it turns out, my voice is one of those. I have a husband who hunts, legally and safely. And, even though I despise guns, we have guns in our home. As a responsible gun owner, my husband keeps them unloaded in a safe. I also have taught my kids what to do should they be on a playdate and see a gun, which is to run and tell a parent as soon as possible. This kind of warning might seem ridiculous to those of you who do not have friends who hunt but where I live, I think it is almost as important as teaching them about stranger danger.
On the other hand, I have no clue why someone, even an avid hunter, needs a weapon that can fire many rounds in quick succession. My husband has given me a quick tutorial of what "semi-automatic" and assault means and the gradations are too minute for me to detail here. Also, in truth, he lost me when he started talking about the old rifles, which were still semi-automatic, as far back as the 1800's. Anyway, my point is, law enforcement and not the public should have access to the highest firepower in our country. If they do not, they will be at a loss when they are required to enter a dangerous situation in order to save human lives. For me, it is as simple as that.
Now, there are those who say that government is the enemy and it is from them we need to protect ourselves. For these people, I have no answer, except that an entire aresenal of guns in your home would have no effect if our government's military, the most heavily armed in the world, decided they wanted you out of your home. They have tanks, bombs and missiles that could subdue even the largest uprising of private gun owners. So, if our governement pulls a Hitler, or a Mugabe, we are screwed. Sorry, but that's the truth.
At long last, here is the crux of my argument. All of our conversations about gun control, no matter which side you're on, are pointless without taking on our bigger problems. Lack of education, lack of positive opportunities, mental health stigma and poverty. We cannot think what happened to those innocent victims in Newburgh will not happen again if we simply make stricter gun control laws. Guess who will still have guns: all of the people who do so illegally, which are the cause of the majority of the 9,000 gun deaths a year in our country. Although I am a proponent of a crackdown on illegal guns, much like the war on drugs, it will be largely unsuccessful. There will still be people with unregistered guns who use them for violence. There will still be people who will break in to a safe and steal a gun in order to do violence. Let's try and stop them before they get to that point.
Create and support programs for parents of children with mental health issues, create and support after school programs that give access to the possibility of a better life for those from troubled homes, educate teachers and caregivers as to what symptoms of mental illness are, give people a chance to live their own best life, regardless of where they come from. The positive fallout from creating these kinds of programs goes well beyond gun violence to address things like suicide, crime, domestic violence and poverty levels.
So, I say to all of us, don't stop the conversation if Congress enacts a new gun control law like the Brady Bill was in its era. Keep it going. Get to the root of the problem which began far before a young man stole his mother's guns and used them to end lives.
What I have to say is that I'm tired of people presenting only two sides to the issue of gun control, only two possible solutions. I'm tired of both sides' stances that if you are not for us, you're against us. According to everything I've heard, if you support any kind of a weapons ban, you are trying to take away every single gun in the United States. Conversely, If you believe hunters should be allowed to have weapons, kept unloaded and locked in a safe, you are anti-gun control. These only two sided arguments are ridiculous and one of the many reasons our political system and country has become so divided. What happened to the voices of the majority of us who are somewhere in between?
As it turns out, my voice is one of those. I have a husband who hunts, legally and safely. And, even though I despise guns, we have guns in our home. As a responsible gun owner, my husband keeps them unloaded in a safe. I also have taught my kids what to do should they be on a playdate and see a gun, which is to run and tell a parent as soon as possible. This kind of warning might seem ridiculous to those of you who do not have friends who hunt but where I live, I think it is almost as important as teaching them about stranger danger.
On the other hand, I have no clue why someone, even an avid hunter, needs a weapon that can fire many rounds in quick succession. My husband has given me a quick tutorial of what "semi-automatic" and assault means and the gradations are too minute for me to detail here. Also, in truth, he lost me when he started talking about the old rifles, which were still semi-automatic, as far back as the 1800's. Anyway, my point is, law enforcement and not the public should have access to the highest firepower in our country. If they do not, they will be at a loss when they are required to enter a dangerous situation in order to save human lives. For me, it is as simple as that.
Now, there are those who say that government is the enemy and it is from them we need to protect ourselves. For these people, I have no answer, except that an entire aresenal of guns in your home would have no effect if our government's military, the most heavily armed in the world, decided they wanted you out of your home. They have tanks, bombs and missiles that could subdue even the largest uprising of private gun owners. So, if our governement pulls a Hitler, or a Mugabe, we are screwed. Sorry, but that's the truth.
At long last, here is the crux of my argument. All of our conversations about gun control, no matter which side you're on, are pointless without taking on our bigger problems. Lack of education, lack of positive opportunities, mental health stigma and poverty. We cannot think what happened to those innocent victims in Newburgh will not happen again if we simply make stricter gun control laws. Guess who will still have guns: all of the people who do so illegally, which are the cause of the majority of the 9,000 gun deaths a year in our country. Although I am a proponent of a crackdown on illegal guns, much like the war on drugs, it will be largely unsuccessful. There will still be people with unregistered guns who use them for violence. There will still be people who will break in to a safe and steal a gun in order to do violence. Let's try and stop them before they get to that point.
Create and support programs for parents of children with mental health issues, create and support after school programs that give access to the possibility of a better life for those from troubled homes, educate teachers and caregivers as to what symptoms of mental illness are, give people a chance to live their own best life, regardless of where they come from. The positive fallout from creating these kinds of programs goes well beyond gun violence to address things like suicide, crime, domestic violence and poverty levels.
So, I say to all of us, don't stop the conversation if Congress enacts a new gun control law like the Brady Bill was in its era. Keep it going. Get to the root of the problem which began far before a young man stole his mother's guns and used them to end lives.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
If I have one piece of advice for new moms, it is this. Write everything down: every cute word your little one says, every hilarious poop episode, every time you cry with joy at something that they have said or done. Because, although it might not seem like it in the moment, you will forget. After all, when they are so little, they are your world and every moment seems like one you'll never let go of. But forget you will as more memories are made and the moments come faster and faster.
If you do write things down, there will come a day when you need those memories so badly, it hurts. That one day was yesterday in our house. My children had all been ill at different times and the same times for the last 9 days. I felt like we were living in a bacteria filled bubble, the walls closing in on us, a cough echoing from every room. Humidifiers were at critical shortage levels and nasal spray was being passed around like candy. My husband was at work and we had just sat through another dinner with a tissue box close at hand. Then, my oldest son asked me to bring out the "dailies."
When my oldest was four months old, I started a journal of our lives together. Some of the entires were funny, some were sad and some were just milestones I wanted to remember. As more children came, the "dailies" became weeklies but meant just as much as the originals had. Luckily, before our last computer crashed, I had printed out most of what I had. And last night, we needed them.
As I sorted through papers, my oldest was awash in advice and excitement, "Tell the one about me potty training, tell the one about her in the tub..." These stories were legend in our house and probably would never be forgotten. But as I went through the mostly one line entries, the ones that stuck out were not accepted family history. I did that weird laugh-cry that always scares my kids when I read about my oldest calling the hummingbirds "humee-nins" as we watched them on our feeder. I read about trying to keep a straight face when my younger son, for a time, pronounced "freckle, frog and truck" unmistakably as the f-bomb, and trying to come up with a way to explain death when we saw a dead squirrel in the park and was asked repeatedly when it was going to walk. Or one of my favorites, which took place on a hike through the woods.
Son: "What happened to that black dog?"
Me: "What black dog?"
Son: "The one we saw the other day."
Me: "The one with the cone?"
Son: "Yes."
Me: "You tell me."
Son: "He had a boo-boo on his eye so he had to wear a cone so he wouldn't scratch it."
Me: "good job remembering."
Two minutes later...
Me: "Please stop stepping in front of me."
Son: "Why?"
Me: "Because I'm afraid I'm going to step on your foot and you'll sprain your ankle."
Son: "And I'll have to get a cone?"
Even writing it now, I'm doing that weird laugh-cry thing and my husband is looking worriedly over at me.
Many of the entries are not funny but a way to vent, as in "You are giving me a run for my money right now, little miss." Some are overflowing with love that I just needed to get down on paper: "When you laugh, it is with your whole heart and soul, from deep in your belly." Some are records of specific events: :"We went on a hike with Santa today" and say nothing more than that. The entries are many and I am grateful to have every one. They are the moments of our lives that we think we'll never forget, yet somehow they are replaced with more memories, more moments that we will think are unforgettable as well.
So, if you have children, take my advice and write things down. These moments that they will be unable to access with their own memories will have to come from yours. And there might come a day when you need to remember what it feels like to laugh with them, remember what it feels like to be small, remember what the world felt like when you and your child seemed like the only inhabitants of it.
If you do write things down, there will come a day when you need those memories so badly, it hurts. That one day was yesterday in our house. My children had all been ill at different times and the same times for the last 9 days. I felt like we were living in a bacteria filled bubble, the walls closing in on us, a cough echoing from every room. Humidifiers were at critical shortage levels and nasal spray was being passed around like candy. My husband was at work and we had just sat through another dinner with a tissue box close at hand. Then, my oldest son asked me to bring out the "dailies."
When my oldest was four months old, I started a journal of our lives together. Some of the entires were funny, some were sad and some were just milestones I wanted to remember. As more children came, the "dailies" became weeklies but meant just as much as the originals had. Luckily, before our last computer crashed, I had printed out most of what I had. And last night, we needed them.
As I sorted through papers, my oldest was awash in advice and excitement, "Tell the one about me potty training, tell the one about her in the tub..." These stories were legend in our house and probably would never be forgotten. But as I went through the mostly one line entries, the ones that stuck out were not accepted family history. I did that weird laugh-cry that always scares my kids when I read about my oldest calling the hummingbirds "humee-nins" as we watched them on our feeder. I read about trying to keep a straight face when my younger son, for a time, pronounced "freckle, frog and truck" unmistakably as the f-bomb, and trying to come up with a way to explain death when we saw a dead squirrel in the park and was asked repeatedly when it was going to walk. Or one of my favorites, which took place on a hike through the woods.
Son: "What happened to that black dog?"
Me: "What black dog?"
Son: "The one we saw the other day."
Me: "The one with the cone?"
Son: "Yes."
Me: "You tell me."
Son: "He had a boo-boo on his eye so he had to wear a cone so he wouldn't scratch it."
Me: "good job remembering."
Two minutes later...
Me: "Please stop stepping in front of me."
Son: "Why?"
Me: "Because I'm afraid I'm going to step on your foot and you'll sprain your ankle."
Son: "And I'll have to get a cone?"
Even writing it now, I'm doing that weird laugh-cry thing and my husband is looking worriedly over at me.
Many of the entries are not funny but a way to vent, as in "You are giving me a run for my money right now, little miss." Some are overflowing with love that I just needed to get down on paper: "When you laugh, it is with your whole heart and soul, from deep in your belly." Some are records of specific events: :"We went on a hike with Santa today" and say nothing more than that. The entries are many and I am grateful to have every one. They are the moments of our lives that we think we'll never forget, yet somehow they are replaced with more memories, more moments that we will think are unforgettable as well.
So, if you have children, take my advice and write things down. These moments that they will be unable to access with their own memories will have to come from yours. And there might come a day when you need to remember what it feels like to laugh with them, remember what it feels like to be small, remember what the world felt like when you and your child seemed like the only inhabitants of it.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Different worlds
Lately, I have been so irritated with money. How we make it, how we spend it, what a constant topic of conversation it seems to be. "How can we adjust the grocery budget again?" "What will we do with our tax refund?" "How much can we realistically spend on a house and still buy organic dairy products and meat but pesticide-full vegetables."
When you don't have it, you talk about it all the time. When you do have it, well, I don't remember what you do when you do have it! How do people afford this; I ask myself as I look at our local Homebuyers guide. There are pages of beautiful million dollar properties on beautifully landscaped acres of land. It truly feels like a different world in which those potential inhabitants must live.
When you live on a tight budget, which so many of us do, money becomes something frustrating, elusive, something to examine and dissect. I actually despise talking about money and somehow feel all things that help us learn and grow as people should be free. (I.E. education, medical care, music lessons and sports team fees.) And while I worry about money, my kids are in ski lessons, on swim teams and visiting museums, as well as having more clothes (cute ones!!) than they will ever need.
On the other hand, I wear my sister in law's slightly too long jeans because I refuse to spend money for new ones, clip coupons like a maniac, use a children's consignment sale for Christmas presents and buy my poor dog (gasp!) dog food with chicken byproduct meal somewhere in the ingredients. I think most parents, especially in this intense parenting age, do put their kids needs and wants in front of their own; that's no surprise. What is fascinating to me is the ways in which we choose to spend the rest of it; our spending priorities. What value do we place on the things we consume and the things in which we participate?.
I've often heard suggested, as an exercise in time management to write down everything you do in a day and put the results in a pie chart to see if your priorites match up with reality. Would this work for finances as well? If we were to chart where our money goes, what would the biggest blocks be? How much would go towards necessities (residence, food, water, heat) and how much would be spent honoring our individual value system and whatever that entails (possibly education, charity work, retirement savings, vacations, gifts). Obviously, money has become, of late, a source of endless frustration and pondering on my part.
As usually happens in this amazing place we like to call the universe, God had a serious reality check in store for me after all this pathetic focus on money. While sitting on the couch in my 80 degree living room (thank you woodstove) on an eleven degree day, I picked up the latest book my husband brought home from his green library. It's called Love in the Driest Season and it chronicles, within a family memoir, the tragedies of the AIDS epidemic in Zimbabwe during the 90's. The focus is on the abandoned children that are in the care of orphanages that have been given 30 cents a day per child for food, clothing and medicine. That's right; thirty cents. Needless to say, many of the children die in a very short time.
So, in the very recent past and (I'm sure) somewhere in the world in the present, there are children who breathe their last breath in a hospital room waiting for anitibiotics that will never come, while I decide between the (clean, safe) organic almond milk or the (clean, safe) regular almond milk awash in stress over money.
When you don't have it, you talk about it all the time. When you do have it, well, I don't remember what you do when you do have it! How do people afford this; I ask myself as I look at our local Homebuyers guide. There are pages of beautiful million dollar properties on beautifully landscaped acres of land. It truly feels like a different world in which those potential inhabitants must live.
When you live on a tight budget, which so many of us do, money becomes something frustrating, elusive, something to examine and dissect. I actually despise talking about money and somehow feel all things that help us learn and grow as people should be free. (I.E. education, medical care, music lessons and sports team fees.) And while I worry about money, my kids are in ski lessons, on swim teams and visiting museums, as well as having more clothes (cute ones!!) than they will ever need.
On the other hand, I wear my sister in law's slightly too long jeans because I refuse to spend money for new ones, clip coupons like a maniac, use a children's consignment sale for Christmas presents and buy my poor dog (gasp!) dog food with chicken byproduct meal somewhere in the ingredients. I think most parents, especially in this intense parenting age, do put their kids needs and wants in front of their own; that's no surprise. What is fascinating to me is the ways in which we choose to spend the rest of it; our spending priorities. What value do we place on the things we consume and the things in which we participate?.
I've often heard suggested, as an exercise in time management to write down everything you do in a day and put the results in a pie chart to see if your priorites match up with reality. Would this work for finances as well? If we were to chart where our money goes, what would the biggest blocks be? How much would go towards necessities (residence, food, water, heat) and how much would be spent honoring our individual value system and whatever that entails (possibly education, charity work, retirement savings, vacations, gifts). Obviously, money has become, of late, a source of endless frustration and pondering on my part.
As usually happens in this amazing place we like to call the universe, God had a serious reality check in store for me after all this pathetic focus on money. While sitting on the couch in my 80 degree living room (thank you woodstove) on an eleven degree day, I picked up the latest book my husband brought home from his green library. It's called Love in the Driest Season and it chronicles, within a family memoir, the tragedies of the AIDS epidemic in Zimbabwe during the 90's. The focus is on the abandoned children that are in the care of orphanages that have been given 30 cents a day per child for food, clothing and medicine. That's right; thirty cents. Needless to say, many of the children die in a very short time.
So, in the very recent past and (I'm sure) somewhere in the world in the present, there are children who breathe their last breath in a hospital room waiting for anitibiotics that will never come, while I decide between the (clean, safe) organic almond milk or the (clean, safe) regular almond milk awash in stress over money.
Thank you, God, for making it so clear how rich my life is and also the ways in which we can enrich others' lives.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Bigger
Tonight, as I was watching my three youngest
children play in the tub, I realized that for the next month I will have a 1 yr
old, a 2 yr old and a 3 yr old. My youngest daughter turned one today, all
beginning words, zombie straight leg walking and beautiful big eyes. She,
lately, has been keeping up with her older siblings, letting her voice be
heard, blending in with our big family. Five kids in a three bedroom, one and a
quarter bath house. I realize, as I write this , that we are so lucky to have
someplace warm to call home, so lucky to have a roof over our heads, a safe
place to dream, play, learn, laugh and cry together. But while I realize that, I am waiting for
the bathroom to open up and tripping
over the dogs bed while sidestepping around our table, which needed to be moved
into the living room in order that we can all fit around it. Needless to say,
we are currently in the market for a bigger house.
Today,
I walked through a huge, beautiful, potential house, full of visions of my oldest daughter being
able to play with her dollhouse, even during naptime, my oldest son being able
to play Legos without having them knocked over and possibly eaten by his
younger siblings. Better yet, my husband and I having a conversation with
minimal interruptions, minimal finger raising and stern looks trying to make
impatient children wait their turn. When
I got home from looking at the house, I was already visualizing what would go where, what we would do with
the seemingly extra rooms. The cavernous
house had quickly become my dream house; I was immune to the dry rot around the
windows, the water damage on one of the ceilings. All I could picture was
enjoying the great room together, with enough space for each person to play and
learn to the best of his or her ability.
This
evening, in the living room of our actual small, but loved house, my husband
and I tried to have a conversation about whether the potential new house was a
possibility, as my oldest daughter twirled in the middle of us in her fancy
dress, my oldest son lay by my side, laughing hysterically while my youngest
son tried (unsuccessfully) to pull of his long soccer socks, and my two youngest daughters took turns drumming each other and sometimes the real drum too. As these games
usually do, the sock removal progressed to a noise level that was unacceptable
to my level of patience, so I banished everyone to the bathroom to brush teeth.
It became relatively quiet and my husband and I had an uninhibited line of
sight to each other, the conversation continued for a record five minutes with
zero interruptions. The relative quiet was a welcome change to our loud, loving
chaotic typical night. More space was sounding better and better.
But as I watched my children in the tub, I
wondered if bigger would really be better, or just bigger. The (five!!)
bathrooms in the potential house would go mostly unused for now; our children
are young enough to be immune to issues of privacy. They would still choose to
bathe together, fighting and laughing
from one minute to the next as only siblings can. The bedrooms (one for each!)
would probably mostly sit empty, our children gravitating within a ten foot
radius of where we are. This crazy,
tactile togetherness is a fleeting time. How much longer will my eight year old
let me rest my chin on his head while we each read our books? How much longer
will the kids want us so intimately involved with every detail of their lives
that they have to wait their turns to fill us in? How much longer will we all
dance in our tiny living room together, twirling around and stepping on each
others’ toes?
While we continue
to look for a bigger space to make our family’s home, I am going to try to
appreciate every second of this squished together, overflowing house and
remember how lucky we are that our kids want to be with us, want to share their
lives, want to be close. No matter where we end up, I hope the feeling that when we are close
together, we are home, will remain.
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